#but i'm scheduling this on quite deliberately

[carrieeve]

drive away the clouds of night

Feysand fanfiction || 8.9 K || Christmas Fluff || Modern AU

Feyre has not been having the best of times lately. After her break up with Tamlin, with her uncertain work situation and general end-of-year ennui, she's been hiding away��until Mor invites her to her Christmas party. Reluctantly, Feyre agrees. A night of fun with friends can only help, right? What could possibly go wrong?

Merry Christmas, dearest @foundress0fnothing! 🎄🎁🎀

All the love for you from your @acotargiftexchange Feysand Secret Santa!

read on a03

[cherryite]

barkeep

summary. as a bartender at one of the sketchiest bars in gotham and a med student, you and red hood aka jason todd have a symbiotic relationship. you give him free drinks and patch him up and he makes sure you don't get murdered walking home. at least, thats all you two say it is. (word count. 3.8k)

content. jason todd x reader, gn!reader, bartender!reader, yearning, friends?? (kinda but not really) to lovers, pining, idiots in LOVE ???

warnings. blood and injuries, mentions of alcohol, not proof read oopsie

author's note. why this took me 5 million years to write i don't know, but i'm excited to write more for jason because thats my shawty fr (PART 2!!!)

Working at the sketchiest bar on Park Row, more locally referred to as Crime Alley, hadn’t exactly been your dream gig. But as a med student with a brutal class schedule and rent breathing down your neck like a wild animal, options were slim. And unfortunately, this place paid — mostly in cash, always on time. As much as you wanted out of this part of town, it always had a way of pulling you back in, like an addiction you couldn’t quit.

The bar’s nearly closed now. The lights are dimmed low, casting long, flickering shadows against the walls, and the red glow of the liquor store sign across the street bleeds through the grimy front window like blood out of a wound. All customers and staff besides you have left, leaving the bar quiet — almost eerily so. You’re hunched over the register, thumbing through crumpled bills, when you hear it: the soft click of the front door, followed by the heavy thud of boots against the old floorboards.

You don’t even have to look. You know who it is. Your eyes flick sideways, catching a glimpse of him in your peripheral as you finish counting the ones.

“Trying to sneak up on me, Hood?” you call out, voice dry as you click the register shut and turn around, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. 

He’s already slumped at the bar, a heavy silhouette of exhaustion wrapped in blood splattered leather. His cargo pants are scuffed and torn in places, the usual overkill of weapons strapped haphazardly across his frame. Classic Red Hood. Classic Jason. The low, rasping chuckle that rolls out of him is muffled beneath the red helmet, but it still manages to sound amused. His head tilts back, the movement slow and deliberate, his neck craning as he looks at you. Even with the helmet on, you can feel the weight of his gaze, sharp and unwavering.

“Key word tryin’,” he says, voice thick with static from the modulator. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes, and duck behind the bar. You retrieve the emergency med kit you started keeping there after the second time he stumbled in bleeding all over the bar floor. Sometimes you can’t stop thinking about how lucky he is — to have stumbled into an empty bar, conveniently being manned by a tired bartender who just so happens to be a medical student.

“Rough night?” you ask, circling around the bar and sliding into the seat beside him as you snap the kit open. Without a word, he shrugs off the jacket, grumbling under his breath as if his bones ache from the inside out.

“When isn’t it a rough night in Crime Alley?” he mutters, a tired edge making its way into the corners of his voice.

You wonder—do all of Gotham’s finest have it this bad? But you already know the answer. Crime Alley is his turf, and it chews him up more often than not. You’ve — unfortunately — lived in the Alley your whole life. Not that many places in Gotham are good places to grow up, but the Alley specifically was awful. You can remember nights when you wouldn’t sleep, the sounds of gunshots ringing in your ears, sirens haunting your dreams like lullabies from hell.

He lifts the helmet off and sets it gently on the bar’s freshly wiped surface. You almost scold him for dirtying the bar again but you don’t, you just glance at him. You still remember the first time you saw his face, just a few months ago. He’d come in the same way, trailing blood, a bullet having kissed too close to his jugular. Could have killed him if it had been just an inch closer. You’d needed to remove the helmet to keep him alive, keep him breathing. He’d let you see him. Really see him for the first time. 

After profusely apologizing and praying you wouldn’t ever say anything, he assured you — probably delirious from blood loss— that it was fine. He even tried to make a joke about knowing where you worked and lived if you talked.. You swear you nearly fainted and he had to quickly reassure you that he was joking.

Now, as you glance over, you catch the dark curls damp with sweat, the lone white streak stark against the rest, curling messily against his forehead. He’s handsome, annoyingly so in your opinion, with broad shoulders, a boyish face, and a sharp jaw. There's a crook in his nose, from having it broken one too many times and a thin scar on his left cheek, faded and pale from age. You turn back to the kit before you stare too long, but not before you catch the way his eyes linger on you. They’re blue with tinges of a stormy grey-green, and startling in their clarity. But you don’t have time to be distracted.

“What hurts?” you murmur, fingers sifting through gauze and bandage wraps, already prepping for the worst. He exhales slowly, the sound almost like a sigh, but heavier. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves, like his muscles haven’t stopped bracing for a fight, even now that he’s sitting here with you.

“Side,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely to his ribs. “Took a hit. Might’ve cracked somethin’.”

You wince sympathetically, tugging your stool closer. “And yet you came here instead of a hospital.”

He huffs another half laugh, dry and rasping. “Hospitals ask questions. You don’t. It’s good practice for med school anyway.” 

The silent ‘I’m also legally dead’ hangs in the air between you, so you don't argue. You just reach for the dark fabric of his undershirt, peeling it back to reveal the bruising underneath. It’s already a deep, angry color, shades of violet and black blooming across his side like a storm cloud under his swelling skin. Blood has started crusting over a shallow gash in his side just under it. 

Your hands hover a moment over the worst of it, instinctively gentle, and his breath catches just slightly when you touch him. You press gently, only to assess the damage, he groans when you press near a middle rib. The sound causes you to draw your hands back instinctively.

“Definitely bruised,” you murmur. “Maybe fractured at worst. I can’t feel any cracks and you’re not breathing as bad as someone with broken ribs would be. You got lucky.”

“‘M always lucky,” he says, voice dipped in sarcasm.

You glance up at him, raising an eyebrow. “You? Lucky?”

His lips twitch, and just for a second, “Always.” 

You think about how he can’t be that lucky, especially since he’s previously died. You try to not to bring that up, honestly it was an accident you even found out, like most things you learn about him. He had been bleeding profusely from a stab wound in his abdomen, and when you’d lifted his shirt, you saw it. A very real autopsy scar on a very not dead man. 

Maybe it’s the bartender in you that gets people to open up, to spill their secrets. Maybe it was also the high amount of pain meds coursing through his veins. He explained, very vaguely. You didn’t press more after he told you, didn’t ask how it was possible. Yust patched him up, like it was the most normal thing in the world. He doesn’t like talking about it, so you don’t.

You shake your head, grabbing a portable cold pack, cracking it to activate the cooling agent and pressing it against the worst of the swelling. He flinches, not much, but enough to betray how much pain he’s hiding..

“We should wrap this,” you say, nodding toward the gauze. “And you need rest. Like, actual rest. Sleep. More than three hours on a cardboard box somewhere.”

“You offering a bed?” he teases lightly, and the way he says it, soft, laced with something fragile beneath his typical aloofness, makes your stomach flip. 

You look at him fully, something warm curling in your chest as you finally push the words past the knot in your throat. “I’m offering my couch. Don’t push it.”

He chuckles again, and this time it sounds just a little more real. You wrap the gauze carefully around his ribs, your fingers brushing skin, and despite yourself, you notice the way his breathing hitches every time you get too close. When you’re done, you seal the kit shut and lean back a bit, observing your handiwork. 

“You’ll live.” You meet his gaze again, meeting his eyes as they stare down at you, just letting your words soak in. Just him. Just you. Just the quiet thrum of a city that never sleeps, and the two of you stealing a moment of peace in the shittiest part of it.

“Someone’s gotta look out for you,” you say softly, breaking the silence. “I’m serious. You can sleep on my couch tonight. Rib injuries make it hard to sleep, so you should really be resting somewhere safe. And semi-comfortable.”

He opens his mouth like he's about to argue, but ultimately he decides not to fight you on it.

You make sure the kit is fully secure, placing it back behind the bar in its hiding spot. You can feel his eyes tracking you as you move about the bar, going through the motions of closing. He doesn’t ask for a drink tonight. Usually you offer him your shift beer — the one drink you get free per shift — half out of gratitude for walking you home, half because the alcohol helps take the edge off whatever he endured that night.

Trying to ignore the shiver that runs down your spine, you wipe down the final surfaces, flip off the neon sign that flashes in the window, and lock up the register. You try not to let your mind wander, try not to peek at the tired man still slumped at the bar as he gingerly attempts to pull his leather jacket back on with a grimace. You hover a bit, watching him to make sure he doesn’t need any help, even if he would never ask for it. He struggles a bit as he slides off the barstool, and he doesn’t stop you when you quietly nudge your shoulder under his arm, easing his weight across you to steady him. Once he’s steady, you slip away from him as you both make your way out of the bar. You lock it behind you, hitching your your bag over your shoulder

“Come on,” you say, your voice has a gentler tone to it now. He doesn’t argue, he just gives a nod quietly and falls into step beside you as you walk. This in itself isn’t new. He always walks you home after stopping at the bar. It’s part of the unspoken arrangement between the two of you: you fix him up and sometimes give him a beer, he makes sure you get home in one piece.

The streets are half asleep, half alive at this hour of the night. The buzz of faulty streetlights and the distant buzz of sirens are the only noise that fills the air, aside from your footsteps. The night air is cold and it bites at the skin of your face as your breath fogs around your lips. Jason’s walking a little slower than usual beside you, his stride careful but still steady, probably favoring his side so as to not agitate his ribs further. His broad shoulder brushes yours now and then as you walk beside each other, close enough that you can feel the rough leather of his jacket where it touches your sleeve.

“Thanks again,” he murmurs as he breaks the silence, eyes on the ground. “For patching me up.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, the corner of your mouth tugging up a bit. “It’s the least I can do.”

“But I do have to —,” he stumbles a bit over his words, his voice partially strained. “Thank you. I mean.”

There’s a beat of silence. He glances over at you, his bright eyes catch the light of the street lights overhead. “And for offering the couch. Thank you— again,” he adds. It’s quieter this time, and you can feel the uncomfortable thump in your chest when you realize he sounds vulnerable.

You look at him, and something in your chest aches a little. He isn’t one for showing his emotions, at least not around you. On occasion you catch him, flushing embarrassedly after he says something a bit awkward, but he manages to mask it well around you at least.

“It’s not a big deal,” you say. “Figured I should keep you overnight for supervision.”

He huffs a tired laugh, but there’s something in his eyes when he looks at you as it lingers—it looks soft. You wonder if anyone’s ever looked out for him like this before. You wonder if he’d even let them. You wonder why he’s letting you.

By the time you reach your building, he’s drifted a little closer. Not quite touching, but the space between you feels smaller somehow, like he’s a shadow attached to your back. He follows you up the steps, like he always does when he drops you off. You can feel his eyes in the back of your head and he just watches your back like he always does. But tonight’s different, because he always leaves you at the door, by the time you’re safely inside he vanishes like he was never even there. 

But tonight he won’t vanish, at least not right away.

You slide your key into the keyhole, trying to ignore his presence behind you. You unlock the front door to your apartment, shoving it open with the usual force because the door catches weirdly sometimes. You leave a mental note to yourself to text your landlord about it (again). The apartment is quiet as you lead him in, moonlight shines through the window in your kitchen, illuminating the small space. 

Your apartment is modest but yours and you’ve found ways to make it comfortable with your limited funds. A plush beige couch takes up most of the space in the living room, a large dark wood bookshelf that overflows onto the floor finds its home on the wall, and a coffee table that’s covered in medical textbooks. Various plants adorn the space, pots and planters scattered over nearly every surface that they would allow. Kicking off your shoes, you hang your jacket on a hook on the wall, turning to look behind you. Jason stands in the doorway, his gaze fixated on the deadbolt of your front door. 

“You should get this fixed,” he comments, opening and closing your door a few times to test the lock, twisting it a few times to investigate. “It’s not safe.” His eyebrows are pinched together, eyes fixated on the latch before he breaches the threshold of your apartment, closing the door behind him.

“I’ve texted my landlord about it like, three times,” you say with a sigh, dropping your keys into a ceramic dish by the door. “Scumlord’s ghosting me.”

Jason doesn’t say anything for a moment, dropping his helmet on the floor with a soft thud, his frown deepening. He shifts on his feet, like he’s weighing if he should say something. You think he mumbles something under his breath as you search for an extra blanket for him, but you opt to ignore it.

Jason almost immediately collapses on your couch once his boots are off, groaning a bit as he makes contact with the plush cushions. The sound is caught somewhere between exhaustion and relief. You have to suppress the small smile that curls at your lips as he sighs, shifting until he finds a comfortable spot. 

You hand him a blanket, before padding over to the small armchair across from him. you curl into the cushions, tucking your knees against your chest. Your fingers play idly with the hem of your sleeve as you observe him quietly. He tilts his head toward you, a few strands of his dark hair fall over his forehead. When he sees you’re already looking at him, his gaze falters. He quickly drops his eyes to the coffee table, like being caught under your attention makes him nervous. Something on the table catches his eye as he reaches out to pick up a book that rests there.

“You read these?” He says, inspecting your worn copy of The Hunger Games. 

“Yeah,” you say, your voice soft as the day starts to catch up to you. “I’ve read all of them. Started rereading them a few weeks ago.”

Jason thumbs through the worn pages with a surprising gentleness. You can’t help the way your eyes drag to his knuckles, bruised and scabbed over as he brushes through the first few pages, inspecting it.

“I’ve been meaning to read them,” he murmurs, absentmindedly flipping through pages. “Just— haven't had time.”

You nod, stretching your arms up over your head as a yawn escapes you. The motion pulls your shirt slightly at the hem, the fabric soft from too many washes as it exposed your midriff. Jason’s eyes flit to the movement—quick and fleeting—but when he meets your gaze again, he averts his eyes back to the pages in front of him.

“You can borrow mine if you want,” you offer, blinking sleep from your eyes.

His face expression changes a bit, vague disbelief tugs at his brows. “You sure?” he asks, his voice is tentative as his eyes flicker up to meet yours. 

You brush some of your hair out of your eyes sleepily and nod, your gaze steadily trained on him. “Of course. I have all of the trilogy. It’s no problem, really,” you insist. 

Jason’s eyes once again travel down to the book in his hands. His thumb runs down the crease of the spine, his expression muddled. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, though you barely hear it. You hum lightly in response to his thanks. The silence you two sit in isn’t uncomfortable, just peaceful and calm. The city hums faintly outside of your window, muffled now and more distant, like it knows better than to intrude on the moment. 

A yawn draws itself from your throat again, and this time you don’t fight it as you shudder a bit. The warmth of the room has made your limbs heavy, and the comfortable silence only deepens the tired pull of your eyelids.

Jason notices the noise, his eyes immediately finding your form. “You— You should sleep,” he says, gently, and the tone of his voice makes your skin tingle.

“So should you,” you murmur in response, already uncurling from the chair.

He doesn’t argue with you, but there’s a hint of hesitation in his eyes as you move to the short hallway that leads to your bedroom. You find yourself hesitating in the doorway of your room, your fingers brushing against the frame as you glance back at him over your shoulder. He’s watching you again, not bothering to hide it this time and it makes your stomach flip. He hasn’t moved yet—still perched on the edge of the couch, the book clasped loosely in one hand. The soft lamplight brushes over his features, highlighting the purpling bruise on his cheekbone.

“You can take my bed if you want,” you say quietly without really thinking of the implications, your fingers twitch from where they grasp the doorframe. "I feel bad making you stay on the couch."

Jason shakes his head almost immediately, and you think you should actually go to sleep because you swear you see a flush on his cheeks. God, you really should go to bed. “I’m good here. Couch is fine.”

You nod, trying not to let the twinge of disappointment show on your face, but what else would you have expected him to say. Of course he would say no. Still, a part of you wants to insist. Wants to say that he doesn’t have to sleep like a stranger on your couch. Wants to hold him close and protect him from whatever haunts his dreams. But you don’t. You just linger there for a moment longer before speaking softly.

“Goodnight, Jason.”

He looks up at you like he wants to say something more, his eyes searching your face but you aren’t sure what he’s looking for. He looks like there’s something lodged in his throat that he can’t quite swallow down, catching whatever he wants to say. Despite this, all he says is a quiet, “Night.”

You retreat into your bedroom quickly after that, the door left ajar behind you. You lie in bed longer than you mean to as you pull the cool sheets up to your chin, listening for the sound of movement from the living room. Your mind wanders as you allow your mind to drift to Jason, probably thumbing through the book in his hands still. A deep part of you wonders if he’s thinking of you. You wonder if he knows you’re thinking of him, or if he even cares.

For a fleeting moment as you fall asleep, you wish he’s followed you in— not for anything else than to bathe in the feeling of his presence.

When you regain consciousness in the morning, your eyes nearly snap open as you take in the sunlight spilling through your curtains, pale and golden. Immediately thinking of last night's events, you throw the covers to the side. You find yourself quickly padding into the living room, your bare feet slapping gently against the hardwood of your floors.

The couch is empty. There’s a thump of disappointment in your chest as your heart rate slows.

The blanket you’d left out for him is folded neatly on the back of the couch. The spot where he’d laid last night is faintly indented, like a ghost of him lingers in the cushions. The books you lent him are gone, and you can’t help the grin that tugs at your lips.

And when you check the front door out of habit, peering out into the halls of your apartment, as if you will catch a hint of red disappearing from view. Your gaze catches on the lock as you close it, because the deadbolt doesn’t catch like normal.

It’s been fixed.

The lock, the one that’s been broken for weeks, now clicks cleanly into place when you shut your door. The deadbolt slides smoothly, no catch. You stare at it for a long moment, blinking against the sudden tightness in your chest. You don’t have long to bask in the feeling, because your eyes are now drawn to a small pink sticky note that clings to the door. Unsure how you missed it earlier, you pluck it off the wood of the door, examining the neat, small words.

Fixed your lock and thank you again for the books. Hope you sleep better knowing it’s fixed. Someone’s gotta look out for you. - J

[hanniescookie]

is it that hard? - jww

pairing - wonwoo x f! reader

genre - fluff, idol au

warnings - none

summary - you know wonwoo likes you, but for some reason, he doesn't say it. not until you're frustrated enough to play a game on him.

author's note - kekekeke @wonkierideul // this is for you my mochi cheek-ed baby!! i hope you like it 😭 i tried, okay? i just hope it makes you smile at least, you're so dear to me my oomf (pls remind me again what it means) may you fulfill your MUA dream one day and may you get to doll wonu up 🤍 love you sm :)

-------------------------**~~**--------------------------

Being a successful makeup artist had been your dream since you were a teenager. Your love for makeup only grew with your age, and you made yourself proud after finally landing your dream job.

Being Jeon Wonwoo's makeup artist, however, was certainly not your dream. It might be a privilege, never been a dream.

It isn't that you mind seeing his beautiful face every other day while you doll it up with makeup that suits his outfit of the day. Never that. It's just that you're always too distracted to focus on your job. And Wonwoo doesn't help.

It falls out of your realm of professionalism. You've never been someone who struggles with balancing your personal and professional life, but with this man? You're terrible. Miserable.

He is too good looking for his own good, and being so close to his face half the time serves you no good. It takes everything in you to not just kiss his lips everytime you swipe some lipstick across them.

Wonwoo is not very expressive — that's a known fact. But what people might not know is that Wonwoo is a tease, a little close to a flirt. At least towards you, he is.

You hate how he licks his lips right after you're done applying lipstick just to make your job harder. What's worse is that he does it with a straight face, muttering an aplogy within a second like he didn't realize what he just did.

But you have seen it far too much to know that he does these things deliberately. You don't know if he likes seeing the huff of annoyance you let out, or if he just genuinely hates you.

Either way, you've decided that your work ethics have been compromised enough. You don't like these feelings you've harbored for the idol overtime, and if nothing is down the drain, you'll take your shot today.

When Wonwoo arrives on set an hour before his schedule, you're glad that the whole group isn't here. It's his solo schedule for the day — a photoshoot for his brand deal.

The look for today has to be a little bold, and requires more time than usual. So you start slow, focused on work and trying your best to make him look exactly like the concept demands.

And you're also focused on another task today.

"I'm quitting." You say as nonchalantly as you can, dabbing some concealer to hide a tiny acne mark on his skin.

"Huh?" He raises his brows, unsure if you talked to him.

You meet his eyes for a few seconds before focusing back on his cheek, watching the acne mark slowly disappear. You hope your game plan can work, and if it doesn't, then you're really never seeing this place again. "I said I'm quitting this job."

He continues to look at your face while you turn back to the vanity, fumbling through some eyeshadow palettes. Your heart is throbbing at the weight of his gaze, but you keep going. "I'm telling you because I know you don't get used to changes easily. You'll be more prepared when you see another MUA starting tomorrow."

You turn back, meeting his surprised gaze and you smile a little. "Close your eyes."

He takes a little while to process what you said, and you gladly wait till he does. You can see the effect of your game, and you like it so far.

He closes his eyes slowly, exhaling through his nose. It's quiet for a while till you play with a combination of two dark shades on his eyelids.

"Must you leave?"

You almost don't catch it with how quietly he speaks. Keeping the palette away, you stare at his face with his eyes closed, his question echoing in your head. Your heart swells, and a smile forms on your face. "Did you say something?"

He mutters a quiet no without opening his eyes. You know he's doing it because you haven't asked him to open them yet, and involuntarily, you feel a flutter in your chest. Usually, he would open them before you're even done, but right now he's trying to not upset you. How cute.

"I heard you, though." You say again, leaning against the vanity with your arms folded. He slowly opens his eyes, looking at you with eyes full of uncertainty. "Do you have an answer then?"

"Must I leave?" You echo his question, humming thoughtfully. "Good question. The problem is—" you pause, grabbing an eyepencil and leaning down on him. He instinctively closes his eyes, and you smile. "—that my professionalism is threatened here. I can't properly focus on my work with you, Wonwoo."

His eyes snap open before you're even done lining the pencil on his eyelid, earning a sharp wince from you. "See! This is what I mean."

"Sorry," he breathes. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

"I don't know," you say, folding your arms neatly once again. "You tell me."

He stares at you blankly for a while, unable to pinpoint exactly where you're coming from. Then his expression shifts, as if he's reminded of something. "Scratch that. Just don't quit?"

You arch an eyebrow despite the little victory dance your insides do at his statement. "Hm? Why?"

"Because—" he pauses, trying to find words. "Because like you said, I'm not good with accepting changes. I am used to you."

You sigh, shaking your head. "Is it that hard?"

"What?"

"Saying the truth."

"What truth?"

"That you like me."

Suddenly, there's pin drop silence in the makeup room. Even the humming of the aircon feels distant, as if coming from a faraway land. All you can hear is your own pulse beating wildly in your ears.

Then with calculated certainty, Wonwoo speaks. "It is."

You feel your throat running dry, and though you know you orchestrated this little game, you have no idea why you're nervous. Do you like him that much?

"But if I say it Y/N, will you stay?"

You can't help but smile. He's cute, and you'll do anything to make him happy. You nod. "I will."

He inhales a mouthful of air, and deeply exhales it all. Licking his dry lips, he looks up in your eyes, taking your hand in his large one hesitantly.

"I like you." He says, as quiet as the room. "I've liked you since the day you first put an insane amount of blush on my cheeks and I complained about looking cute. Please don't quit on me."

You've known that Wonwoo likes you, but nothing could've prepared you for the way he admits it in his low voice while holding your hand gently. You feel your pulse quickening even more if it's possible, and a blush dusts your cheeks.

"You did look cute, though."

"I didn't want to!" He groans, and you end up giggling. He sighs then, smiling along with you nevertheless. "Is that what you say to my confession?"

You shrug, grabbing a lipstick and turning to him. "If you don't mess your lipstick up this time, I'll think about going on a date with you."

He smiles, fingers hooking in yours to tug you closer. You lean closer to him as a result, eyes widening slightly. "Whatever happened to professionalism now?"

"I can compromise a little if I get a boyfriend as handsome as Jeon Wonwoo." You answer, poking his forehead so his head rests back before you begin applying lipstick on his lips.

He does mess his lipstick after your first attempt, and it leads to you kissing him, but you go on a date with him on the weekend anyway.

[sugawhaaa]

SAN X READER

⚝₊ ⊹˚Scented feelings⚝₊ ⊹˚

Warnings:: mentions of SA and harassment, suggestive at the end

Genre:: friends to lovers

Pairing:: gym bro!San x fem!reader

A/N:: I've been cooking this up for a long time so I am PRAYINNN to the gods above this does well 🙏

San was a somewhat new friend but the two of you clicked like magic and nothing was too embarrassing to admit between the two of you. You met at the gym when you first started working out frequently and he gave you some tips. One thing led to another and now you work out together multiple times a week. He's always so encouraging, helpful and understanding.

If you explain to him that you're having kind of a rough day or not feeling well he won't try to push you like he normally does and he will respect the fact you want to keep it chill. All in all he is the best gym bro you could've asked for.

Today you came in a bit earlier than usual and started warming up with your regular stretches and light weight exercise to get your blood moving. As you did that you noticed two guys looking at you quite frequently and occasionally talking to each other. You chose to ignore them and listen to some music until San arrived. It wasn't too long after that you noticed San come in through the door with his bag and massive water bottle in hand. He smiled when he locked eyes with you and came over to you.

“You got here early today,” San smiles as he looks down slightly to meet your height.

“Yeah my schedule was clear and I just felt like coming by early,” you shrug and San nods. The two of you then get to work, following your usual routine. However you noticed the men from earlier were getting bolder and were much less obvious than before. You sigh softly as you go back to lifting some weights and Sans brows furrow. He hadn't noticed the men yet so he decided to ask what had been bothering you.

“You seem…frustrated?” San says as he comes closer to you, talking softer than usual.

“Yeah it's just those guys over there. They've been looking at me since I got here,” you tilt your head over to where the men were standing and talking. Sans brows furrow again as he looks at them.

“Want me to talk to them?” He offers but you shake your head.

“Nah I don't want to make a scene,” you set the weights down again and stretch out your arms above your head. San watches you carefully as you stretch before looking back at the men. He seemed to be more conscious of them than you were.

“I'm gonna go talk to them,” he said as he started to storm over to them. You put your hand over his chest.

“Don't, they're not worth it. Let's just keep going,” you smile at him and he sighs.

“Alright, but if they keep annoying you I'll talk to them. Formally,” he smiles innocently, too innocently. You continued working out and ignored the men and they seemed to stop staring at you…finally. However once you finished your workout San gave you a fist bump and I little sit hug while patting your shoulder. “You did good today,” he smiles, his eyes momentarily invisible, and you headed over to the girls change room. Upon approaching the door you were interrupted by the two guys from earlier. One blocked the door, it wasn't very deliberate but it was obvious, while the other stood more to the side talking to you.

“Could I get your number?” He asked straight up and you blush, not because you felt butterflies in your tummy like he probably thought, but more because you were so confused and embarrassed.

“Oh I uhm,” you shake your head and chuckle awkwardly. “I'm not interested,” you smile, still wanting to he polite because what if they really did have good intentions? It was doubtful but still. When you refused the man's face contorted with anger and what was this other emotion you could see in his eyes? You couldn't put your finger on it before he started getting mad.

“Oh come on just give me a chance baby,” he started getting closer to you and your body froze up. You weren't quite sure what to do in this situation; the man was much bigger and taller than you and you didn't want to cause a scene but you needed to find a way to get out of this situation.

“What's going on here?” San steps up next to you and puts an arm around you, smiling warmly to the man.

“Just friendly conversation, you know what I mean,” the man chuckled and San arched a brow at him, not very amused by his excuse.

“I see, well me and my girlfriend have some plans for the rest of the day so we'll be off then,” San pats your shoulder before kissing the top of your head. You felt your heart skip about a thousand beats.

The way his body pressed against yours, every inch of his muscles pressed against yours, including his arm muscles that were quite literally the size of your head and the kiss was so gentle and…sincere?

“Haha, have a good day you two,” The man chuckles awkwardly and backs up as the two of you turn to leave. San brings his hand down to your hand, interlocking your fingers, as he picks up your bags and leaves the gym. As you walked down the sidewalk you glanced back at the gym then at San.

“You can let go now,” you say as you look up at him, his cap hat shading in his eyes.

“We gotta sell the act or they may make a scene,” he leans down to whisper to you and your heart skips again. He was so close to you, so close to the point you could feel his body heat radiating onto you, and it got you excited. You thought you just thought San was you know a good looking guy, no romantic feelings, you just appreciate his beauty but after that insanity back there? The way he whispered to you made you freeze up to the point your jaw clenched to hold in all the things you were feeling.

San turned the corner, dragging your frozen presence along, and let go of your head. “They're way out of sight now, we're good to go,” he pats your back and you blush softly with a smile.

“Y-Yeah, we're good,”

“I'll take you back to my place so you can shower, in peace this time,” he laughs softly. “But in all seriousness I had to hold myself back from clocking those guys. No woman should have to deal with disrespect as much as they do these days,” he huffs as he crosses his arms, walking steadily with you. “Like God forbid a woman tries to get fit or take a shower,” he sighs while shaking his head, looking like a disappointed father. “Do you deal with that behavior often?”

“Uhm…not overly,” you shrug and he nods.

“If you ever find yourself in danger call me okay? I couldn't think of a better use for these muscles other than to clock a bastard bothering you,” he says as he pretends to box the air. You chuckle softly but nod.

“Thanks San, I'll call you,” a brief moment of silence fell upon the two of you when you realized you weren't sure where you were going, you were just following San's lead. “Where are we headed?” You ask as you trot along beside you.

“My place, so you can shower in peace,” he chuckles and you find yourself blushing. You had been at his house a few times before but showering in someone else's house feels like the next step in a friendship. When you get to his place you take your gym bag to the bathroom and San shows you how to use his shower just in case you didn't know. “This is temperature obviously and on the shower head there are four settings, the further you go to the right the higher the pressure goes and stuff,” he shows you before setting the showerhead back on its little perch. “You good?” He gives you a little thumbs up and you nod.

“Yes, thank you Sannie,” you smile and he blushes softly at the nickname.

“Sannie,” he repeats and laughs softly before leaving the bathroom. You sigh softly and begin to undress but just as you start San comes back in. “Sorry, here's a new towel and you can set your clothes on the counter here,” he hands you the towel and takes the old one off the rail. You thank him as he leaves you alone.

You undress and turn on the shower, making sure it's the right temperature before hopping in. You take your shower relatively quickly but as you water down your body you notice his body wash…he wouldn't mind you borrowing just a little bit right? Maybe? What's the worst he could do? Get mad at you for using it but meh he'll get over it. Unless he thinks you're a weirdo or creep for him. But that's way too far, he probably won't even notice unless he's sniffing you which would make him a creep and without thinking any further you grab the pale blue bottle and squirt a little bit of the soap into your hand, since there were no clothes nearby you had to result to just your hands which is fine, but as soon as you squirted out the soap Sans scent filled the room.

Whenever he'd spot you or help you get into good positions he'd get close enough to you that you could smell him and this is exactly what he smelt like…obviously. But it made your heart flutter. The scent was so indescribable. Coconut mixed with vanilla and maybe a hint of that fresh air smell. Oh, it was so good. You lathered the soap over yourself as you watched the suds bubble up before washing off of your body. Before you could even think you were smelling all of his soaps, like a fucking weirdo. But he'd never know so what's the harm? His shampoo was overwhelmingly strong. It had a very fruity smell, like a deep cherry or strawberry. He wouldn't mind if you borrowed it right? Either way you used just a little bit before getting out and drying yourself off.

The towel was nice and warm and very freshly scented. His laundry detergent was also very pleasantly scented, smelt like fresh air, and filled your head with images of clouds in a blue sky. You finished drying off and threw on your dry clothes before brushing down your damp hair. You put everything back the way you had found it and went to go find San.

You found him out in the living room on his couch and he turned to look at you. "Hey," he smiles as he looks you up and down very quickly. "Have a nice shower?" He asks to distract himself from your body.

"Very nice," you laugh softly before sitting next to him. When you sat down he got a whiff of his bodywash. He was surprised, the shock showing on his face for a split second, but he didn't mention it.

"So...are you gonna stick around or carry on with your schedule?" San asked very light-heartedly, he wouldn't be offended if you wanted to leave.

"I'll stay for a bit but I need to run some errands today," you say as you check your phone and San nods. The two of you hang out for a bit before you continue on with your day. That evening you get home and realize you left your bag at San's place. Your hairbrush, deodorant, pads, chapstick, and much more were in there. You decided to text him about it and he instantly found it in the bathroom.

You• would it be okay if I swing by after dinner to get it?

⛰️• ofc, I'll be here 👍

You• thank you 😭

After texting him you began to cook dinner before, of course, eating it. You then went down to San's apartment again and you couldn't help but feel excited to see him again. Even though it had only been a few hours you always craved to be near him...in a friendly way of course. When you came by he had your bag ready for you by the door and you wanted to ask if you could hang out for a bit but...you couldn't.

"I think everything's in there," San says as he hands it to you. You take the bag and smile, thanking him, but San could see you were thinking about something. "Y/N, you okay? You seem...distracted," he leans against the doorframe and you feel your heart stop at your face heating up.

"W-Well there was a complication with some of the pipes in my apartment and we were told to leave but I haven't found anywhere I can crash for the night," you make up a lie to stay at his place and he looks surprised.

"Oh well you can stay here for as long as you need. It gets lonely here by myself and my cat," he smiles, his dimples showing and you look at him surprised.

"You have a cat?" You chuckle softly and San laughs. He takes you into his apartment again and goes to his bedroom, encouraging you to follow. He then picks up a big long haired white cat.

"This is Muffin," he holds the cat up in his arms and encourages you to pet her. She's extremely fluffy and doesn't seem to mind being pet, she kinda just sits there. San also shows you his spare room. "There's not a lot here, not even a bed, so you might wanna sleep on the couch instead,"

"Thank you so much for letting me stay over," you smile at him, feeling a tinge of guilt but it was buried down by your excitement to spend the night with him. San shrugs.

"No problem, you hungry?" He pushes himself off the doorframe and walks out to the kitchen. You follow after him, Muffin following you as well, to the kitchen.

"Not overly, ate before getting here,"

"Right," San nods but makes you have a snack with him anyway. He sticks on a movie to entertain you but you end up talking to each other the whole time, the movie now out of question. The two of you got to talk on a deeper level than usual, things like relationship struggles and internal battles you've fought growing up. San always looked up at you so sincerely. His eyes were filled with sincerity and interest, he didn't just hear your words he listened to them, a trait many men fail to hinder. But something about his gaze so focused on you made you feel...excited. You felt like you were gonna flutter away at any given moment.

The two of you then go quiet, staring into each other's eyes, San then clears his throat. "Would you like a blanket?" He offers you a blanket and throws one on for himself. You snuggle up into the blankets and are overtaken with his scent again. You go back to watching the movie and then...you feel a sex scene approaching. Your body tenses as the girl on screen seduces the man and you chuckle softly but San remains focused on the show.

Eventually the two characters get down and dirty and you for some reason feel the need to turn away. Just a second ago you had so much to talk about but now...

"What a nice...ceiling you have," you chuckle and San laughs.

"If it's too tense for you we can skip this scene," San tilts his head at you but his words made your mind flicker for a moment. It was different from him saying "we can skip this scene" he said "if it's too tense," you thought of how to respond.

══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══

"Why don't we just pause it?" You suggest and San nods with a little shrug before pausing the movie mid-moan. You turned your body to look at him and he did the same, slightly man-spreading as he lifted a leg on the couch and held his arms open on the head of the couch. That's when you noticed the tent in his pants. You were excited at the sight but disappointed in the fact you weren't the cause of his arousal.

"Do you...have a boyfriend?" He asks softly and you look at him shocked. "Or girlfriend," he chuckles, breaking the ice a little. "I don't judge," he confirms and you think for a moment.

"N-No, I'm single," you smile. "But you surely must have someone in your sights," you giggle and San smirks slightly, chuckling under his breath.

"You could say that," he tilts his head up before looking you up and down. "What about pets? Got any furry or scaly friends at home?" He smiles light heartedly.

"I do actually. I have a fish and a cat, kinda ironic isn't it?" You laugh softly and San smirks.

"So where are they staying tonight?"

You freeze at his words.

"W-What do you mean?" You laugh but you knew you weren't getting through to him. Your face starts to turn red as you realized you've been caught lying.

"Well you have to stay here tonight because your apartment is having "complications" right? So, where are your pets?"

"They're at my...they didn't have to..." you try to make an excuse but your mind goes blank as you become flustered. San then leans forward.

"I don't mind you staying the night but if you wanted to spend time with me you could've just asked baby,"

To be continued...

[eyekoninurarea]

and because i can't sleep, have a small, scrapped, your idol idea. this is for the sodani and cami freaks.

suggestive content under the cut

It started small, just a few scattered comments from faceless accounts saying you were nothing more than KATSEYE wannabes. You laughed it off at first, light-hearted and amused.

‎‎“It’s a compliment, honestly.”

‎“Thanks! I'm flattered you think we’re even worthy of imitation.”

‎‎You clapped back with grace, smiling like it didn’t sting. But when that didn’t silence them, the attacks got uglier, more personal.

‎‎They came for your bond with the girls. Said Hana always looked like she was one meltdown away from quitting. Called Amara aggressive and unstable. Claimed Rina looked high in every fancam. Labeled Cami a slut for the way she dressed and moved.

‎‎And then came the ones for you. The cruelest ones.

‎‎“Stop pretending to be a man.” ‎

“A man without a dick.”

“You’re confused. Pick a side.”

‎‎They mocked your style, your stance, your walk. Said your dancing was too masculine, too aggressive. Said you were trying too hard to be something you’d never be. That your queerness was an act. That your body didn’t belong to the identity you claimed.

‎‎Your brows twitched.

‎‎What? Just because you shop in the men’s section, suddenly you're up for public dissection? Just because you wear sweatpants low and hoodies cropped, that means you don’t know who you are?

‎‎No.

‎You were petty. And maybe a little unhinged. But you knew exactly who you were.

‎‎So you planned something. Carefully. Quietly.

‎‎Gray sweatpants. Sports bra. Cropped hoodie with one sleeve off the shoulder, hood up, neck tattoo peeking. You looked like heat in human form.

‎‎The camera was angled low. The red lighting cast sharp shadows on your back, painting your muscles like brushstrokes. And you danced.

‎‎The first video went live on SIREN5’s official page.

‎‎A cover of “All Night” by BTS. Familiar. Safe. Until it wasn’t.

‎‎Your movements started fluid and feminine: kneeling, gliding, curling your body into soft curves. Then came the sharp shift: a sensual arch of your back, ass high, moving like a feline in heat. You flipped over in one smooth motion, rising to your knees with startling grace, then ground your hips into the floor in a rhythm that left little to the imagination.

‎‎The fandom exploded.

‎‎This was the first time they saw you move like that, move with such deliberate femininity. There were thousands of retweets before the hour was up.

‎‎And then, you dropped the second video.

‎‎This time: “Under the Influence” remixed by you, your own guitar solo layered over the beat. The choreo was original. The camera never left the floor.

‎‎All floorwork. All you. Until Cami came into frame.

‎‎Every arch, every grind, every hip roll was calculated, powerful, devastating. So painfully in sync with her.

‎‎No captions. No statement. Just movement. You didn’t need to speak when your body could say everything louder.

‎‎The internet lost its mind.

‎‎Within minutes, your name was trending worldwide. Edits were being made, fancams were flooding timelines, gray sweatpants sold out in every size. You’d made your point without ever typing a word.

‎‎Let them choke on it.

‎‎Little did you know you'd also choke on your words soon after.

‎‎Your girlfriends were both busy that day, they were scheduled to perform in a major stage and you figured that it'll slip through their fingers and they wouldn't notice what you hand just posted. but you forget how crazy the internet can be.

‎‎You stepped out of the shower to find 3 missed calls from Sophia, 1 from Daniela, and multiple messages from both that made you run cold.

‎‎Sophia:

‎you thought we wouldn’t see that?

‎oh baby.

‎just wait til we get home.

‎Daniela:

‎keep the sweatpants on.

‎i want to be the one to take them off.

‎you're in trouble.

‎Your mouth went dry.

‎You expected the comments. The chaos. The edits that slowed down your body roll frame by frame like it was national treasure footage.

‎What you didn’t expect was both your girlfriends to not only see it, but respond.

‎The next ping makes your heart trip.

‎Sophia sent a video.

‎Your thumb hovers. You hesitate. Then press play.

‎It’s low-lit. Hotel mirror selfie. Her makeup’s smudged from the stage, lips still red and glossy, glitter catching under her eyes. She’s in nothing but a robe, one shoulder dropped, phone in hand.

‎“Since we’re posting thirst traps tonight,” she says in a low, honeyed tone

‎“I thought I’d remind you who you belong to.”

‎She turns slowly. The robe slips. You see the curve of her back, the top of her thighs. Your jaw goes slack.

‎The next message comes before your brain can even restart.

‎Daniela sent a video.

‎You tap it with shaking fingers.

‎Daniela’s in her dressing room, wearing the black mesh top from the final encore. She’s sitting on the counter, legs spread just enough to make you whimper. Her voice is a whisper, sinful and smug.

‎“Tell me, baby,” she says, dragging her fingers slowly up her thigh, “was the show for her, or for us?”

‎You drop your phone.

‎It buzzes on the floor.

‎

‎Sophia:

‎you wanted attention? you got it.

‎don’t cum until we get home.

‎

‎Daniela:

‎and don’t you dare take those sweatpants off. i’ll know if you did.

‎

‎The next few hours are hell.

‎You're restless, pacing. Everything you do; cleaning your room, folding your clothes, brushing your hair, feels heavy and pointless under the weight of waiting. You ache. You’re soaked through three pairs of underwear and your hands shake every time your phone lights up.

‎Twitter is on fire. And you make the mistake of checking the group chat with your bandmates.

‎Amara:

‎ur dead meat

‎Cami:

‎I regret everything

‎Hana:

‎i told you to delete it before they saw

‎Rina:

‎sophia’s about to do a whole tedtalk on discipline while daniela drops her sword like it's a kdrama finale

‎

‎Your phone buzzes again.

‎A single message from Sophia.

‎“Open the door in five. And be ready.”

‎You nearly trip running to unlock it.

[rubywillkins]

Ruby's Cafe Request! I'm hoping for cocky college (or frat) Lando, if you're up for it. I'm hoping for super cocky Lando trying to win over reader, who hates him, at a party or something, and when he succeeds, making her submit to him and worship him. Mocha. Mint Chocolate. Shot of espresso. Skim milk, Soy milk (m receiving) and Goat milk. Waffles, Meat balls (m receiving), Hot dog. Cheese shrimp roll (said by Lando when he's trying to win her over) Pork chops (said by Lando when reader cums just from dry humping) Butter fried chicken (said by Lando during the BJ when he wants to watch her choke and gag on him slowly) Lasagna (said by Lando during the BJ) Beef cheese rolling (said by reader when Lando is fcking her) Sparkling water

Thank you so, so much for writing for us! You're super talented!

Sure Darling❤

oh myyyy godd!! I AM IN LOVE WITH THESE TYPE OF REQUESTS!!! i love long and defined requests sooo muchh...!! And this fic is quite big too, so it took some extra time to write, and I wasn't able to post for the last two days.

Lando Norris|

Try Me

Pairing lando fem reader

Warning smut, rough, bj

Mocha enemies to lover Mint Chocolate hook up Shot of espresso rough sex Skim milk dry humping Soy milk oral sex Goat milk penetrative sex Waffles humiliation Meat balls body worship Hot dog size kink Cheese shrimp roll “I don’t care if it takes all night, you will submit.” Pork chops “So good for me, look at how much you came.” Butter fried chicken “Slowly, baby, I’m not going anywhere.” Lasagna “Oh, baby, you’re drooling everywhere.” Beef cheese rolling “Enough, please, I can’t take anymore!” Sparkling water after care

“And I’m still a mess, you’re like holy wine ... I get drunk on you all the time.”

“You never try to fix me, you're just keeping me around.”

Y/n didn’t belong here.

Not in the beer-stained jungle of frat boys and fake designer perfume. Not in a house that reeked of testosterone and questionable decisions. And definitely not in the gravitational pull of Lando Norris — the walking red flag in a backwards cap who was, without fail, the loudest, cockiest, most irritating person at every single party.

Yet here she was.

And there he was — already watching her like a lion watches the one doe stupid enough to wander into the wrong clearing.

His eyes locked with hers the second she stepped into the kitchen, lips twisting upward like he knew a secret.

“Look what the devil dragged in,” he said, casually tossing a ping pong ball over his shoulder without looking. It bounced off the table and landed in a cup. Loud cheering erupted behind him, but Lando didn’t flinch. His eyes never left her. “Didn’t think you were the party type.”

“I’m not.” She brushed past him to open the fridge. “I was blackmailed.”

He grinned and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with slow, deliberate amusement.

“So this is what I get for putting up the 'hot girls only' sign?” he mused. “A girl who hates me showing up in ripped jeans and an attitude.”

She grabbed a can of seltzer and slammed the fridge shut. “Maybe if you stopped running your mouth for five minutes, people would stop hating you.”

“Now, see,” he said, pushing off the counter and following her step for step, “I think about you a lot, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard you admit you think about me.”

She gave him a deadpan look. “Please. If I ever thought about you, it’d be to plan your funeral.”

He laughed — a real, low laugh, like she’d just told him he was right on schedule.

“Can’t lie, baby. That’s hot.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll stop when you start acting like it doesn’t turn you on.”

That earned him a scoff and a tight shake of her head as she walked off, back toward the hallway. But he wasn’t done.

In fact, he followed.

“Why do you fight it so hard?” he called after her, dodging drunken students and abandoned red cups. “You glare at me like I ruined your life, but every time we end up in the same room, you’re either staring at me or trying to pretend you’re not.”

She whipped around at the foot of the stairs, fire in her eyes. “Because you’re arrogant, insufferable, and you think you can get any girl just by flashing your fake little smirk and whispering something filthy in her ear.”

He stepped closer, head tilting with mock curiosity.

“And what would I whisper in your ear, hmm?”

She didn’t flinch, not this time. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not one of your groupies.”

“Exactly,” he said smoothly. “That’s why I want you.”

Her mouth opened—maybe to fire back, maybe to walk away. But he was in her space now, chest brushing hers, the heat of him seeping into her skin like something dangerous.

“I don’t care if it takes all night…” Lando said softly, dark eyes burning into hers.

“You will submit.”

The air between them snapped taut. Her breath caught.

She hated him. Hated how he smelled. How he stood. How his voice got low like that when he was being serious.

But she hated even more the way her stomach fluttered at his words.

“I’d rather die.”

He smirked. “I’ve been told I ruin girls. But I promise, you’ll beg me for it.”

“You think you’re so irresistible?”

He dipped his head slightly, lips brushing close to hers but never touching. “I don’t think. I know.”

She should’ve walked away. Slapped him. Laughed in his face.

But her body stayed still — heart thudding, chest rising and falling like she was the one who'd lost the game.

“Say the word,” he whispered. “Say you want me to leave you alone, and I will. I’ll never touch you again. But if you don’t…” He grinned like he already knew the ending. “Then we both know what comes next.”

She stared at him — at the storm in his eyes, the quiet arrogance, the wicked confidence.

And when she didn’t say anything, his smirk deepened.

“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing a hand against her waist. “That’s what I thought.”

She didn’t stop him when he took her hand.

Didn’t argue when he led her up the stairs.

Didn’t resist when he shut the door behind them and leaned against it like she was prey in his den.

And God help her, she didn’t want to.

She straddled him, She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. "I wanted to make you wait," she whispered, her voice a sultry purr. She ground against him and he could feel the heat of her pussy through her panties.

"Damn, Y/n," Lando groaned, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her closer. She began to move, a slow, torturous grind that had his cock rock hard and throbbing. Her hands roamed his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles, her lips following the same path, kissing, licking, biting. She was worshipping his body, making him hers.

Lando's breath hitched as she moved faster, her pussy rubbing against his cock through their clothes. The friction was intense, almost too much. He could feel his orgasm building, his cock pulsing with need. Yin was in control, setting the pace, driving him wild. He felt his cock pulse and he groaned as he came, grinding her against him ruthlessly.

“So good for me, look at how much you came,” Lando said, feeling how wet she was and how drenched her panties were. "I just came from dry humping. This pussy is so good for me."

Y/n smiled cruelly, grinding against him one last time before she slid off his lap. Lando watched, his chest heaving, as she slowly turned around and bent over, her dress riding up to reveal the soaked crotch of her panties.

"You look so pathetic," she cooed, looking back at him with a wicked grin. "Cumming in your pants like a little boy."

Lando growled, but she just laughed, straightening up and sauntering towards the bar. She ordered a drink, her ass swaying enticingly, before turning back to him.

"Clean yourself up," she commanded, her voice a low purr. "And then maybe I'll let you taste what you've been missing."

The humiliation stung, but Lando could feel his cock stirring again at her words. He stood up, adjusting his pants, and made his way towards her.

"I'm getting horny again, you handle that."

He was explicit, he wanted to humiliate her, he wanted to fuck her, but he wanted her to suck his cock first, to feel her throat, to see her helpless as he used her.

"You want to suck me off, don't you, baby?" he teased, running a hand through her hair. She looked up at him, her eyes flashing with defiance, but he could see the desire there too.

"Maybe," she replied, her voice breathy. He smiled, taking a step back and unbuttoning his pants.

"Then get on your knees," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

She hesitated for a moment, but then slowly sank to her knees, her eyes never leaving his. He watched, his breath catching in his throat, as she reached out, her hands trembling slightly, to take his cock in her hand.

"Slowly baby, I’m not going anywhere."

He said, as he pushed her head down his cock slowly. He could see her gagging, but she didn’t pull away, she took it all in, and when she looked up at him, he said “Oh, baby, you’re drooling everywhere.” He smirked, he wanted to see her choke and gag on him, she was so beautiful like that.

Y/n's fingers trembled as she wrapped them around Lando's thick shaft, her eyes wide with a mix of awe and defiance, a bead of precum on the tip. He smirked down at her, his hands tangled in her hair, guiding her mouth towards his cock. She parted her lips, taking the head in, her tongue flicking out to taste him. He groaned, the sensation electric. He pushed gently, his cock sliding deeper into her mouth, inch by inch, filling her completely.

He watched, his chest heaving, as she struggled to take him, her eyes watering, her throat working to accommodate his size. He could feel her gagging, her body fighting the intrusion, but she didn't pull away. He smirked, his grip tightening in her hair. "That's it, baby. You can take it," he growled, his hips moving slightly, fucking her mouth slowly, cruelly. She moaned around him, the vibration sending shocks of pleasure through his body. He could see her saliva dripping down his shaft, coating her chin. "So fucking beautiful," he groaned, his voice hoarse with lust.

He pulled out slowly, giving her a moment to breathe, but only a moment. Then he pushed back in, his cock sliding deep into her throat. She gagged again, her body convulsing, but he held her there, his hips moving, fucking her face relentlessly. Her hands gripped his thighs, her nails digging into his skin, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. The sight of her, choked and helpless, was too intoxicating.

She gagged harder, her body writhing, but Lando held her steady, his grip unyielding. He could feel his orgasm building, his cock pulsing, ready to explode. He groaned, his hips moving faster, his cock sliding in and out of her throat with a wet, obscene sound.

"You're so good at that," he groaned, his voice a low rumble. "Such a good little cocksucker."

She moaned around him, the sound muffled, her body shaking with the effort of pleasing him. He could feel it, the humbling sensation of his throbbing cock straining against her tight throat.

He groaned, his body tensing and, with a final, brutal thrust, he came, his cock pulsing, spilling his seed down her throat. He held her there, his hips grinding against her face, until he was spent, until he was sure she had swallowed every last drop. Only then did he pull out, his cock sliding from her mouth with a wet pop. He smiled down at her, his chest heaving, his body sated, his mind already planning his next move.

"You did good, baby," he panted, his hand stroking her cheek, his thumb wiping away a trail of saliva. She looked up at him, her eyes glazed, her lips swollen, her makeup smudged. She looked ruined, and he loved it. His cock stirred again, already hungry for more.

He tugged her up by her hair, his mouth crashing down on hers, tasting himself on her lips. He kissed her roughly, his tongue plunging into her mouth, claiming her, dominating her. She moaned into the kiss, her body pressing against his, her hands roaming his chest, his abs, his hips. She was hungry, and he was going to feed her.

He broke the kiss, his breath ragged, his heart pounding. "Turn around," he commanded, his voice a low growl.

Her body flushed, she hurried to obey. He watched, his cock throbbing, as she turned, her back to him, her hands braced on the bar. He could see her panties, soaked and clinging to her pussy, her ass cheeks peeking out from underneath. He groaned, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her back against him. She gasped, her body arching, pressing her ass against his cock. He groaned, the sensation of her heat against his shaft almost too much to bear. He reached down, his fingers hooking into her panties, pulling them aside. He could see her pussy, swollen and glistening, her arousal coating her thighs. He groaned, his cock pulsing, ready to claim her, to fuck her, to make her scream.

He rubbed the head of his cock against her slick folds, coating himself in her juices. She moaned, her body pushing back against him, trying to take him in. He smirked, his hands gripping her hips tighter, holding her still. "Not yet, baby," he groaned, his voice a low rumble.

He slid his cock up and down her slit, teasing her, torturing her, his breath ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. He could feel her body shaking, her breath coming in short, desperate pants. She was ready, and he was going to give her what she wanted. He was going to fuck her, to claim her, to make her scream his name.

“Enough, please, I can’t take anymore! she said panting.

He chuckled, a dark, cruel sound, his hips continuing to move in a punishing rhythm. "You can take it, baby. You can take all of me," he growled, his hands gripping her hips so tightly he knew it would leave bruises. She moaned, a long, desperate sound, her body pushing back against his, meeting his thrusts with a ferocity that matched his own.

"But you said…" she panted, her voice a breathless whimper, as he drove into her with a force that made the bar shake.

"I lied," he hissed, his teeth grazing her shoulder, his breath hot on her neck and he pressed her down lower, driving his cock deeper into her. She cried out, a sharp, keening sound, her body convulsing around him, her pussy clenching and releasing in a desperate attempt to milk him for all he was worth.

He could feel her body, slick and hot, enveloping him, pulling him in deeper, his cock throbbing with each powerful thrust. He groaned, his hips moving faster, his cock sliding in and out of her with a wet, obscene sound.

"You're so fucking tight," he groaned, his voice a low rumble. "So fucking wet. You love this, don't you? You love taking my cock."

She moaned, her body shaking with the effort of holding back her orgasm, but he could feel it building, her body tensing, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in tight, cruel circles. She screamed, her body convulsing, her pussy clenching around him as her orgasm tore through her.

"That's it, baby," he groaned, his hips moving faster, his cock sliding in and out of her with a wet, obscene sound. "Come for me. Come on my cock."

She screamed again, her body writhing, her pussy milking him, pulling him deeper, driving him wild. He could feel his own orgasm building, his cock pulsing, ready to explode. He groaned, his hips moving faster, his cock sliding in and out of her with a wet, obscene sound. He was close, so close, and he wanted to feel her come again, to feel her body convulsing around him as he filled her with his seed.

He slapped her ass hard, the sound echoing in the room. "Again," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "Come again for me."

Her body trembled, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. She was so close, so fucking close. He could feel it in the way her body tensed, in the way her pussy clenched around him. He reached around again, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in cruel, relentless circles. She screamed, her body convulsing, her pussy milking him, pulling him deeper, driving him wild.

"Yes," he groaned, his hips moving faster, his cock sliding in and out of her with a wet, obscene sound. "That's it, baby. Come for me. Come on my cock." Her body was slick, her skin glistening with sweat, her hair a wild mess. She was a sight to behold, a vision of pure, unadulterated lust.

He could feel his own orgasm building, his cock pulsing, ready to explode. He groaned, his hips moving faster, his cock sliding in and out of her with a wet, obscene sound. He was close, so close, and he wanted to feel her come again, to feel her body convulsing around him as he filled her with his seed.

She screamed again, her body writhing, her pussy milking him, pulling him deeper, driving him wild. He groaned, his body tensing, his cock pulsing and he thrust into her one final time, his hips grinding against her ass as he came, his cock spilling his seed deep inside her. He held her there, his hips grinding against her, his cock pulsing, until he was spent, until he was sure he had filled her completely.

The room was silent now, except for the labored breaths and the distant thump of music still echoing through the floorboards downstairs.

Lando lay half-propped against the pillows, skin flushed and glistening, chest rising and falling in deep, uneven rhythms.

Y/n was curled into his side, skin bare, legs tangled with his, her body humming from everything he’d done to her—and everything she’d let him.

She should’ve felt embarrassed. She should’ve hated herself for breaking the one promise she’d made since freshman year: never fall for Lando Norris.

But right now? She was too sore to think. Too full of him to care.

His hand trailed slowly up and down her spine. Slow, lazy. Unlike everything he’d just done to her.

“You alright?” he asked quietly, voice deeper than normal, lips brushing against her temple.

She didn’t answer right away. Just let out a breath and melted into his touch.

Lando shifted slightly, rolling her carefully to face him, his hand cradling her jaw like she was made of something breakable.

“Hey,” he murmured, eyes softer now, all the cockiness long gone. “Too much?”

She blinked slowly. “No... it was—”

She paused, cheeks flushed. “Intense. But not too much.”

He exhaled, relieved. “You should’ve told me if it was.”

She gave a small smirk, fingers brushing over the angry red scratches down his chest. “I think you were the one needing safe words, not me.”

He grinned. “Okay, fair. You’re insane.”

But then he pulled her closer, wrapped both arms around her like she might slip away. “Still. You matter. You know that, right?”

Her throat tightened. She hadn’t expected that.

Not from Lando, the king of hookups and stupid dares and girls who barely remembered his last name.

“I thought you didn’t do all this…” she whispered, gesturing to the mess of sheets and intimacy between them.

“I don’t.” His voice dipped, thumb brushing her lower lip. “But I do with you.”

The weight of his words sank in slowly, like molasses.

She blinked again. “Why?”

Lando paused, brows furrowing slightly like even he didn’t fully understand it.

“Because you were the only one who ever said no to me and meant it. You don’t want me for the parties or the name or the ego. You fight me like hell—and maybe I liked that at first, but now...”

His voice dropped to a whisper, forehead pressed against hers.

“Now I just want to be someone you don’t have to fight.”

Her eyes burned a little. But she didn’t say anything. Just reached out and threaded her fingers through his.

He kissed her knuckles. One by one.

“I’ll run you a bath,” he murmured. “Then order that shitty takeout you like. You’re probably starving.”

“I am,” she said quietly.

He smirked. “Told you I’d ruin you.”

She rolled her eyes—but leaned in and kissed him anyway.

Soft. Slow. Nothing like before.

He kissed her back like he had nowhere else to be.

And maybe—for once—he didn’t.

[awxcoffeexno]

soft sounds from another planet | chapter 1 - off the face of the earth

ao3 | series masterlist | next chapter >

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader

genre: rom-com

summary: clark kent is not superman. he’s just a grumpy journalist with too much baggage and exactly zero interest in being interviewed, especially not by you, a sunshiney reporter who asks way too many questions and doesn’t take no for an answer. you’re not supposed to like him. you’re supposed to write a quick feature, turn it in, and go back to your regularly scheduled life. not linger on his front porch. not stay for coffee. and definitely not fall for the man who writes like he’s trying to outrun his own heart.

warnings: 18+, smut, mentions of canon typical violence even tho it's an au (cannot un-lex luthor lex luthor, soz)

word count: 2.2k

a/n: i'm a little rusty, bear w me but i loooooved superman sm and since ive been on a rom-com kick,, i just had to.

“I’ve found that most people will tell you the truth if you ask the wrong question long enough.” Clark Kent, “Interview Technique and Other Lies - An open letter to the journalism students of America, 2019”

you’ve been staring at the blinking cursor for eight minutes and thirty-four seconds, which wouldn’t be that bad if it weren’t on an empty google doc titled “digital loneliness in a post-pandemic cityscape.” you’re supposed to write a 1,200-word lifestyle feature. so far, you’ve written: “loneliness is…”

and then you stopped, because honestly? you’re not sure you know anymore. or worse, you know too well.

you tap your keyboard like that’ll fix something inside you.

“tell me you’re writing and not just admiring your font choice,” dani says, suddenly appearing beside you with a cup of something suspiciously green in one hand and a raised eyebrow in the other. dani, your editor, champion, tormentor, and unofficial life coach, who once edited an entire piece of yours using only fleabag quotes as comments after you got her wine drunk and forced her to watch it.

“don't make me an optimist. you'll ruin my life.” she’d scribbled in the margins.

dani is… dani. she always walks like she’s being timed. there’s something olympian about her gait: deliberate, kinetic, a little terrifying. at 6’1, she doesn’t really tower as much as she commands the air around her, as if ceilings move to accommodate her. when she laughs, rare, short bursts, like a balloon being let go too soon, it feels like applause you didn’t know you’d earned.

she’s the only person who ever made you want to work weekends. not out of fear (though that’s there, too), but because her approval is the kind of thing that makes you believe you're not completely wasting your twenties. she’ll knock three paragraphs out of your lede with a single, “too slow,” and then send you a picture of her lunch ten minutes later with the caption “nommy nommies.”

you don’t know everything about her - she’s private in a scandinavian way, minimal and pristine - but you know she used to figure skate competitively and once told you, over cocktails at a christmas party, that the trick to good reporting is “keeping your skates sharp and your soft parts softer.” you still don’t quite know what that means, but you’ve quoted it in two different extended family events and once on a bumble date, and all times gotten an impressed nod in return. it still makes you giggle.

she took you in when you barely knew what an em dash was and made you believe you were going to be someone. not someone important, necessarily. but someone who could write something that mattered. lol.

you straighten up. smile. you are the cheerful one™ after all. the girl who brings in muffins on mondays. the girl who says “no worries at all!” and actually means it.

“of course i’m writing,” you say, clicking randomly just to make the screen do something. “i’m deep in the magic. elbow-deep in isolation statistics and accidentally poetic reddit posts.”

dani gives you a look. the kind that says don’t test me, sunshine, but with love. mostly.

“cool,” she says. “just checking. deadline’s in six hours, and i need to pretend like we’re still a paper of record and not just a content farm for sad single millennials and the occasional corruption scandal.”

you nod, looking at the clock that tells you it’s lunch time. “six hours is a lifetime. i could fall in love and get married in that time.”

dani smirks. “not with your track record.”

ouch. but fair. but when she notices that you aren’t smiling back this time, she sighs and shakes her head.

“take a walk,” she says. “go outside, read a trashy novel, eavesdrop on some teens having an existential crisis on a park bench. find your story. and when you come back, maybe take a look at this.”

she hands you a thick manila folder.

you flip it open. it’s a profile piece request; freelance, technically. high-risk, high-reward. the subject: clark kent.

you freeze. you’ve read everything he’s ever written. his luthor laboratories exposé. the pulitzer pieces. the live leak...

your stomach twists. you remember the last byline, the last photo. then the silence. the speculation. and now-

“you want me to write about clark kent?” you repeat, and it sounds a little stupid in your own mouth, like when people say “i love you” too quickly in movies and everyone watching knows they don’t mean it.

“yes.”

you blink. “you mean that clark kent? pulitzer-and-pulitzer clark kent?”

dani grins. “the very same.”

the room seems to tilt slightly. you’ve written front-page stories. you’ve exposed a congressman. but this feels… biblical. clark kent hasn't spoken to anyone in five years. he hasn't been seen in nearly three. the last time his name trended, it was alongside the words reckless, traitor, and murderer.

“i don’t think he talks to anyone,” you manage.

dani shrugs. “then make him.”

you let out a small, nervous laugh. “dani. come on.”

“this is big, kid,” she says, leaning forward on her elbows. “i’m not giving this to someone else. and i’m not asking if you want it. i know you do.”

she’s right. of course she’s right. this is the kind of thing careers are built on. hell, rebuilt on. this is the story that could carry your name into newsrooms you haven’t even dared to imagine yourself in. and clark kent? he’s the reason you got into this line of work in the first place. not just because of his prose, which is legendary, but because, back before everything went to hell, he wrote like people mattered.

“and hey,” her voice cuts through your thoughs. “deadline for your lifestyle feature is still 7pm.”

you want to glare at her because you have never once missed a deadline but you’re still dazed. your heart is racing now, and your palms feel clammy. if you do this right - really right - you’ll never have to pitch another goddamn story again.

clark kent. jesus christ.

–

you get home, flick on the light, and immediately step over yesterday’s laundry. it’s a one-bedroom with a closet-sized kitchen, an overworked radiator, and a view of the bodega’s neon sign across the street. but it’s yours. well. yours and meera’s.

you toss your bag on the couch, hang your keys on the little ceramic cat meera bought from the hospital gift shop - “because even doctors deserve cute things” - kick off your shoes, and collapse in front of your laptop like a woman on a mission.

the adrenaline’s still buzzing. somewhere between the last espresso and dani’s parting “don’t screw this up,” your brain has sprinted ten paces ahead.

you force yourself to start with the basics: a reread of clark kent’s greatest hits - or at least the ones you’ve dog-eared emotionally. the arms of the city. blood in the rubble. and, of course, the broken bell. his first pulitzer. the piece that made you want to be a journalist.

but not in the all the president’s men, trench-coats-and-righteous-indignation kind of way. clark’s writing didn’t make you want to chase truth, it made you want to hold it still, long enough for someone to feel it.

the broken bell covered the gotham sanitation strikes, but it cracked open the entire city. clark embedded himself with the people slipping through the cracks: nurses skipping meals to buy their kids textbooks, subway workers sleeping in break rooms, janitors who hadn’t been paid in six weeks. he reported on the dysfunction and dismantled the entire machine, piece by corrupted piece. budget cuts, hush money trails, a mayor who campaigned on empathy and governed like a banker with a vendetta. and then clark walked into a press conference, pressed record, and didn’t flinch once.

you remember your favorite line. you’d screenshotted it in college, back when meera still called you “baby amanpour” in your family group chat:

“they say gotham’s built on bedrock, but they don’t talk about the hands that laid it. the calluses, the backs broken under steel and snow. maybe they think we’ll forget. maybe they’re counting on it.”

it wasn’t just journalism. it was a punch in the throat.

and then he vanished. no bylines in five years. no panels, no podcasts, no alumni reunions. just... gone. the last thing he wrote was that article.

you dig into the obvious leads first: public databases, old newswires, even his ancient byline email. dead ends. his last known address is now owned by a hedge fund analyst and a french bulldog named miso. reddit threads spiral into fan conspiracies. a tumblr tagged #journalismdaddy went dark in 2023. his linkedin is a ghost town.

it’s not just that he disappeared. it’s that he disappeared clean. no trail. no statement. no explanation. the industry moved on. but you didn’t. couldn’t. not when he was the reason you’re here in the first place.

eventually, you open that article.

the luthor laboratories exposé is still online but barely. comments disabled. metadata stripped. halfway through, you feel the chill in your spine, a tone you’d missed before. the cadence is uneven. the voice, tight. something broke in him writing this. he was afraid. and he was right to be. two women died after that piece. two women whose names weren’t supposed to be revealed, but were, accidentally, during a livestream he gave while promoting the story. you remember the coverage. how fast it all burned. clark kent had told the truth, and paid for it.

you lean back in your chair, throat dry.

the world decided he was done.

but. he's your white whale now.

you open a new tab. search: “underground press clubs.” “dead journalist forums.” “where did clark kent go?” you know it’s a long shot, but something in your chest refuses to let go.

and then, of all places, an old fucking 4chan thread, half-buried in conspiracy rambling:

my source says he went back to smallville after everything. never heard of it? yeah, no one has.

smallville.

you blink. you honestly haven’t.

you grab your phone. call meera.

she picks up after one ring, a heart monitor beeping in the background. “about time, fucking weirdo.”

“hi. sorry. but i have a question.”

“no. you have the voice. the idea voice. i can hear it.”

“have you ever heard of a town called smallville?”

she pauses. “like… kansas?”

“…how’d you know?”

“remember that journalist guy you used to be obsessed with? cute, tall, serious? did all the late-night stuff after his nobel prize?”

“clark kent? pulitzer, not nobel, you dunce.”

“yeah, fucking whatever. tonya in med school had an actual shrine. she used to watch the daily show clips of him like they were marvel trailers. anyway, she once said he was from some blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town in kansas. pretty sure it was called smallville.”

you actually bounce in place. sometimes you could kiss meera’s elephant memory.

this might actually be something if two different people can confirm it.

“hello?” she says, annoyed now. “did you die?”

“still alive! sorry. i literally called you about clark kent.”

“wait. seriously? why?”

you fidget with your notepad, flipping to a blank page. “i might be writing about him.”

there’s silence on her end. then, quieter: “be careful, sissy.”

you hang up and stare at your screen, her words echoing louder than you want them to. she’s never so quiet and that means her words hit harder.

between dani’s deadlines and meera’s late-night pep talks, you’ve somehow survived three years in this city. three years at the paper, and the last time one of your pieces trended, it was because a tiktok astrologer said your headline gave her a panic attack.

you’re good at what you do. you are. but you’re not where you thought you’d be. not yet. and looks like the key is clark fucking kent. the man who told the truth and then disappeared off the face of the earth.

you open the long-abandoned document titled: “new article/book - big serious project???”

and for the first time in months, you actually feel the electricity in your fingers as you type.

title: off the face of the earth.

(divider from @saradika-graphics)

pls pls pls don't hate this.

love, d <3

taglist: @twizzlelutz @itzmeme

[wibben]

White Day

You never meant to fall for your neighbor across the hall.

↳ pairing: hiromi higuruma x fem. reader

↳ wc: 5.4k

↳ notes: i've been wanting to write for my favorite defense attorney for a long time. i'm really excited to have finally gotten around to it! i hope you enjoy!

The day you moved in, you met Hiromi Higuruma on the fourth trip up the elevator with an armful of boxes and the vague promise of a herniated disk. 

He was on his way out, manilla folders tucked under one arm, tie just slightly askew – like he’d started the day neat and polished but had since been worn down by whatever mountain of legalese he’d been tackling. There was a quiet, practiced politeness about him as he reached past you to hold the elevator doors, murmuring an apology as if the arm braced overhead were some grand imposition and not, in fact, the only reason you weren’t pancaked between steel.

“You’re new,” he said, glancing from the leaning tower of tape-bound boxes you carried to you teetering behind it. His voice was smooth, deliberate – measured in a way that suggested he was used to choosing his words carefully. “Welcome to the building.”

It wasn’t much, but it was the first kind thing anyone had said to you all week. You clung to it tighter than the packing tape holding your precariously stacked belongings together – a bond that gave out the moment the elevator doors dinged closed behind him, spilling the contents of your life onto the scuffed tile floor.

In the months that followed, you pieced together fragments of his life like a puzzle. Accidentally, you never sought the pieces out so much as found them in your pockets. Hiromi, across the hall, worked too much, slept too little, and lived almost entirely off a diet of conbini meals. He smoked late at night by the building’s front steps – just long enough for you to catch the faint trace of tobacco lingering in the stairwell the next morning – and returned emails from his phone with the grim efficiency of someone accruing more inescapable sleep debt rather than paying it off.

You were an insomniac, with a habit of ordering takeout at hours best described as ungodly. The overlap in your schedules was impossible to ignore – him arriving home as you ventured out to retrieve a bag of comfort food from the lobby. At first, you nodded in passing. Then the perfunctory nods turned into murmured “evenings,”  which turned into chats on the way back to your respective doors. One night, you lingered in the entryway longer than usual, your coat doing little to ward off the cold. He stood nearby, a cigarette between his fingers, the ember’s orange glow painting flickering shadows across his face. You hadn’t meant to stay – it was cold, and you were already exhausted – but he looked over and asked, “Rough night?”

You nodded. “Always.”

His laugh was quiet, dry, and just a little self-deprecating. “Yeah,” he said, eyes fixed on the empty street ahead. “I get that.”

The next time, you started the conversation. “Long day?” you asked as he fished a lighter from his pocket.

“Mm.” He flicked his gaze toward you, his lips quirking into something that wasn’t quite a smile but close enough to send your stomach into a curious tailspin. “They’re all long.”

And so it went – short, fleeting exchanges that somehow turned ritual, little moments you found yourself looking forward to in the long evenings when the hot languor of your eyelids paved way for dark orbital bruises.

“Do you work nights?” he asked one evening, nodding toward the takeout bag in your hand.

“No,” you replied, shrugging. “I just don’t sleep much.”

His brows lifted faintly, a silent acknowledgment of shared affliction. “Ah.”

The silences between you weren’t uncomfortable, and you found you didn’t mind sitting beside him on the building’s concrete steps, a cigarette in his hand and a carton of fries in yours with not a word spoken between you. Other times though, the quiet felt cradled in something else. A brush of his fingers against yours when you handed him a takeout menu you didn’t need anymore, the drawling rasp of his voice murmuring an apology so quiet it made your nervous laugh feel like a hyena's scream in comparison. Once, you caught him glancing back at you just as the elevator doors slid shut, and you couldn’t decide if the flutter in your chest was ridiculous or warranted.

There were the little gestures: a cup of coffee left outside your door, still warm. A text after the building’s hot water went out, letting you know it was fixed. The day he offered his umbrella because yours disappeared somewhere between your door and the front steps – you missed the endearing way he rubbed the back of his neck when you turned your back to unfurl it, pleased you’d accepted it at all.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just coincidence and neighborly kindness, just the nature of living in close quarters with someone whose schedule aligned so improbably with your own.

Somehow, those small moments stacked up – shared smiles in the hallway, quiet exchanges about the weather or the truly horrible plumbing in the building – and one day, you realized you had a problem.

You had a spectacularly inconvenient crush on a man who looked like he hadn’t rested properly in years, and wouldn’t know romance if it flashed a neon sign.

It started small. But then the little things began to stand out. The faint scrunch of his nose when he read a text he didn’t like, which was completely different from the wrinkle that formed at the curve of his bridge when he smiled. The way he always looked up –  no matter how dead on his feet he seemed –  just to meet your eyes when he said hello. And the way his profile seemed to cut through the gritty, timeworn backdrop of the building’s facade, stark and clean against the crumbling edges. His face would flash crimson as he cupped the end of his cigarette to shield the ember from the wind, flicking the lighter, the filter pinned between his teeth in a way that shouldn’t have been nearly as fascinating as you found it.

By then it wasn’t just noticing, but appreciating. And by the time February rolled around you were hopelessly smitten, your goggles turned the world pastel pink, and you were fully in over your head.

Which was why, on Valentine’s Day, you found yourself carefully wrapping a box of homemade chocolates. They weren’t over the top – no heart-shaped nonsense, nothing pink or frilly – but each piece was infused with flavors he’d mentioned in passing: mocha, coffee, matcha, dark chocolate. Things you’d quietly noted, stored away for no reason other than that you’d wanted to.

You left a note tucked under the ribbon. Simple, casual.

“Hope you like them. Let me know what you think.”

The elevator doors were crawling shut when you heard the brisk thud of shoes on old beaten carpet, followed by the slap of a hurried hand against metal. Long fingers curled through the narrowing gap, prying the steel doors open with a strained push.

Hiromi slipped into the elevator, slightly disheveled and a little breathless, murmuring a bitten curse under his breath as he bent to retrieve the keys he’d dropped. Folders were precariously shoved under one arm, a pen just barely hanging on to the collar of his shirt.

“Morning,” you offered, your smile kind but tinged with the quiet amusement his harried state often inspired.

“Morning,” he replied, straightening and glancing over, his tie already starting its daily rebellion against proper alignment. His sunken but shrewd gaze flickered briefly to the box in your hands, but if he thought anything of it, he didn’t say. “Sorry – didn’t mean to hold you up.”

“You didn’t,” you assured him, shifting your weight as the elevator shuddered back into motion. The box felt heavier than it had five minutes ago. “Busy day?”

Hiromi laughed but it was throaty enough to be a scoff, clearly bracing himself for the expected impact of another brutally long day. “Aren’t they all?”

You smiled faintly. The silence that followed felt charged, and nerves jangled in your chest. Your heart was hammering, loud enough that you were sure he could hear it, but you hoped it might be mistaken for the grinding clunk of the old elevator gears.

It’s not a big deal, you reminded yourself again. Just a gift. Just a thoughtful gesture. Just a little too forward for two neighbors hovering in that nebulous space between circumstantial friends and something more, but one that might nudge things in a direction you were too cautious to name outright.

When the elevator gave its telltale groan as it neared the ground floor, you cleared your throat and stepped forward.

“Um, hey—” You held the box out to him, hands steadier than you’d feared but not quite steady enough for your liking. “I… made these. Thought you might like them.”

Hiromi blinked, his gaze snapping to the box with faint surprise. For a moment, his expression teetered between caught-off-guard and something softer, before smoothing into that burnt-out neutrality you’d seen him wear so many times. “Oh.” He juggled his folders into one hand, careful despite his hurry, and accepted the box with a quick bow. “That’s kind of you. Thank you.”

When he straightened, he offered you a small, fleeting smile – it made your stomach twist in on itself and spawn butterflies, no matter how many times you’d seen it.

The elevator dinged as it reached the lobby, and he stepped out with an apologetic glance at his watch. “I’ll see you around, won’t I?”

“Yeah,” you barely managed to eek.

And then he was gone, disappearing into the morning rush with your chocolates in one hand and his folders in the other with pages fluttering like paper wings.

You lingered in the elevator after the doors slid shut again, staring at the empty space he’d left behind.

It hadn’t gone how you’d expected – not your pre-planned worst-case scenario of a mortifying rejection of your feelings, and yet, somehow so much worse, because it wasn’t the rose-tinted reciprocation you’d naively dared to daydream about, either. The thanks and hurried acknowledgment barely registered against the clear distraction in his eyes. You’d poured so much into those chocolates, and you were left clutching distracted politeness like a consolation prize.

By the time you made it back to your floor – after a mortifying number of circuits up and down – you’d collapsed into the corner, head buried between your knees. Embarrassment wasn’t just a flush in your cheeks; it was a whole-body takeover, wrapping you in shame as thick as the tiles were cold. When the next passengers shuffled in, you peeled yourself off the floor, dodging their alarmed glances like a guilty specter as you slunk back to your apartment to lick your wounds.

Hiromi never mentioned the chocolates. Not once.

So, you did the only reasonable thing: you avoided him. It wasn’t like you’d outright confessed, but the thought of that little box sitting in his hands – or worse, the top of his trash bin – had you cringing so hard your spine might’ve snapped. Passing his door became a tactical mission: footsteps muted, breath held. The faintest whiff of tobacco from your window had you retreating like a skittish alley cat.

But while you ducked and dodged, Hiromi… didn’t. Every afternoon, he plucked another piece from that box, letting them melt on his tongue during rare, stolen breaks at his desk. Mocha when the morning slog threatened to drown him. Matcha when coffee breaks needed a little extra something. Dark chocolate after a colleague dumped another stack of case files onto his desk with an apologetic shrug.

Every evening, Hiromi waited beneath the weather-beaten veranda, the spot you both claimed without ever speaking something so official. His coat collar turned up against the cold, cigarette glowing like a signal flare, he’d scan the dim hallways for your familiar shuffle. He wanted to thank you. Tell you how your chocolates made the grind a little sweeter, made him feel a little lighter, and he was grateful for the little things.

But you never came. Not for long enough to speak, at least. Instead, you became a blur – an apparitional gremlin of mismatched pajamas, half-smushed pillow hair, and hurried footsteps. The only sign of you was the tributes he’d leave on your doorstep, his offerings of coffee and muffins, gone by the next time he passed.

Through the curling smoke of his cigarette, he wondered if you were sleeping better. Maybe that’s why you don’t join him as often anymore, why your late night rendezvous suddenly returned to being a solo affair. He hoped so.

The day had been a marathon of mediocrity, the kind of relentless tedium that blurred its edges into monotony. Paperwork bred more paperwork, meetings inexplicably managed to feel both crucial and utterly pointless, and the office coffee – gritty with a scorched aftertaste – served only as a cruel reminder of how far his standards had fallen.

Hiromi moved through it all like a ghost of himself, his body operating two steps behind his thoughts, trailing in that sluggish haze unique to too-little sleep. Four hours wasn’t the worst he’d had this week, but it came with its usual cargo: dreams that clung like cobwebs, fragile but persistent. Unfiled briefs, missed deadlines, the kind of nonsense that soaked through his undershirt and had him gasping awake at three in the morning.

By early evening, when a colleague materialized in the doorway, Hiromi had surrendered himself to the day’s slow crawl. His office, lit in jagged strips of orange from the low-hanging sun slicing through the blinds, had taken on a tomb-like quality – stifling, quiet, and inescapable.

“You’re still here?” The man lounged against the doorframe like a picture of eight hours' sleep and a decent breakfast, a stark contrast to Hiromi’s wilting state. He wore the smug energy of someone whose day had gone entirely to plan. Must be nice.

Hiromi didn’t lift his gaze from the monitor. “Where else would I be?”

“Home. Out. Making the most of the day,” came the reply, too chipper for this hour.

There was something in his tone that prickled, a faint suggestion that today should be different, though Hiromi could only just summon the curiosity to ask why. “What makes this Friday any different from last?”

His colleague shrugged, the movement loose and nonchalant. “Oh, nothing. Just, you know, White Day and all.”

Hiromi blinked, his expression an unbroken mask of indifference, save for the flicker of his eyes, which shifted upward with the kind of mechanical courtesy reserved for the truly drained. “Hm?”

“You really don’t know?”

“Should I?”

“It’s March fourteenth,” his colleague drawled, the words slow and deliberate. “White Day. The day you’re supposed to return the favor for Valentine’s Day.”

Hiromi’s brain sputtered, then juddered to life with all the elegance of an old engine coughing through winter. “Oh,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his hand dragging through his hair as if trying to pull clarity from his skull. “That’s today?”

“Brutal.” His colleague sucked air through his teeth, his expression a caricature of pity, though his eyes gleamed with the mischief of someone who’d spotted an opening. “Didn’t get a gift for anyone?”

Hiromi snorted with arms stretched above his head, his exhaustion thinning his filter. “No one got me anything, so there’s no one to return the favor to.”

“Huh. Rough.” The younger man pushed off the doorframe with a shrug, his jacket slung over his shoulder in a gesture that felt entirely too self-assured. “Well, I’m heading out early. Got a dinner reservation. Gotta make sure I’m on her good side before I make it official.” He grinned, throwing a thumbs-up so cheerfully condescending it bordered on insult. “Good luck with… whatever’s keeping you here.”

“Good luck,” Hiromi replied flatly, already turning his focus back to his monitor.

But the thought lingered, catching like a burr in his mind, tugging at him with small, relentless hooks. No one had given him anything for Valentine’s Day – no soft-spoken confessions, no blushing declarations with trembling hands and gift-wrapped tokens. There had been no shyly offered gestures for him to downplay, no dramatic moments requiring his polite reassurance: “No, no, please, there’s really no need for all of that.” Nothing.

Except… there had been.

The memory surfaced slowly, a faint glimmer in the fog of his overworked mind, before it crashed into him with the force of a truck on the freeway. One moment he was scrolling through a deposition; the next, his pulse skipped, his hands frozen over the keyboard as the realization unraveled in merciless detail.

The elevator.

You’d both been in it that morning – was it really a month ago, now? – him juggling loose files and mentally compiling an impossible to-do list. You’d handed him a small box, your voice soft but steady, and said, in a way he thought was oddly shy for you, “Thought you might like these.”

He’d thanked you automatically, his tone clipped with the reflex to bury the ridiculous warmth that kindled in his chest, before all but sprinting through the entryway doors. He hadn’t even realized it was Valentine’s Day then, hadn’t stopped to consider the gift as anything more than one of your many small kindnesses that were always his undoing.

You were thoughtful like that. Always had been. The spare umbrella you’d pressed into his hands during last year’s rainy season. The mugs of instant coffee you’d offered during late-night power outages when the dim hallway emergency lights turned the corridor into an impromptu meeting ground.

You, who never made him feel like his exhaustion was something to apologize for, even when he collapsed into your shared conversations like a marionette with its strings cut.

You, who had been the quiet balm to so many of his sorriest days.

And somehow, he’d forgotten.

The box had ended up buried under a week’s worth of neglected paperwork by mid-morning that day, forgotten until a rare, unhurried moment between consults. When he finally opened it, he’d been greeted by chocolates arranged with precision that could only come from care. Not the haphazard, store-bought variety, but something deliberate – each flavor attuned to his preferences, each one a quiet nod to things he’d mentioned in passing, likely without even realizing you’d been listening.

He’d eaten them over the following days, savoring the indulgence but not the intention. The empty box, now stripped of its original purpose, sat on his desk, crammed with paperclips, pens, and a single stray thumbtack.

Hiromi leaned forward, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as if he could blot out the creeping tide of guilt threatening to swallow him whole. The past month replayed in his mind, vivid in a way they never were before – a montage of your silences, the way your smiles had grown quieter, your usual warmth edged with something more cautious. He’d chalked it up to stress, bad timing, anything but what it really was: his own staggering obtuseness.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” he muttered suddenly, his head falling back against the chair as he twisted sideways, fixing his beleaguered coworker with a look that bordered on desperation.

The younger man froze mid-step, clearly debating the safest answer. “Uh…”

“I like my job a lot, sir,” he hedged, after a moment too long.

Hiromi let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Forget it. Go enjoy your dinner.”

The man didn’t wait to be told twice. The door clicked shut, and Hiromi was left alone in the oppressive quiet of his office, slumped in his chair, staring at a crack in the ceiling like it held answers.

God, he was an idiot.

Because the truth was, he noticed things about you, and he wasn’t used to being so perceptive about anything but work. The way your apartment light stayed on well past midnight, the faint glow visible from the sliver beneath your door. The way you hummed to yourself in the hallway, just barely audible, your voice low and private – except he was always listening for it, attuned to it, lingering by his own door in case he might "happen" to step out at the same time as you.

He’d been so careful not to overstep, so committed to keeping his distance, convinced that somehow, you’d notice him the way he noticed you. Maybe he’d been too subtle. Standing in the same spot every night, cigarette after cigarette, the nicotine rush indistinguishable from the pleasure gleaned from moments he stole with you. And now?

Now he owed you.

Big time.

Hiromi shoved back from his desk, grabbing his coat and his phone in one motion. His fingers fumbled over the search bar as he walked, half-blindly typing: “last-minute White Day gifts.”

Jewelry? Too much. Flowers? Too predictable. He swore under his breath, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He’d figure it out when he got there. Something would speak to him. He didn’t have time to second-guess himself anymore.

Not about you. Hiromi sprinted through the office, his coat slipping from one shoulder, tie askew as he lunged for the elevator button. When the doors stalled, he snarled a sharp curse, bouncing on his heels, as though sheer impatience could force them to hurry. The moment he hit the street, the cold air stung his face, jarring him into focus. His breath fogged in frantic bursts as he dodged through the evening crowd, weaving between briefcases and backpacks with a single refrain pounding in his skull: Weeks, Hiromi. You’ve had weeks.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this – racing to fix what he’d fumbled, clutching at something he should’ve noticed was already slipping away. You’re a grown man, not some clueless teenager. But that was exactly what he felt like as he stumbled into the nearest store, his heart sinking the moment he stepped inside.

It was carnage.

The shelves had been picked clean by people far more organized, thoughtful, and prepared than he’d ever managed to be. Half-empty displays of gaudy packaging mocked him from every aisle. Cheap chocolates in crushed boxes. Plush bears with matted fur that looked like they’d been stepped on. The sad, plastic sheen of leftover trinkets that no one with an ounce of dignity would ever gift to someone they actually cared about.

Hiromi ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots in frustration as he paced the aisles like a trapped animal. His brain, which had spent the day sluggishly dragging its feet, was now overcompensating – overthinking everything in the worst possible way.

What if she hates this? What if she thinks it’s insulting? What if this just makes everything worse?

He could picture it now: your face falling in polite disappointment, your soft, "Oh, you didn’t have to," laced with the kind of subtext that screamed you really shouldn’t have.

No. That wasn’t an option.

Hiromi doubled back for the third time, his footsteps echoing in the near-empty store. His phone buzzed with an email reminder of the job he’d abandoned, and he resisted the urge to hurl it into the nearest display of cheap candles. He grabbed at something – not because it felt right, but because he was out of time and out of options.

It wasn’t great. Hell, it wasn’t even good. But it was something.

And the rest? The rest would just have to be a groveling apology. A way to explain himself without coming off like a total asshole, to let you know he wasn’t the man you probably thought he was after weeks of appearing apathetic.

It would have to be enough.

He clutched the bag to his chest as he jogged out of the store, and started making his dash for home.

Maybe, if he was lucky, the gesture would mean more than the thing itself. Maybe.

The evening air burned in his lungs as Hiromi sprinted down the sidewalk, the soles of his dress shoes slapping against the pavement with a rhythm as erratic as his breathing. A suit, he learned – rather painfully – was not designed for anything more strenuous than a brisk walk.

His tie had long since loosened lest it choke his already struggling airway, and his coat flapped behind him like a cape, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when lady serendipity smiled upon him with pity when he saw you just ahead, reaching for the brassy bar of the building's entry door.

“Wait! Wait!” You froze mid-step at the sound of your name, sharp and startling, ricocheting off the concrete walls. Turning quickly, you caught sight of Hiromi – half-bent over, hands braced against his knees as he dragged in air a few short steps below you. “Are you okay?” The question slipped from your tongue before it even rooted in your brain, concern knotting your brows as you took in the disheveled sight of him.

Hiromi straightened, not quite gracefully, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. “I realized—” he began, words forced out between gulps of air, one hand lifting to clutch a small plastic bag that swayed pitifully against his trembling fingers. “I realized – hah I’m out of shape – I never properly thanked you for your Valentine’s gift.” The admission caught you entirely off guard.

“Oh.” Your voice came out faint, startled, and entirely inadequate to convey your sudden tangle of emotions. Relief mixed with confusion, unraveling the anxious knots you’d carried for weeks.

“I’m a complete and utter ass,” Hiromi barreled on, his words tumbling over each other in his haste. “Truly, an irredeemable ass. The chocolates? Fucking stellar.” He swallowed, wetting his throat that stuck itself closed from the cold air sucked down his windpipe. “But I hope you can forgive me for my… my ass-ery.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escaped, and the tension in your shoulders eased. Your hand dropped from the door to more casually clasp your wrist in front of you. “Your… ass-ery?” “Yes,” he deadpanned, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “It’s a clinical diagnosis, I’m afraid.” You shook your head, smiling now as it was always so easy to do as he thrust the bag toward you. “Here. I—well, it’s not much, and honestly, it’s terrible, but…” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes locked on the bag rather than you. “I thought you deserved something. And an apology.” Your heart warmed, then grew hotter still, a supernova blooming in your chest until you were certain you must be a brilliant viewing hazard. Oh my god, this is happening, this is really happening— Curious, you peeked into the bag…

To find a small potted cactus, squat and prickly, nestled beside a tin of mints.

You stared at the contents, your brain valiantly attempting to connect dots that refused to align. Then, slowly, you looked back up at Hiromi, blinking as the sheer absurdity of it all began to take shape. “Hiromi…” you started, your voice dragging slightly, in perfect sync with the slow crawl of your eyebrows knitting together. “What am I looking at right now?” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his discomfort manifesting in the faint flush creeping up from the open collar of his shirt. “They were out of flowers,” he said, a little too quickly, his tone and expression both pleaded for understanding. “Cacti are… supposed to be hardy. Low maintenance. Practical.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out, your gaze drifting helplessly back to the cactus like it might somehow offer an explanation. Finally, your eyes narrowed on the tin of mints, holding it up as if demanding it speak for itself. “And these? Am I being politely told I have bad breath? Should I…?” You gestured vaguely toward your mouth, your deadpan delivery sharpened by the incredulous lift of your brow. “What? No! Of course not!” Hiromi’s wide-eyed horror was immediate, followed by a sigh that bordered on despair. “They were out of decent chocolates too, if you can believe that. All the ones left looked like they’d been stepped on or…” His nose scrunched slightly. “...or licked, probably.” It all hit you square in the chest then, and you couldn’t hold back the laugh that burst out. It rang across the sidewalk, echoing against the walls, and for a fleeting moment, Hiromi looked almost dazed, like the sound itself had knocked him off balance. “Hiromi…” You shook your head, trying to catch your breath as you gestured vaguely at the gifts still cradled in your hands. “A cactus and breath mints. I don’t even know where to start with that—”

His lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners, and he ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, ruffling the stubborn strands to fall in hooks over his forehead with a self-deprecating snort. “You’re not supposed to start. You’re supposed to forgive me for being an idiot, and let me take you out for dinner.” You looked up from the strange gifts cradled in your palms, meeting his gaze. His face was still flushed, his tie hanging on for dear life over his shoulder, and his chest rose and fell unevenly, but there was something so earnest in the way he looked at you – like he would and did run all the way across the city just to say this. “I’m going to put these… thoughtful gifts inside,” you said, the sickle curve of your smile applying a damning edge to the teasing lilt in your voice.

You turned to head upstairs, but hesitated, the words catching on the tip of your tongue. Your pulse thrummed, and for a moment, you felt suspended – caught between the weight of your nerves and the feather-light hope fluttering just beneath them. Before you could second-guess yourself, the question tumbled out. “Do you… want to go to the izakaya a few blocks over?” For a moment, Hiromi simply stared, wide-eyed and stunned like you’d offered him the key to salvation. His stillness stretched the seconds thin, and then – bit by bit as he finally seemed to believe you – the rigidity in his frame unraveled, replaced by something altogether softer and breathtaking in its sincerity. “Oh thank god,” he said, frayed at the edges and incredulous. He cleared his throat straightening with a sheepish cant of his head. “Yes, I’d like that. A lot.” The way he looked at you then – with such gratitude and appreciation – sent your heart into a clumsy somersault. It wasn’t all that different from how he’d looked at you all along during those late night smoke breaks or slow traipses down the hall. Maybe you were a fool too for not noticing sooner. “Okay,” you replied, your smile curling so wide onto your face in a way that made it impossible to even try to play coy. “Yeah! Yeah—okay… give me a few minutes!”

Hiromi stepped aside to let you pass. He watched until you disappeared into the building, his calm, composed exterior holding steady until the door clicked shut behind you. Only then did the cracks appear – his breath shuddered out in a rush, and he broke into a tight, eager circle of pacing on the sidewalk. His hands flexed at his sides, barely containing the bubbling energy before one shot up in a victorious fist pump. Yes. Yes! The word pulsed in his chest, each repeat hitting harder than the last. His grin stretched wide, a little lopsided, and he dragged his hand down his face to rein it in – unsuccessfully. Inside your apartment, your composure unraveled just as spectacularly. The door slammed behind you as you collapsed against it, pressing your back to the wood, chest heaving as the realization hit in waves. You were going on a date with Hiromi. Your breath caught, your hands flying up to cover your face as a giddy squeal escaped – a sound you didn’t even try to stifle. You slid down the door to sit on the floor, every inch of you vibrating with pure, unfiltered excitement. You quickly peeled yourself off the ground, your grin so wide it ached as you darted through your apartment. The little cactus found a place on the bedroom windowsill, perfectly positioned for sunlight, but your thoughts had already wandered far beyond it. You regarded the mints, staring at them clutched in your palm, your thoughts spinning out in a thousand directions. Dates. Late nights. The shape of his smile. His mouth. His mouth alone was an entirely separate line of thought that sent your stomach into freefall. Your fingers lingered on the tin before you flipped it open, popping a mint in your mouth with a little hum of delight at the cool burst of peppermint. You tucked the rest into your bag with a flicker of a grin that might’ve been a little too self-satisfied, but who could blame you? Just in case you needed them.

[theealbatross]

a habit to kick, an age old curse (s.s)

Plot | They're no longer friends unfortunately they're still soulmates.

or, you and Sebastian are now strangers but at your most vulnerable moment he picks up the pieces. Only he knows. Only he can.

Tags | angst, heartbreak, when you're too depressed to confess, sebastian and the bad bitch he pulled by being stupid, sebastian is an academic weapon if he wants to, mentions of fire torture, murder (self-defense), trauma, emotional cheating (if u squint), slight fluff as a treat, panic attack, PTSD, Anne is dead, 3k-ish of angst

[A/N: Stream 'i love you, i'm sorry' by gracie for full immersion.]

Quidditch Season was important for every student in Hogwarts but it was the after-parties that everyone was truly looking forward to, house pride aside. 

Which is what exactly Garreth had been barred from. “I can’t believe I wasn’t given an invitation just cause I’m friends with you! I’m not even a Slytherin! And I make the best punches!”

Sebastian rolled his eyes, sighing. Even he didn’t think those pesky Ravenclaws would take their competition this seriously. It all started when he had finally decided to become an auror, after a peaceful, distraction-free year and careful deliberations from each of his professors, he was given the informal encouragement that he was one of the few students who had the potential to become a trainee to such a prestigious program. With his ever-growing physique and indisputable intellect, it would simply be a question of effort.

He just needed to be at the top of all the classes required of him. This was the tragic news for all those Ravenclaw dreams – once Sebastian had his sights on it, it was as good as his.

He hadn’t expected that their ire of him extended to his friends. Even refusing to invite them to the first party of the year that the Ravenclaw had won against the Hufflepuffs. Sebastian had half the mind to join his own House’s quidditch team even with his packed schedule just so he could wipe the floor with them. It would be worth never sleeping again.

“What do you want me to do Gar –”

“Here.”

A piece of paper hung from above him, the hand it was hanging from was connected to a face he hadn’t seen this closely in a long, long time. Even the whisper of her name in his mouth felt foreign – a tragic circumstance when a lifetime ago she had been a kindred soul.

Before he could say anything else, Garreth had already snatched the paper from in-between his eyes. “Is this – Really?!”

“The password for today’s party, try to sneak in when the ‘guards’ are smashed,” she grinned at the redhead. Then, Sebastian felt a cold blade slice through his chest (a hand suspiciously touching the spot just to check) when she looked back down at him again. “For old time’s sake.”

It took him a moment too long to realize she was talking to him too. But his tongue felt heavy and stuck, the metaphorical rug under his feet getting pulled out when he least expected it.

He nodded.

“See you around.”

He stared as she waltzes gracefully from the bustling crowd, getting roped into a hug by her boyfriend, William Frey, the bloody captain of the Ravenclaws. When he had heard about it, he couldn’t quite point out why he hated his smug, pretty face but then, using his blessed brain he got his bitter answer: they were too damn perfect together.

He was everything she deserved.

Smart, popular, kind, and comes from a good family that will be able to support her in whatever endeavors she might be up to in the future.

Not an orphaned criminal who couldn’t even save her sister.

The state of their friendship – or lack thereof – was pitiful but he knew it was for the better. Without each other in the way she can be loved by all those around her – something he has never been able to offer with his murky history that left a rubble of a man. And without her he can forget about his failures and mistakes, distract himself with as much schoolwork as he can cram in his head and never remember the times he sacrificed their friendship for his own gain only to lose it all anyways.

If he doesn’t see her then he can forget – he failed and his twin sister is dead.

A brilliant witch with a brilliant future didn’t deserve to be associated with failures.

“That was tense,” William whispered in your ears as he led you towards the courtyard. “A friend of yours?”

A flash of the lives you’ve lived with the Slytherin flashed before your eyes. Friends, what a lowly name.

You faked a smile, fighting every urge in your body to look back.

“A long time ago.”

The party was loud, no doubt the quidditch players were milking any taste of victory they have before they deal with whoever wins between the Slytherins and Gryffindor’s next week.

The music was loud, nearly pounding through the silencing charms in the walls of the common room. William at the thick in all of it, celebrating with his teammates, not forgetting to wave at you in your seat with that charming smile that usually makes you swoon.

However, it was the charmed fireworks all over the ceiling that had your heart exploding out of your chest. Flashes of nightmares at every pop.

The dark forest, the ruined castle, the ropes in your stretched out hands as Rookwoods men threw all sort of fiery spells at you as target practice.

You pinched your eyes shut, shaking your head, trying to focus on breathing.

When you were starting to get dizzy you knew it wasn’t working. You tried to push through the crowd, reach your boyfriend somehow and at least let him know what was going on but it was impossible. It was the peak of the party when everyone was too drunk to do anything but drink more and dance more. With a shuddering breath, you instead skirted around the crowd and escaped narrowly through the doors of the Ravenclaw common room.

Not even bothering with a disillusionment spell, knowing damn well all the prefects would be in the party, you ran to the nearest floo to travel to your common room.

However, even the silence and comfort of the top of the common room wasn’t enough to ground you as you stumbled straight down the cold tiles, a yelp escaping your mouth from the sting of your skin.

“Someone there?”

That voice, distant but familiar. Painfully familiar. Your eyes continue to blur as your breath hastened, your limbs too weak, and the cold floor too damn comfortable for your overheating body.

“Are you alright?” He’s closer now, at the bottom of the stairs.

No, no, no.

In your desperation, you swallowed your pride. Forgetting in the moment how humiliated you will be to be seen by the last person in your house you wanted to show this side of you.

He would take care of you.

He always takes care of you.

“Sebastian,” you could barely croak out in between your gasps. Silence followed and you whimpered, crawling down to the edge of the top of the stairs when you heard fast footsteps ascending and there he was.

“Fucking hell, what happened to you?!”

Before you could try to say anything else you were already carried in his arms, Sebastian’s panic at seeing someone that was always so shiny and untouchable on a daily basis gasping and writhing in their common room floor was something he had not prepared himself to see tonight.

He thought the worst would be drunk seniors he would have to haul up their rooms not his … not you.

Carefully, he placed you on the nearest couch, your grip in his arms painful but welcome as it grounded him and prevented him from rattling when he saw your pale face covered with sweat and tears.

“Pet, you gotta help me here, what’s going on?! What do you need?!”

His eyes plotted your face, firm hands frantically running across your body to check for any stain of blood or hints of the source of your pain. It was agonizingly intimate, especially with the knowledge of how much this has happened in the past – one of you writhing in pain, the other doing their darndest to fix it.

A shot of pain pierced your chest when you suddenly breathed in, making you cry out and crawl into his arms.

Your calming medicine – it was in your bedside table. However, it was no use, like blood was not reaching your brain and all you know to do is to just hold on to Sebastian.

“Fuck!”

In a blink, your face was buried in Sebastian’s neck, the entirety of your curled up body tightly held together by him as he sat you in his lap, arms wrapped protectively around your body. “Breathe with me,” he whispers, taking deep slow puffs and caressing your hair. “That’s it, deep breathes. Follow me, darling. Enough with your crying now, listen to my voice.”

In. Out. The clean scent of the common room, faint sweet smell of his favorite tea.

In. Out. The sweat on his skin, the cologne he had worn since the first day you met him.

In. Out. Old books, fresh parchment, thick ink, and the throbbing aroma of the Amortentia you brewed last week.

“Hey,” you could feel the sweat start to cool your skin, his rough hand worked on your cheeks as he continued to cradle you in his arms. His body relaxing with yours until you could take up air on your own. “What hap –”

“What in Merlin’s … did you do this?”

You stared up in wonder, the two of you surrounded by a large bubble, the ones you usually see when you throw a Protego, except this one continued to enclose you. Now that your panic has passed you realize you can’t hear anything else but … the sound of water?

He looked shy, rubbing the back of his neck as he settled you back on the couch. It was only then you realized that you had been in his lap this entire time. You hoped the dim light of the common room hid the embarrassment in your face.  “It’s … something I’ve made. Helps me sleep at night. What you’re hearing is the sounds under the Black Lake. I’m gonna write a paper on it for Ronen, should get me a couple of points.”

Ah, his valiant academic conflict with the Ravenclaws did not escape even you. They’re going to fucking curse him in their sleep when they realize he was a lap ahead of his competition.

Now that your vision wasn’t doubling you could faintly see a golden string that connected from the bubble, straight through the tall glass window of the common room. “Sebastian, this is brilliant.”

A flare of nervousness lodged in your chest when Sebastian suddenly looked at you– the gaze that let you know that he could see right through you. He always saw right through you – you’d grown to hate it.

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

He was a gentleman – always had been. It could be the fact that he had (has? is it too soon?) a sister that he was so well-versed in the heart of a lady. But aside from that – Sebastian, at some point in time, was someone who knew the most. And the gods’ honest truth is you never could hide a secret from him.

It could be the alcohol in your system or the buried instinctive nature to tell him everything back when the two of you spent late nights in the Room of Requirement and talked about everything being unearthed but you felt like being honest. Even if the boy beside you had grown into a stranger.

“I’m … remember when I got kidnapped by … and you …”

And you saved me.

Again. Always.

He was there, charging headfirst, ignoring Professor Fig’s warnings and Ominis’ pleas to wait for the Aurors in Hogsmeade. When he arrived, he saw the burn marks, bruises, and wounds all over your body and just saw red … and left red. 

“The Rookwood incident?”

By the time back up had arrived the two of you were slumped on each other and surrounded by corpses, eyes blank and suspicious, desperately holding on to each other.

“The Rookwood incident,” you nodded. “What I didn’t tell you is that before you had arrived, they had been … they tied me and threw fire spells at me, that’s where I got my wounds. I never told you because –”

He was too angry. And you were too terrified of pushing your closest friend to the darkness he had been tethering on. Not that it mattered, he fell right to that cliff on his own.

“I’m sorry.”

Your eyes widened, hands shaking in front of you. “No, Seb, it’s not like tha –”

“I know you were trying to protect me. You always were,” he shook his head, now it was him who couldn’t look at you. “How many scars did I give you?”

“I healed just fine –”

“Then let me rephrase my question, “ This time, the look in his eyes terrified you. The intensity, the guilt – it was so palpable you almost want to cup his face the way you used to, to ease his cruel burden. “How many of these nightmares have I cursed you with?”

Your silence made his bitter smile grow. You don’t have to say it because he (always) knows – the worst nightmares were the ones with him in it.

“Does … does he know about it?”

You nodded, “He does. William tried to help, sent me to the best mind doctors last summer but … I’m just so tired. I’m tired of the tests, the probing in my brain – he means well, I know he does but there’s nothing those strangers can tell me that I don’t already know.”

With an understanding expression on his face, the two of you sat in silence, staring at the large windows hovering over the two of you as the deep quiet of the lake echoed in the fragile haven he had conjured up. If you close your eyes, if you forget about everything else, you could almost trick you mind that these was one of those good times.

That you’d turn and find him buried in between towers of books you had borrowed from the library and Ominis would be sleeping against the wall of the Undercroft. And then you’d catch his eyes and he would smile – a silent message between two people who didn’t need to speak to communicate – and the silence would stretch, just like this, but you would be together again.

“I could teach you.”

You raised an eyebrow and despite himself he chuckled. He didn’t have the best history with teaching you spells, after all. “This charm, I mean.”

How many cures has been shoved in your throat? How many disappointments you hid in lies that, yes the Calming Elixir cures me of such flaws. Did you need any more help? Would it fix you this time?

“It won’t fix anything but it might ..” he shrugged. “… make tomorrow easier.”

You’re terrified of him, you realize. How can someone know you so deeply without ever even realizing it? Does he know? The power he has over you? How you would’ve burned your life to the ground if he had asked for it?

Ask, you wanted to scream. Ask. Ask. Ask.

“Alright,” He seemed surprised, you smiled at the face he made. “Couldn’t hurt.”

For all his nonchalance it was a complicated charm to cast. “No, it has to be more than half a circle when you swish it –”

This was familiar. A bit more awkward and with a lot more strain but it was familiar – if all had gone well this would have been just an unremarkable day in your life. You can’t help but wonder if your burden would be lighter if he was the one helping you carry it.

You swallowed your thoughts back down, no sense in dreaming of different realities now. Because this was your life and the worst thing that could possibly happen did happen. So, you’ll take all that you can get – even if it’s just one last night pretending everything didn’t slip out of your hands.

“No, here, let me guide you,” When Sebastian was in his ‘professor mode’ as you and Ominis used to tease him for, he gets so focused on teaching that he doesn’t notice anything else, doesn’t even notice your gasp as he wrapped an arm around your back, grasping the hand with your wand and helping you trace the shape needed to cast the spell. “And the word is ‘Salus.”

Salus. Safety. Salvation.

That’s who he was. Your Sebastian. “Salus.”

On cue, a bubble surrounded the two of you once again, the white noise of the castle replaced by the deep lake’s groans. “Perfect.”

Despite the time you spend learning all sorts of complicated magic, it never takes away the quick flutter of your chest in excitement at every spell you master. “I did it!” You turned to be Sebastian but he was already looking at you.

You’ve always told him if you didn’t know any better you would’ve thought Sebastian was the true heir of Slytherin. He just fits here – in the dim lights, and emerald furniture, and the coldness that emphasizes just how warm he is. “… beautiful.”

“What?” He was staring, his hooded gaze, the freckles you had always wanted to trace into constellations, the part on his lips that teases your skin with his breath.

“Your technique is beautiful.” He’s lying, you don’t catch it. Suddenly, your half-pinned hair fell apart, Sebastian having pulled away the clip holding it away from your face. “Now, lay down.”

His arms were gentle and firm as they guided you to lay across the wide couch, Sebastian having scooted down to sit on the floor, face in front of yours. He’s so close. “Sleep.”

You hope he knows, that if your sleep remains dreamless tonight and if your tomorrow is easier, it’s not because of his painfully complicated spell. Your eyes waver, the edges of your sight dimming and blurring. You feel a touch on your cheek, you try to chase it. The last thing you see is his deep brown eyes and the soft smile that had been the biggest curse he had unknowingly laid on you.

He has to know, right?

You have to tell him.

Sebastian, I’ve always – I still – I never stop –

“Hey, wake up.”

Your eyes split open, another ghost of your past in front of you. “Ominis?”

The noise slowly trickled as you became more aware, eyes shifting to you, some out of curiosity why you picked the couch as a resting place instead of your bedroom a few feet away or some that saw you in the party that held some pity, probably thinking you’re suffering the worst hangover of your life.

“William Frey is looking for you by the door,” he muttered sharply. It’s been a while since you and Ominis interacted, his tattered friendship with Sebastian extending to your own as the boy’s most loyal comrade in his pursuit of destruction. You know he lays a blame you and for that you couldn’t blame him. “Honestly, I had thought you had grown out of your foolish habit of sleeping everywhere.”

“I-I’m … sorry?”

He shook his head before turning to leave.

Had … had everything been a dream?

You looked around suspiciously, for what you weren’t quite sure. A sign? A pillow out of place that could be evidence that last night happened?

It wasn’t mere delusion, you were sure. The knowledge of the spell in your head evidence enough of the small moment you shared with an old friend last night but it would be nice to have some sort of proof. A tangible confirmation that you could keep with you as you return to your reality.

With a sigh you let your disappointment fester for a second longer, locking last night in the deepest part of your heart, one that can only be unearthed once again in your loneliest nights.

A practiced smile cements on your face, turning to the chair one last time to allow yourself one more moment of hesitation before going up the stairs.

Back to the beautiful boy who will only see the beautiful parts of you and leaving the one who gets the honor of keeping the shadows.

Inside the boy’s dormitory Sebastian stares at the stolen emerald clip on his bedside table.

[bettelaboure]

⊹Between the Spotlight and Shadows ⊹| Choi Seung - Hyun

⊹ Pairing: Choi Seung-Hyun x Reader ⊹ Warnings: past negative sexual experiences, slow burn / sexual tension ⊹ Word count: 1.2 k ⊹ Author's note: I wish my work were as fun as writing fanfics. I'm head over heels... My partner probably is not happy..

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

The rhythmic thrum of the bass echoes in your chest, the heat of the stage lights sinking into your skin as you move in perfect sync with the music. Seung-Hyun’s voice pours through the speakers, velvety smooth yet electrifying, sending the crowd into an ecstatic frenzy. You match his energy, your body swaying, turning, spinning with the practiced ease of someone who has lived in the choreography for months. It’s second nature now—just like him.

You and Seung-Hyun weren’t always like this. The first time you trained together, there was a shy awkwardness that neither of you could shake. You, the new dancer in his world of flashing cameras and relentless schedules, and him, the enigmatic singer with a quiet intensity that made him both intimidating and intriguing. But long hours of sweat-drenched rehearsals, late-night conversations over instant ramen, and whispered confessions in the dark hotel corridors had broken down the walls between you. Now, he’s one of the people who knows you best.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because Seung-Hyun knows all your secrets—the silly ones, like how you still sleep with a nightlight when you’re alone, and the heavier ones, like why you never let yourself get too close to anyone. He knows about your first time—how disappointing it was, how it left you cold and wondering what the fuss was about. He knows how every experience after that only solidified your belief that sex is overrated, a mechanical act that never quite lived up to the passion people swore it held. He knows, and it bothers him.

“Don’t you ever want more?” he had asked you once, voice low and contemplative as you both sat on the hotel balcony, staring at the foreign city lights below.

“Not really,” you had shrugged, taking a slow sip of your drink. “It’s just… never been that great for me. It’s fine, but it’s not like what people say it is.”

He had gone quiet after that, something flickering in his dark eyes. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but you should have known that Seung-Hyun isn’t the type to let things go so easily.

After the performance, backstage is a haze of adrenaline and exhaustion. The rest of the crew is celebrating, some cracking open drinks, others already scrolling through social media to see the fans' reactions. You slip into the dressing room, closing the door behind you with a sigh, rolling out the tension in your shoulders. The door clicks again, and when you glance in the mirror, Seung-Hyun is leaning against the frame, arms crossed, eyes locked onto you.

“You were amazing out there,” he says, stepping closer.

You smile, used to his compliments but never tired of them. “You weren’t so bad yourself, superstar.”

His lips twitch, but his gaze remains serious as he moves to stand behind you. His presence is warm, familiar, but tonight, there’s something else there—something heavier. He reaches out, fingertips ghosting over your bare shoulder, his voice dropping just above a whisper.

“I want to show you something.”

You swallow, unsure of why your heartbeat has suddenly picked up. “Show me what?”

His reflection meets yours in the mirror, and there’s a quiet intensity in his expression that makes the air between you shift. “That it can be different,” he murmurs. “That it can feel good.”

Your breath catches, heat curling low in your stomach. Seung-Hyun has always been gentle with you, careful in a way that made you feel safe. But this? This is something new. Something that makes your skin prickle with anticipation.

“You trust me, don’t you?” he asks, his fingers skimming down your arm, slow and deliberate.

You do. You always have. And maybe, just maybe, it’s time to let him prove you wrong.

The room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing, slightly uneven as he studies you.

“You tense up just thinking about it,” he notes softly. “Why?”

You hesitate before answering, your fingers gripping the edge of the vanity table. “Because it’s never been... good. I mean, it just feels like something to get over with. Like checking off a list.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”

“Maybe for you,” you say, trying for humor, but it falls flat.

His fingers trail from your arm down to your wrist, coaxing you to turn and face him fully.

“No,” he says, voice firm but not unkind. “For everyone. If it’s not, then someone wasn’t paying attention.”

You let out a breath, shaking your head.

“I don’t know, Seung-Hyun. Maybe I’m just… not built for that kind of pleasure.”

He lets out a low chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “That’s bullshit.”

Your eyes widen slightly at his bluntness, but he doesn’t back down. Instead, he leans in just a fraction, his gaze never leaving yours. “You think I don’t notice the way you react to touch?”

"The way you shy away, but your body—” His fingers ghost along your collarbone, barely there, but it makes you shiver. “—tells me something different?”

You swallow hard, lips parting, but nothing comes out.

“Pleasure isn’t just about the act,” he continues, his voice low and careful. “It’s about trust. It’s about feeling safe enough to let go.”

You close your eyes for a second, trying to steady yourself. “And you think you can… change that?”

“I know I can,” he says without hesitation. “But only if you let me.”

You want to laugh, want to brush it off as another one of his teasing remarks, but the way he’s looking at you tells you he’s completely serious.

The idea of letting him prove it terrifies you. But beneath that fear, there’s something else. Something warm, something curious.

“Seung-Hyun…” you whisper, unsure of what you’re asking.

He steps closer, his warmth surrounding you, but he doesn’t push. “Just say the word,” he murmurs, his lips barely a breath away from your skin. “And I’ll show you.”

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears. This is new. This is dangerous.

But with Seung-Hyun, maybe it’s worth the risk.

His lips brush against yours, tentative at first, testing. A slow exhale escapes you as he deepens the kiss, his hands sliding along your waist, pulling you closer. Heat pools low in your stomach as his fingers trace up your spine, sending a delicious shiver through you.

He moves carefully, pressing you against the vanity, his mouth teasing and coaxing, never demanding.

His lips part from yours just enough to murmur, “See? It’s not about rushing.”

You nod breathlessly as his hands skim under the hem of your top, fingertips grazing your skin, igniting something deep and unfamiliar. His mouth trails down your jaw, lingering at the sensitive spot below your ear, making your breath hitch.

“Just let go,” he whispers, his voice like silk, warm and reassuring.

And this time, you do.

sequel “No going back”

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Chapter 13 | Viral

✨ Catch up on Hide if you’re new here! ✨ 🌟 Check out the masterlist if you want to see more by me! 🌟

pairing: joe burrow x riley carter (oc) word count: 12.7k requested: no

📝 this story is only posted on wattpad and tumblr under miss_delaney. if you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. 🚫 do not repost, translate, or share my work without permission. 🌻 requests: closed! 💌 want to be added to the taglist? drop a comment or message me.

📝 author’s note: dropping this chapter a little early because some stories won’t let you sleep until you get them out of your head. viral was tough to write. i kept coming back to that ache of public mess, silence, and what it feels like when everyone has an opinion except the person you need most. ⚠️ just a small heads up: this chapter contains a confrontation between riley and her ex, ethan, involving unwanted physical contact and public escalation. nothing graphic, but if that’s tough for you, take care reading. this chapter is about fallout—the kind that happens out loud and in private. it’s about what it feels like to watch strangers build a narrative out of your worst moment, and the heartbreak of missing someone you can’t quite reach. it’s about phones in pieces and the spiral of “what if.” but it’s also about the people who show up—the ones who bring snacks, coffee, comfort, and quiet company when you need it most. riley’s hurting. joe’s panicking. nobody has the right words, but the love is real. thank you for sticking with me and these messy, stubborn characters. this one’s raw and a little uncomfortable, but sometimes that’s just how life goes. i hope you find something honest in here, and maybe even a little comfort. 🌙

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508 @throwaway12356123 @lilfreakjez @destinyg237

Riley's text comes through with the video attached: Missing you. Only two more weeks?

Joe clicks play and watches David Byrne performing "This Must Be the Place" in what looks like an old TV studio, standing next to a tall floor lamp. Byrne lets the lamp tip toward him, catches it gently, and sets it upright. Then does it again. And again. A simple dance with an inanimate object, but there's something mesmerizing about his careful attention to it.

Joe watches it again immediately. There's something about the way Byrne never lets the lamp actually fall, the deliberate care he gives to this one fragile thing. By the third time through, watching Byrne perform their song with such tenderness, Joe understands exactly why Riley sent it and calls her back.

"Hey lovey, did you get my text?" Riley says when she picks up.

"Just watched it three times. The way he catches it every time it tips—like he's protecting something fragile and beautiful. That's what this feels like with you."

There's a soft laugh in her voice. "You know what's crazy? Byrne said he wrote it as 'a real honest kind of love song' without all the usual clichés. No grand gestures, just... this quiet certainty."

"Dad's Sunday morning song is hitting different now. Like it means what it was always supposed to mean."

"Pancakes and vinyl and feeling at home?"

"Yeah. Except now I know what home actually feels like."

The silence stretches between them, heavy with everything they're not saying, everything they miss about being in the same room.

"God, I miss you," Riley finally says.

"Two weeks feels like forever right now."

"After this weekend, I'm all yours. Well, as much as I can be with tour prep being insane, but—"

Joe's looking at Riley's chaotic calendar on his phone while they talk. "I see you have something scheduled Saturday the 19th, but..." He squints at the screen. "Your calendar just says 'IMPORTANT DINNER - DON'T FUCK THIS UP' in all caps. So I'm guessing that's mandatory?"

Riley's laughing. "That's my very professional scheduling system, thank you very much. And, yes, unfortunately, it is very mandatory. Why?"

"A friend from college is getting married. I kind of decided last minute to go, and I wanted to see if you could break away."

There's a pause, and when Riley speaks again, her tone has shifted. "You want me to come with you? To a wedding?"

"Yeah. I know it's short notice, but... yeah. I want you there."

Riley's voice gets quieter, clearly torn. "Joe, I... God, I wish I could. We finally got this meeting with Ticketmaster. We've been trying to get in the room with them for months to talk about pricing structures, making sure our fans can actually afford tickets. It's me, the guys, Gwen, Haley, our whole team, everyone's been preparing for weeks."

Joe's understanding is immediate. "Right. No, I get it. That's huge. You can't bail on your whole team."

"I really wish I could, though. I want to meet your friends, I want to be your plus-one at things like this..."

"It's okay, Birdie. Really. This matters."

"The next wedding. Or whatever. I'll make sure I'm free."

"Deal."

"How are you feeling about tomorrow? Last preseason game."

"I'm just ready for the season to start," Joe says. "Preseason feels like... practice with an audience."

"I've been watching all the games," Riley says, her voice softer. "This will be the first season I actually care about football."

Joe feels something shift in his chest. "Yeah?"

"The Dolls are trying to talk me into starting a fantasy football team, except none of us know anything about football, so it would be based purely on vibes. Like, who has the best name or looks good in their uniform."

Joe's laughing now. "That's the worst fantasy strategy I've ever heard."

"Hey, vibes are important. I bet we'd do better than you think."

"You absolutely would not."

"Rude. I'm not asking for your help anymore."

"Good, because I wasn't planning to help."

"Well, now you're definitely not invited to our draft party."

Neither of them says it out loud, but they both feel it—how little time they'll actually have once both their careers kick into high gear, how Joe asking her to come with him, wanting her to meet his friends, feels like the kind of step forward that makes her having to say no sting more than a simple scheduling conflict should.

"How's tour prep going?" Joe asks, and Riley can hear the shift in his voice, more serious now, genuinely asking.

"Exhausting. We're rehearsing like twelve hours a day. Pete's being a perfectionist about the setlist, Andy keeps changing his guitar setup, and Daniel..." Riley pauses. "Actually, Daniel's been the only sane one, which is terrifying."

"When do you leave?"

"Three weeks after the season starts. So we'll have, what, a few scattered visits before I'm gone for two months?"

The weight of that settles between them, how little time they'll actually have before she disappears on tour.

* * *

Joe sends the text as he pulls into the venue parking lot, still humming "This Must Be the Place" under his breath. The song has been stuck in his head since Riley sent that video, and he can't shake the image of David Byrne catching that lamp every time it tips, protecting something beautiful.

Walking into the reception, he's immediately hit with the familiar chaos of former teammates reuniting. Justin Hilliard's wedding has drawn half their old Ohio State defense, and Joe can already hear someone recounting a legendary practice story from their sophomore year.

"Burrow!"

He turns to see one of his former teammates approaching with a drink. "Man, I was wondering if you'd actually show up."

"Last-minute decision," Joe says. "Couldn't miss Justin getting married."

"Where's the girl? Zac said you took them all to her show in LA. We've all been dying to meet her."

Joe takes a sip of his drink, deflecting with the ease of someone who's had this conversation before. "She's working. Big meeting she couldn't get out of."

"She real though?"

"Very real."

Joe's voice carries a certainty that makes his teammate look at him twice. Before he can ask more, someone calls his name from across the room.

"I want to hear more about this later," he says before disappearing into the crowd.

Joe finds himself smiling as he heads toward the bar, thinking about Riley explaining fantasy football based on vibes to a room full of people who've probably never heard of half the players.

* * *

Joe's halfway through his second drink when he hears a familiar voice behind him.

"Hey, stranger."

He turns to find Olivia approaching, looking genuinely happy to see him. She's wearing a soft blue dress that brings out the color of her eyes; she looks beautiful.

"Livi. Hey." Joe smiles, and it's easy. No awkwardness, just two people who used to know each other well. "You look good."

"Thanks. You, too." She signals the bartender for a wine. "I heard you might be here. Justin said you RSVPed last minute."

"Yeah, decided I needed to get out of Cincinnati for a day." He takes a sip of his drink. "How've you been?"

"Good. Really good, actually. I moved to Nashville a few months ago."

"Nashville? That's a change."

"My boyfriend's in music production. The move just made sense." She accepts her wine from the bartender. "Speaking of... I heard through the grapevine you're seeing someone. Riley Carter?"

Joe's not surprised she knows their circle is tight, and news travels fast. "Yeah. I am."

"The rock star. That's... not what I would have predicted for you," Olivia says, but she's smiling. "But you look good. Really good. Not just successful, like you're actually enjoying your life."

"I am happy." The words come out easier than Joe expected. "She's... I love her."

Olivia's face brightens. "That's wonderful, Joe. You deserve that."

Joe realizes what he just said so easily—words he hasn't even said to Riley yet. "With her, everything feels..." He pauses, searching. "Like I can stop calculating. Like, I don't have to manage every piece of my life. She... she makes me want to be present."

Olivia studies his face. "You know what? You deserve to be this happy without worrying about what everyone else thinks. I never saw you talk about anyone the way you just talked about her. Even us."

She's right, he has been worrying about what everyone thinks. His team, the media, and fans who have opinions about his personal life.

"I used to think that was just you being careful," Olivia continues. "But maybe you were just waiting for the right person to stop being careful with."

Joe looks at her, this person who knew him for years, whom he loved just differently. "You know I loved you, right? What we had was real."

"I know." Olivia's smile is gentle and understanding. "But this is different. I can hear it in your voice. See it in your face. You're not holding anything back with her."

Joe nods, feeling better. It's good to hear that from someone who knew him before, who can see the difference. "Thanks for saying that."

"Now tell me about the Nashville guy," Joe says, genuinely interested. "Music production?"

"Nick. We met on Raya, actually." Olivia laughs. "I know, I know, dating apps. But he's really great. Works with a lot of country artists, and he's got this studio in his house that's just incredible. He's been teaching me about music production and all that technical stuff I never knew anything about."

"Funny how we both ended up with musicians, in our own way," Olivia says with a smile.

"I guess we have a type we didn't know about."

"Right? And Nashville is..." She pauses, searching for words. "It feels like home in a way that Cincinnati never did. Even though I loved my time here."

Joe nods, understanding exactly what she means about finding that feeling of home.

Before he can respond, a woman with a camera approaches them. "Excuse me, would you mind if I got a quick photo?"

Joe and Olivia exchange a glance. It's innocent enough, and they are comfortable together in the way that only people who've genuinely moved on can be.

"Sure," Olivia says easily.

They pose naturally, Joe's arm around Olivia's shoulders, both of them genuinely happy. Joe is thinking about Riley and how talking to Olivia has clarified something for him, while Olivia is clearly content with her new life in Nashville. The photographer snaps a few shots.

"Perfect! Thanks so much," the photographer says before moving on to capture other moments.

The rest of the reception passes in a blur of congratulations to Justin, catching up with old teammates, and the easy rhythm of people who've known each other for years. Joe finds himself relaxed in a way he hasn't been in a long time at events like this. Usually, he's calculating how long to stay, who might be watching, and what the optics are of every conversation.

Tonight feels different. When Eli asks about Riley, Joe finds himself describing how she processes the world through music, how she's taught him that not everything needs to be planned. When another teammate jokes about meeting her, Joe realizes he's tired of compartmentalizing, tired of treating his relationship like classified information.

* * *

Joe's barely out of the parking lot when he reaches for his phone to call Riley, then remembers she's probably still at her ticketmaster dinner. He settles for sending a quick text: The Wedding was good, missing you. Call me when you're done?

The drive back to Cincinnati gives him time to think, and Olivia's words keep circling back: You deserve to be this happy without worrying about what everyone else thinks.

She's right. He's spent so much energy managing how things look, being careful about who he's seen with, when, and where. Keeping Riley compartmentalized is not because he's ashamed of her, but because he's been protecting himself. Protecting the image he's built, the careful brand of being uncontroversial.

But sitting in that reception, talking about Riley with people who've known him since before any of this shit mattered, Joe realizes he's tired of protection. He's tired of having something good, something real, and treating it like a secret that needs to be managed.

Riley's not a problem to be solved or a risk to be calculated. She's the person who makes him feel most like himself. And it's time to stop hiding that.

By the time he pulls into his driveway, Joe's made a decision. He wants to go public, not with some grand announcement or orchestrated photo op, just by living their life together without constantly looking over his shoulder.

He wants to bring her to events. Wants to stop cropping her out of his world. Wants to introduce her as his girlfriend without it feeling like he's revealing state secrets.

Joe sits in his car for a moment, engine off, thinking about Riley in that industry meeting, fighting for her fans to have affordable tickets. She's not hiding who she is or what she stands for. Maybe it's time he learned something from that.

He checks his phone one more time, but there is no response from Riley yet. She's probably still in meetings, still fighting for what she believes is right.

Tomorrow he'll call his team and tell them he's done being so careful. Tonight, he'll wait for her call and figure out how to tell the woman he loves that he's ready to love her out loud.

* * *

The private dining room at Republique is understatedly elegant, featuring exposed brick, soft lighting, and a setting where million-dollar deals are often made over wine and small plates. Riley sits across from three Ticketmaster executives, her team flanking her like a well-oiled machine. The leather-bound presentation Gwen had their team prepare sits open between them, charts and data points highlighting everything they've spent weeks perfecting.

"What we're proposing isn't radical," Riley says, leaning forward slightly. "We want to eliminate dynamic pricing entirely for our tour. Set a hard cap on face value tickets and stick to it."

The lead executive, a woman named Janet, nods thoughtfully as she flips through their proposal. "The numbers you're showing here, you're talking about leaving significant revenue on the table."

"We're willing to take that hit," Pete chimes in from Riley's right. "Our fans shouldn't have to choose between rent and seeing us live."

Andy, usually the wildcard, is completely dialed in tonight. "We've run the projections. Even with reduced ticket prices, we expect to sell out every venue. The loyalty that builds is worth more than surge pricing."

Riley watches Janet's face carefully. "Look, we know surge pricing works for you. Supply and demand, market forces, all that. But our fans aren't commodities. They're teenagers saving up from part-time jobs. They're parents who budget for months to take their kids to a show."

Daniel clears his throat. “Honestly, the numbers are clear, price caps make people happier, and there’s way less drama with customer service. Fans stick around. It works.”

Haley slides a tablet across the table, showing their social media analytics. "Rambles fans trust us because we've never treated them like ATMs. This keeps that relationship intact."

"And the bot management?" another executive asks.

"That's where we need your help," Gwen says smoothly. "Better verification systems, improved queuing technology. We're not asking you to work for free, we're asking you to work with us."

Riley can feel the energy in the room shifting. "On resale and scalpers, we want aggressive monitoring. Any ticket being sold for more than face value plus fees gets flagged immediately. We'll promote official resale only."

Janet closes the presentation and looks at her colleagues. "This is... actually more comprehensive than most artists bring us."

"Because most artists don't spend months researching every aspect of fan experience," Riley says with a slight smile. "We do our homework."

"I can see that." Janet's expression is impressed, maybe even a little surprised. "The revenue projections are conservative but realistic. And the fan retention data is compelling."

Riley feels the familiar rush of being in her element, passionate, prepared, fighting for something that matters. This is what she does best: taking care of her people.

"So what do you think?" she asks. "Can we make this work?"

Janet exchanges glances with her team before turning back to Riley. "I think we can definitely work with this framework. There are some details to iron out, but the core concept... It's doable."

Riley tries to keep her expression professional, but she can feel Pete's excitement radiating beside her. They did it. After months of preparation, they actually did it.

"That's incredible," Gwen says, speaking for all of them. "When can we expect a formal response?"

"Give us a week to run this through our systems people," Janet says. "But I'm optimistic."

As they start gathering their materials, Riley feels a deep satisfaction settling in her chest. This is exactly why she does this, not for the money or the fame, but for moments like these, where she can actually make a difference for the people who support her.

"Should we celebrate?" Haley asks, grinning. "This calls for another bottle of wine."

"Absolutely," Riley says, settling back into her chair. "We earned this."

The conversation shifts from business to celebration as they order another round and toast their success. Pete tells stories about their early days playing venues where tickets cost five dollars. Andy makes increasingly ridiculous suggestions for victory celebrations. Daniel, emboldened by wine and success, actually cracks jokes.

Riley feels loose and happy in a way she hasn't in weeks. Tour prep has been stressful, with the constant rehearsals and pressure building toward their first show. But tonight reminds her why it's all worth it, these people, this work, this ability to fight for what matters.

* * *

After the Ticketmaster executives leave with promises to follow up within the week, Riley and her team stay behind to properly celebrate. The adrenaline from the successful meeting has them all buzzing with energy.

"I can't believe they actually went for it," Pete says, shaking his head in amazement. "The whole thing caps, bot management, resale monitoring."

"Did you see Janet's face when we showed her the fan retention data?" Andy grins. "She looked like we'd just presented her with the holy grail of customer satisfaction."

Riley takes a sip of her wine, feeling genuinely proud. "Three months of research and number-crunching. Worth every spreadsheet Gwen made me review."

"Every boring conference call with data analysts," Gwen adds with a laugh.

Daniel, who’s been quietly glowing all evening, finally speaks up. “This is the kind of thing that actually makes a difference for the fans. It’s huge.”

"That's the point," Riley says simply. "We've got a platform, we might as well use it for something good."

They spend another twenty minutes rehashing the meeting, analyzing every response, getting giddy over the implications. Riley feels the warm buzz of wine and success, surrounded by people who've become family over the years of building this together.

"Alright," Gwen finally says, checking her watch. "I should head out. Early morning tomorrow."

"Same," Haley agrees. "This was amazing, though. Really amazing."

As they settle the bill and start gathering their things, Riley feels loose and happy in a way she hasn’t in weeks. She wants to hold onto this feeling when tour prep ramps up again, wants to remember that all the stress is for nights like this, moments that make the hard parts worth it.

They're walking toward the restaurant's exit, still talking and laughing, when Riley spots a familiar figure at the bar. Her stomach drops instantly.

Ethan Mills is slumped over a whiskey, clearly several drinks past his limit. His hair is disheveled, his expensive shirt wrinkled, and even from across the room, Riley can tell he's not just drunk, he's obliterated.

"Shit," she mutters under her breath.

Pete follows her gaze and immediately tenses. "Is that—"

"Yeah." Riley's mind is already calculating. Exit strategies. How to get past him without being seen. "Let's just go. Quickly."

But it's too late. Ethan's head lifts, and his unfocused eyes land directly on her. A slow, unpleasant smile spreads across his face as he slides off his barstool with the unsteady determination of someone very drunk with an agenda.

"Riley fucking Carter," Ethan calls out, loud enough that several other diners turn to look. "Look what the cat dragged in."

Riley's team immediately shifts into protective formation around her, but she puts a hand on Pete's arm. "It's fine. Let me handle this."

Ethan stumbles toward them, and the smell of whiskey hits her before he even opens his mouth again. “Word is Riley’s got herself a quarterback now. That's cute."

Riley's blood runs cold. "How do you—"

"Oh, come on, babe. You didn't get all our friends to yourself in the breakup." Ethan's words are slurred but pointed. "People talk. Even when y'all are trying to keep it quiet."

"Ethan, you need to go home," Riley says calmly, though her heart is racing. "Call someone."

"Don't tell me what to do." His voice grows louder and more aggressive. "You always think you know better than everyone else, don't you? Think you're so fucking perfect now."

Andy steps forward. "Dude, back off."

"Oh, the cavalry," Ethan sneers. "Still need your little boyfriend to fight your battles, Riley?"

"He's not my boyfriend," Riley says firmly. "And I don't need anyone to fight anything. You're drunk. Go home."

But Ethan's not done. "So what, you're too good for musicians now? Gotta upgrade to America's golden boy? Hope he likes surprises, never a dull moment with you, right?"

"That's enough," Pete cuts him off.

Riley can feel the eyes of other restaurant patrons on them now. This is exactly what she was trying to avoid: a scene, drama, the kind of spectacle that follows her around like a shadow from their toxic relationship.

"I'm leaving," she says simply, turning toward the exit.

That's when Ethan's hand shoots out and grabs her wrist, pulling her back toward him.

"Don't walk away from me," he hisses, his grip tight enough to hurt.

Riley jerks her arm free, her face flashing with anger and something that looks like fear. In that split second, with phones already recording and cameras flashing, the optics are all wrong; it seems like she's the aggressor, as if she pushed him, as if she's the one causing problems.

"Don't ever touch me again," she says, her voice shaking with fury.

But the damage is already done. The photos are already taken. And by tomorrow morning, the headlines will paint her as the unstable ex attacking her former boyfriend at an upscale restaurant.

Riley doesn't know this yet. Right now, she's just trying to get her team safely out of a restaurant while her hands shake with adrenaline and her ex-boyfriend calls after her with increasingly nasty comments about her life, her choices, and the quarterback she's supposedly not good enough for.

* * *

Riley's hands are still shaking as she slides into the passenger seat of Pete's car. The others have scattered to their own rides, but Pete insisted on driving her home, and she's grateful for it. She doesn't trust herself behind the wheel right now.

"What the fuck was that?" she breathes, running her fingers through her hair. "How does he know about Joe? We've been so careful."

Pete starts the engine, his jaw tight with anger. "Ethan's always been a piece of shit, but that was next level. Grabbing you like that—"

"The photos," Riley interrupts, the reality hitting her. "Pete, there were people filming. This is going to be everywhere."

"Hey." Pete reaches over and squeezes her shoulder. "We'll figure it out. Call Joe. He can help you process this."

Riley nods, pulling out her phone with trembling fingers. She needs to hear his voice, needs him to tell her it's going to be okay, that they'll figure this out together.

The phone rings once, twice, three times. Straight to voicemail.

"He's not answering," she says, trying again immediately. Same result.

"Try one more time," Pete suggests gently.

Third call. Still nothing.

Riley stares at her phone, feeling something crack open in her chest. She knows he's probably just asleep, probably had a long day at the wedding, but right now it feels like abandonment. Like when she needs him most, he's not there.

"He's probably just—" Pete starts.

"I know," Riley cuts him off, but her voice wavers. "I know he's probably asleep. It's just... fuck, Pete. Everything was going so well tonight. The meeting was perfect, we were celebrating, and then Ethan just..."

"Ruined it. Like he always does."

Riley leans her head back against the headrest, closing her eyes. "He knows about Joe. Which means other people know. Which means we're not as private as we thought."

"That doesn't change anything though, right? You and Joe, you're solid."

"Are we?" The words slip out before Riley can stop them. "I mean, yeah, we are. But this... this is exactly what he's been worried about. Drama, headlines, his image getting dragged into my mess."

Pete pulls into Riley's driveway and turns off the engine. "Riles, this isn't your mess. This is Ethan being a drunk asshole. Joe will understand that."

Riley wants to believe that, but something cold is settling in her stomach. She keeps thinking about Joe's careful nature, his team's concerns, how hard they've worked to keep their relationship private.

"I'm staying tonight," Pete says, not making it a question. "Daniel and Andy are worried sick, and honestly, so am I. You shouldn't be alone right now."

"You don't have to—"

"I'm staying," Pete repeats firmly. "We'll make some tea, watch terrible movies, and tomorrow we'll deal with whatever fallout comes from tonight. But right now, you need someone here."

Riley nods, grateful beyond words for Pete's steady presence. "I love you, you know that?" she says quietly.

"Love you too, Riles."

As they walk toward her front door, she tries Joe's number one more time.

Still nothing.

* * *

Riley curls up on her couch with a mug of chamomile tea that's gone cold in her hands. Pete's in the kitchen, puttering around and giving her space to breathe, but she can feel his worried energy from across the room.

Her phone sits face down on the coffee table, but she can't stop herself from picking it up every few minutes to check if Joe has called back. Each time, nothing.

"Stop torturing yourself," Pete says gently, taking the chair across from her. "It's midnight here, but it's, what, three in Cincinnati? He's definitely drooling on his pillow by now."

"I know." Riley takes a shaky sip of tea. "I just... I needed to hear his voice tonight, you know? After everything with Ethan."

"Want to try again?"

Riley shakes her head. Three missed calls are enough. More than enough. She doesn't want to seem desperate, even though that's exactly how she feels.

"Let's see if anything's posted yet," she says, reaching for her phone.

"Riles, no. That's a terrible idea."

But she's already opening Instagram, searching for any mention of her name or the restaurant. It doesn't take long.

The first video appears on a gossip account with 2.3 million followers. The caption reads: "Riley Carter's restaurant meltdown - is the rock star back to her old ways?"

Riley's heart sinks as she watches grainy phone footage of the moment Ethan grabbed her wrist. Out of context, it appears that she's pushing him, making her seem like the aggressor. The angle completely misses Ethan's grip on her arm, completely misses his drunken state.

"Oh god," she whispers.

Pete moves to sit beside her on the couch. "Let me see."

More posts are appearing by the minute. Twitter is already exploding with speculation. #RileyCarterMeltdown is trending. The comments are brutal:

"Same old Riley, different day"

"Thought she cleaned up her act"

"Poor Ethan, he looked scared"

"Rock stars never change"

"Turn it off," Pete says firmly. "None of these people were there. None of them knows what actually happened."

But Riley keeps scrolling, unable to stop herself. Each new post feels like a punch to the gut. The narrative is already set: troubled rock star attacks ex-boyfriend at upscale restaurant. The fact that Ethan was blackout drunk doesn't matter. The fact that he grabbed her first doesn't matter.

"I should call Gwen," she mumbles.

"It's midnight, Riles. Call her tomorrow."

"This is going to be everywhere by tomorrow. Joe's going to see this and think—"

"Joe's going to see this and understand that your drunk ex ambushed you," Pete interrupts. "Because he knows you."

Riley wants to believe that, but she keeps thinking about all their conversations about being careful, about his image, about how they've worked so hard to keep their relationship private. And now this is exactly the kind of drama he's been worried about.

She opens Twitter again, searching for any mention of Joe. That's when she sees it: a photo from the wedding, posted by someone named Amy with the caption "Great seeing old friends tonight! ❤️ @justinhilliard's wedding was perfect!"

In the photo, Joe has his arm around a beautiful woman with dark blonde hair and light highlights. They both look relaxed, happy, and comfortable. Riley's stomach drops as she recognizes Olivia from Google searches she's done in weaker moments.

"Who's that?" Pete asks, looking over her shoulder.

"His ex," Riley says quietly. "Olivia."

They look so natural together, so easy. While Riley was getting ambushed by her toxic ex, Joe was posing for photos with his. The contrast feels devastating.

"It's just a picture, Riles. Doesn't mean anything."

Riley nods, but her throat feels tight. She knows it doesn't mean anything romantic, but right now, seeing Joe looking that comfortable with someone else while she's falling apart, it feels like everything.

Her phone buzzes with a text from Andy: Saw the videos. Are you okay? Want me to come over?

Then Daniel: This is bullshit. Everyone knows you're not like that anymore.

Then her mom said, 'Baby, I saw the news.' Call me.

Riley turns her phone face down again, feeling overwhelmed. "I can't deal with all of this tonight."

"Then don't," Pete says simply. "We'll watch something mindless until you fall asleep, and tomorrow we'll figure out how to handle it."

But as Pete scrolls through Netflix options, Riley can't shake the image of Joe and Olivia looking so perfectly at ease together. Can't stop thinking about how this night started with such a victory and ended with everything falling apart.

* * *

Joe wakes up at 9:23 AM feeling better than he has in weeks. The wedding, the conversation with Olivia, and his decision about going public with Riley —everything feels clear in the morning light. He's ready to stop hiding, ready to bring Riley into his world properly.

He reaches for his phone to text her good morning and sees seventeen missed calls.

His stomach drops immediately. Seventeen missed calls before 7 AM means a crisis.

The first call back is to Mark, his agent, who answers before the second ring.

"Jesus, Joe, finally. We've been trying to reach you for hours."

"What's wrong?" Joe sits up in bed, fully awake now.

"Have you seen the headlines? About Riley?"

Joe's blood goes cold. "What headlines?"

"Check your texts. I'm sending you links now."

Joe opens the first link Mark sends:

"Riley Carter's Restaurant Meltdown: Rock Star Attacks Ex at Upscale LA Eatery"

The photo shows Riley with her arm extended toward Ethan, her face twisted in anger. Out of context, it appears exactly as the headline suggests: an unprovoked attack.

"This is everywhere, Joe," Mark continues. "TMZ, People, Entertainment Tonight. The video's been viewed three million times since last night."

Joe scrolls through more headlines: "Troubled Rock Star Riley Carter Back to Old Ways," "Riley Carter's Violent Outburst Caught on Camera," "Is Riley Carter Spiraling Again?"

"Shit," Joe breathes.

"It gets worse. People are already asking what you think about this. Twitter's blowing up with questions about whether you're going to comment, whether you're still together. Your mentions are a mess."

Joe's phone buzzes with another call, Bill, his publicist.

"I need to take this," Joe tells Mark.

"Joe, thank God," Bill says the moment Joe answers. "We need to talk about damage control. This Riley situation is about to become your Riley situation."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, social media is already speculating about your connection to her. And with your season starting, we cannot afford to have your name tied to this kind of drama."

Joe stares at the photos on his laptop screen. Riley looks unhinged and aggressive. Nothing like the woman who sent him that David Byrne video yesterday, nothing like the person who fights for her fans' affordable tickets.

"Have you talked to her?" Bill asks.

"No, I—I just woke up."

"Good. Could you not call her back yet? We need to discuss strategy first."

"Strategy?"

"Joe, this is exactly what we've been worried about with this relationship. Her past and reputation were always going to be a liability. And now it's playing out in real time."

Joe feels something cold settling in his chest. Yesterday, he was ready to go public, ready to stop caring what people thought. Today, faced with actual consequences, he's not sure.

"This is exactly what we've been worried about," Bill continues. "Her past is catching up, and now you're getting pulled into it. Every story about this is going to mention you by the third paragraph."

Joe looks at his phone and sees three missed calls from Riley from late last night. She was trying to reach him while this was happening, while her world was falling apart, and he was sleeping off wedding champagne.

"What are you suggesting?" Joe asks, though he's afraid he already knows.

"You need to be extra careful now. No comments, if anyone asks. Definitely no being seen together until this dies down. And Joe? Is this relationship worth this?"

Joe stares at the headlines again. The photos. The comments calling Riley unstable, violent, and a mess. Part of him knows there has to be more to the story. Riley doesn't start fights, doesn't attack people. But the evidence is right there on his screen, and his team's panic is infectious.

"I need to think," he says.

"Don't think too long," Mark chimes in, having joined the call. "Every hour this story grows, it gets harder to stay out of it."

After Joe hangs up, he sits in his bed staring at Riley's missed calls. Yesterday, he was ready to tell her he loved her, ready to stop hiding their relationship. Today, looking at these headlines, all he can think about is protecting himself.

He doesn't call her back. Not yet. First, he needs to figure out how to handle this without destroying everything he's built.

* * *

Joe stares at his phone for another ten minutes before finally calling Riley back. It's nearly 10 AM, and she tried to reach him at midnight. Realizing how long she's been dealing with this alone makes him sick with guilt.

She picks up on the first ring.

"Joe." Her voice is raw and exhausted, as if she's been crying.

"Hey. I'm sorry I missed your calls. I saw the headlines this morning and—"

"You saw the headlines before you called me back." It's not a question.

Joe pauses, realizing how that sounds. "My team called. They were panicking about—"

"About how this looks for you."

"Riley, what happened? The photos... they're saying you attacked Ethan."

Riley takes a shaky breath. "I didn't attack anyone. He was drunk out of his mind, Joe. Like, blackout drunk. He came up to us after our meeting and started saying things about you and about us. When I tried to leave, he grabbed my wrist."

"He grabbed you?"

"Yeah. And when I pulled away, that's when someone took the photo. It looks like I'm pushing him, but I was trying to get his hands off me."

Joe can hear the exhaustion in her voice, the hurt. "Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay! I've been watching this story explode all night. People are calling me unstable and violent. They're saying I'm back to my old ways." Her voice cracks. "And the worst part? Ethan knew about us. He said people talk, that we weren't as private as we thought."

Joe feels that familiar clench of anxiety. "What exactly did he say?"

"Does it matter? The point is our relationship isn't as secret as we hoped, and now I'm a PR nightmare for you."

"That's not—"

"Isn't it?" Riley's voice gets sharper. "Joe, I needed you last night. I was falling apart, and I called you three times, and you were... where were you?"

"I was asleep. I didn't know—"

"You were at a wedding. With Olivia."

Joe's stomach drops. "Riley—"

"I saw the photo. You two looked really comfortable."

"It was completely innocent. We just talked, caught up. She's seeing someone, she moved to Nashville—"

"While I was getting ambushed by my drunk ex, you were posing for pictures with yours."

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" Riley's voice rises. "You want to talk about fair? I got attacked last night, had cameras shoved in my face, and when I call you for support, you're too busy to answer."

"Riley, I'm sorry. I should have answered. But right now, with everything that's happening—"

"What? What about right now?"

Joe takes a breath, and he can hear his team's voices in his head. "We need to be more careful."

The silence that follows is deafening.

"More careful," Riley repeats slowly. "More careful than what, Joe? More careful than never going anywhere together? More careful than me having to crop you out of every photo?"

"Just until this blows over—"

"There it is." Riley's voice has gone cold. "Until this blows over. Until I stop being an embarrassment to your image."

"That's not what I meant."

"Yes, it is. I know this is the part where you say you panicked, you didn't know what the fuck to do, it all looked bad. I get it. But not once was it because I was ashamed of you."

"I know that—"

"Do you? Because it sounds like you're more worried about how this affects your precious reputation than about the fact that your girlfriend got grabbed by her drunk ex."

"Riley, you know that's not—"

"What I know is that when push comes to shove, I'm the problem you need to manage. Not the person you want to protect."

Joe feels everything spiraling. "I'm trying to protect us—"

"No, you're trying to protect yourself. There's a difference."

"Riley, can you just—"

"What? Can I just what? Disappear until I'm convenient again? Make myself smaller so you don't have to worry about how it looks?"

"That's not what I'm asking—"

"Yeah, it is."

The line goes quiet except for the sound of Riley's uneven breathing.

"I can't do this," she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Riley, wait—"

But the line's already dead.

Joe stares at his phone, the silence echoing in his ears. The quiet lasts maybe five seconds before panic sets in.

He calls back immediately. It rings four times, then goes to voicemail. He hangs up and tries again.—Same result.

"Riley, please pick up," he says after the third attempt goes to voicemail. "I know I fucked that up... please call me back."

Fourth call. Fifth. Sixth.

By the seventh call, it goes straight to voicemail without ringing. She's turned her phone off.

Joe sits in his kitchen, his phone silent in his hands, and knows that somewhere across the country, Riley is doing exactly what he would do protecting herself from more damage. The difference is, this time, he's the one causing it.

* * *

Joe rubs his face with his hands, replaying the conversation. Riley's voice when she said his name—raw, exhausted, like she'd been holding her breath all night waiting for him to call. And his first response wasn't to ask if she was okay, wasn't to tell her he was sorry she went through that alone. It was to mention the headlines.

You saw the headlines before you called me back.

She was right. He had seen them first. He had let Mark and Bill get into his head, had let their panic become his own. By the time he called her, he wasn't calling as her boyfriend who was worried about her, he was calling as someone who needed to manage a crisis.

The photos flash through his mind again. Riley looks angry and aggressive. Ethan looked startled, almost afraid. Joe knows Riley knows she doesn't start fights, doesn't attack people. In all the time he's known her, she's never violently lost her cool. She gets passionate, sure, but not aggressive.

But if he’s honest, looking at those headlines, he let himself believe it for longer than he should have. Or at least, he acted like he did.

I needed you last night.

That's him. While he was sleeping off wedding champagne, feeling good about his decision to go public, Riley was getting ambushed by her drunk ex. She was dealing with cameras and questions and her past being weaponized against her, and she'd had him. Three times.

And he'd be unreachable.

Joe thinks about the David Byrne video she'd seen just yesterday. The way she said she missed him. The conversation about their song, about home, about love that doesn't have to be justified to anyone else. How had he gone from that to "we need" to be more careful in less than twenty-four hours?

His team. Is this relationship worth it?

Bill's question sits like a stone in his chest. Three hours ago, Joe would have said yes without hesitation. Riley was worth it; he was worth the media attention, worth the complications, worth people having opinions about his personal life. She made him feel like himself in a way he'd never experienced before.

But when faced with actual consequences, actual headlines, and actual crises, he'd falter.

Joe gets up and walks to his living room, surveying his perfectly organized, impersonal space. Everything in its place, everything carefully curated. Before Riley, this house felt like enough: clean lines, no drama, no mess to manage.

Now it just feels empty.

He thinks about Riley’s in New Orleans, how every room feels lived in, every corner full of music and memories. The records stacked by the window, the mismatched mugs, the way it felt like home the moment he walked in.

While I was getting ambushed by my drunk ex, you were posing for pictures with yours.

The photo with Olivia. Joe pulls it up on his phone, him and Olivia smiling, his arm around her shoulders. They do look comfortable. Happy. Like two people who don't care about the world.

Meanwhile, Riley was fighting off her toxic ex and getting photographed at her worst moment.

The contrast is devastating when he really thinks about it. Olivia, who he'd told he loved Riley before ever telling Riley. Olivia, who'd encouraged him to stop worrying about what other people think. And there he was, twelve hours later, telling Riley they needed to be more careful because of what other people might think.

Joe drops onto the couch, the same spot where Riley had curled up against him just weeks ago, talking about her grandfather, her music, her fears about trusting someone new. She'd be vulnerable with him in ways she probably hadn't with anyone since Ethan destroyed her trust.

And this morning, he'd proved that trust was misplaced.

When push comes to shove, I'm the one you need to manage.

That's what she'd said, and Joe had denied it. But sitting here now, he realizes she was exactly right. The moment things got complicated, his instinct wasn't to protect her—it was to protect himself. To distance himself. To treat her like a liability instead of the person who'd made him happier than he'd ever been.

His phone sits silent on the coffee table. Part of him wants to call her back again, to try to apologize once more, to explain that he panicked and said all the wrong things. But he can hear the finality in her voice when she says she can't do this. Can see the pattern they've just fallen into—him pulling back every time external pressure mounts.

The worst part is that his team was probably right about the practical stuff. This will be a headache. There will be more headlines, more questions, more people having opinions about his personal life. Dating Riley Carter was never going to be simple.

But yesterday, sitting in his car after the wedding, he'd been ready for complicated. Ready to figure it out together instead of trying to solve it by keeping her at arm's length.

Now he's here, he gets another chance to choose differently.

Joe looks around his empty house and realizes that for all his talk about being careful, he might have just made the most careless mistake of his life.

The silence stretches on, and for the first time in years, Joe Burrow doesn't know how to fix what he's been. Worse, he's not sure he deserves the chance to try.

He'd told Olivia yesterday that he loved Riley. Said it so easily, so naturally, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And less than twenty-four hours later, when Riley needed him to prove that love meant something, he'd failed completely.

The irony isn't lost on him—he'd spent his whole career learning from mistakes, adjusting, getting better. But with Riley, every time it mattered, he kept fucking up.

* * *

Riley sits on her couch, phone clutched in her shaking hands, trying to process what just happened. The conversation replays in her head on a loop—Joe's careful tone, his measured responses, the way he said "we need to be more careful" like she was a problem to be solved.

Her phone starts ringing again. Joe's name lights up the screen.

She doesn't answer.

It rings again. And again.

"Riley?" Pete calls from the kitchen, where he's been giving her space but clearly listening. "You okay?"

She's not okay. She's the furthest thing from okay. The phone keeps ringing—fourth call, fifth call—and with each buzz, something inside her breaks a little more.

By the sixth call, Riley can't take it anymore. She sees Joe's name appear again and something snaps.

Riley hurls the phone across the room.

It hits the brick wall next to her fireplace with a sickening crack. The screen goes black immediately, pieces of glass scattering across her hardwood floor.

The sudden silence is deafening.

“Riley!” Pete rushes in from the kitchen and takes in the scene—Riley hunched on the couch, her phone shattered against the wall, glass glinting on the floor.

"I broke it," she says through tears, staring at the wreckage. "I broke my phone."

"Okay," Pete says gently, sitting beside her on the couch. "We can get you a new phone."

"He kept calling." Riley's voice is barely above a whisper. "After telling me we need to be more careful, after basically saying I'm too much drama for his perfect life, he kept calling like that would fix it."

Pete carefully steps around the glass to examine the phone. The screen is completely shattered, and the device is bent at an unnatural angle. "Yeah, this is definitely dead."

Riley lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Perfect. Add it to the list, right?”

"Hey." Pete sits back down, his voice serious. "Talk to me. What did he say?"

Riley pulls her knees to her chest, making herself small. "He said we need to be more careful. Like we haven't been careful enough already. Like I haven't been hiding in the shadows of his life for months."

"And?"

"And I told him the truth. That when it matters, I'm just a problem he needs to manage." Riley's voice cracks. "He didn't even deny it, Pete. He just... he didn't deny it."

Pete is quiet for a moment, processing. "Maybe he was just scared. People say stupid things when they're scared."

"No." Riley shakes her head. "This wasn't scared. This was calculated. This was him choosing his image over me."

She thinks about last night—how confident she'd felt after the Ticketmaster meeting, how proud she'd been of fighting for her fans. How quickly it all turned to shit when Ethan showed up with his poison and his cameras.

"I called him three times last night," she continues. "Three times, Pete. And he was off taking cozy photos with his ex-girlfriend."

"You don't know that's what—"

"I saw the photo. They looked..." Riley struggles for the word. "Happy. Comfortable. Like two people who don't have to worry about being 'too careful' with each other."

Pete shakes his head. “It’s just a picture, Riles. Doesn’t mean anything.”

But Riley barely hears him.

“I’m such an idiot,” Riley says, burying her face in her hands. “I really thought he was different. I thought he saw past all the stories, past everything people think I am. I thought he actually saw me.”

"He does see you—"

“No, he doesn’t. Because if he understood me, he’d know I’d never start something like that. He’d know Ethan was the one who grabbed me. He’d know I needed him last night, and he wasn’t there.”

Riley looks at the shattered phone again, at the pieces of glass scattered across her floor. It feels symbolic somehow—the destruction of connection, of hope, of the carefully constructed bridge she'd built between her chaotic world and his ordered one.

"What am I supposed to do now?" she asks quietly.

Pete follows her gaze to the broken phone. "First, we clean this up. Then we get you a new phone. Then..."

"Then what?"

"Then we figure out how to get through this without him."

The words hit Riley like a physical blow. Without him. The thought of going back to her life before Joe—before someone who made her feel seen and valued and worth protecting—feels impossible.

But sitting here, surrounded by the debris of her broken phone and her broken trust, Riley realizes she might not have a choice.

"I can't keep doing this," she whispers. "I can't keep being someone's secret. I can't keep pretending it doesn't hurt when the person I love chooses everyone else's opinion over me."

Pete reaches over and squeezes her hand. "Then don't."

Riley nods, but inside, something fundamental has shifted. The walls she'd slowly let down for Joe are rebuilding themselves, brick by brick. And this time, she's not sure anyone will be able to break through them again.

* * *

Pete looks at Riley crying on the couch, then at the shattered phone, then back at Riley. In all the years he's known her—through the worst of the Ethan days, through panic attacks before big shows, through family drama and industry bullshit—he's never seen her this broken.

"Come on," he says gently, standing up and extending his hand. "Let's get you outside. You love it out there by the pool."

Riley doesn't move. "I don't want to—"

"I know. But you need air, and I need to make some calls." Pete's voice is firm but kind. "Trust me."

She lets him pull her up from the couch, and he guides her through the sliding glass doors to the backyard. The pool sparkles in the late morning sun, lounge chairs lined up under the wide sky, the sound of water trickling from the small fountain she installed last year. Usually, this is her sanctuary. Today, it just feels like another place where she’s alone.

Pete settles her into her favorite chair, the one with the soft cushions that she always curls up in when they're writing songs out here. "Stay put. I'll be right back."

Riley nods, pulling her knees to her chest and staring at the water.

Pete goes back inside and pulls out his own phone. First call: Haley.

“Pete? What’s wrong?” Haley answers immediately, her voice a little panicked.

"Riley needs us. Can you get over here?"

“Is this about the Ethan thing? I saw the videos—I’ve been trying to call her all morning.”

"It's about Joe. He fucked up. Bad. And Riley's..." Pete looks out at her through the glass doors. "She's not okay."

"I'm already getting dressed. Twenty minutes."

Next call: Daniel.

"Everything alright?" Daniel's voice is groggy—he was still asleep.

"Riley needs you here. Now."

The grogginess disappears instantly. "On my way."

Andy answers before Pete even hears it ring. "Dude, I've been watching Twitter all night. How bad is it?"

"Worse than the internet knows. Get here."

"Fuck. Yeah, I'm coming."

Last call: Laura.

"Pete? What's up?"

"Riley needs you. Joe broke her heart, and she broke her phone, and I need all hands on deck."

Laura doesn't hesitate. "I'll stop and get coffee on the way. The good stuff from that place she likes."

Pete pockets his phone and looks out at Riley through the glass doors. She's still curled up in the chair, staring at the water. Before going back outside, he opens his messages and finds Joe's contact.

Dude what the fuck. I've been in your corner this whole time. What are you doing?

The response comes faster than Pete expected.

I fucked up. Is she okay?

No, she's not okay. She threw her phone at the wall and broke it. She's crying her eyes out.

I've been trying to call her back

Well, you can stop now because her phone is in pieces

Pete, I know how this looks, but I panicked. My team was freaking out about the headlines

So you chose your team over her?

The typing bubbles appear and disappear several times before Joe's response comes through.

I don't know. Maybe. I wasn't thinking straight.

Joe, she needed you last night. She called you three times after Ethan ambushed her, and you didn't answer.

I was asleep. I didn't know what happened until this morning

And your first instinct was damage control instead of making sure she was okay

You're right.

She loves you, you know that, right? And you just told her she’s too much trouble for your perfect life.

That's not what I meant

But that's what you said. That's what she heard.

Another long pause before Joe responds.

How do I fix this?

Pete looks out at Riley, still staring at the water, and types back:

I honestly don't know if you can.

He puts his phone away and goes back outside. Whatever Joe's response might be, Pete doesn't want to see it right now. His focus needs to be on Riley.

"They're all coming," he says, settling into the chair next to her.

"You didn't have to—"

"Yes, I did." Pete's voice is matter-of-fact. "This is what we do. When one of us is hurting, we show up."

Riley looks at him, and for the first time since the phone call, her expression softens slightly. "I don't know what I'd do without you guys."

"You'll never have to find out."

They sit in comfortable silence, the quiet broken only by the fountain and the distant sound of wind moving through the canyon. Pete knows Riley well enough to know she’s replaying the conversation with Joe, picking apart every word, every pause, every implication.

"Want to talk about what he said?" Pete asks finally.

Riley shakes her head. "I want to wait until everyone's here. I only want to say it once."

Pete nods. "Fair enough."

"Pete?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For staying. For calling everyone. For..." She gestures vaguely. "For knowing what I need before I do."

"That's what family does."

Riley's eyes fill with tears again, but these feel different. Not the desperate, betrayed tears from earlier, but something softer. Grateful.

"I love you guys so much," she whispers.

"We love you, too. And we're going to get you through this."

Pete means it. He's watched Riley survive worse than Joe Burrow. She's stronger than she knows, even if she can't see it right now.

But as he sits there watching her stare at the water, Pete can't shake the feeling that this particular heartbreak might take longer to heal than the others. Because this time, Riley had actually let herself believe it might be different.

* * *

Haley arrives first, twenty minutes after Pete’s call, with that focused expression she gets when there’s a crisis to manage.

"She still outside?" Haley asks, not bothering with pleasantries.

"Yeah. By the pool."

Haley nods and heads straight out, settling into the chair next to Riley. She pulls out her phone and starts scrolling through something work-related, creating a quiet presence without trying to force conversation.

Daniel shows up next, looking like he rolled out of bed and grabbed the first clothes he could find. His hair is going in three different directions.

"Brought snacks," he says, holding up a bag of gas station junk food. "And these." He sets down a case of White Claws.

Andy steps inside, worry written all over his face. “Okay, what’s going on? Pete sounded serious.”

Laura walks in last, carrying the good coffee from that place Riley likes and a small pharmacy bag. "Figured she might need caffeine and Advil," she says practically. "Where is she?"

They end up by the pool, everyone grabbing chairs or settling on the ground. Andy immediately cracks open a White Claw and offers one to Riley, who shakes her head. Daniel sprawls in a chair and closes his eyes. Laura distributes coffee. Haley stays close beside Riley, scrolling through her phone.

It's Riley who finally breaks the silence.

"Joe told me we needed to be more careful," she says to the water. "After Ethan grabbed me last night, the photos made it look like I attacked him."

The fidgeting stops. Everyone's attention shifts to Riley, but nobody jumps in with questions or outrage.

"More careful how?" Haley asks.

Riley explains the phone call, Joe's team's panic, and his suggestion that they lay low until things blow over. Her friends listen without interrupting, letting her get it all out.

"So I hung up on him," Riley finishes. "And then he kept calling, and I threw my phone at the wall."

Andy speaks first. "Good. The hanging-up part, not the phone-breaking part. That was expensive."

"Andy," Daniel says.

"What? I'm proud of her for hanging up. That was some weak-ass bullshit from him."

Pete looks around the group. “Her phone’s done for—smashed it after he kept calling.”

Laura nods. “So it’s not like she can talk to him, even if she wanted to.”

Riley just shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t know what to say to him anyway.”

"How about 'go fuck yourself'?" Andy suggests helpfully.

"Or nothing," Haley says. "You don't owe him anything right now."

They spend the next few hours just existing in Riley’s space. Andy reorganizes her outdoor speakers and starts playing music. Daniel helps Haley clean up the glass from Riley’s broken phone, moving quietly. Laura forces everyone to eat the sandwiches she ordered, and Haley keeps Riley close.

No one tries to solve anything or offers advice about what Riley should do next. They just stay, filling her house with the familiar chaos of people who know how to be around each other.

After Pete texts Papa to let him know Riley’s phone is out of commission, it only takes a few hours for her mom to call Pete’s phone, worried. Word travels fast in Riley’s family. Pete hands off the call, and Riley finds herself retelling the story to someone who’s already planning a trip to Cincinnati to “have words” with Joe Burrow.

"Mom, no," Riley says. "I can handle this."

"I know you can, baby. But you shouldn't have to."

After she hangs up, Riley looks around at her friends scattered across her backyard and feels something loosen in her chest. Not better, exactly, but steadier.

"Seriously thanks for coming," she says. "All of you."

"Where else would we be?" Daniel asks, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

* * *

Riley sits cross-legged on her bedroom floor at 2:47 AM, acoustic guitar balanced on her lap, surrounded by crumpled pieces of paper. Her friends left hours ago, but Pete's asleep in the guest room down the hall. The house is quiet except for the occasional creak of settling wood, too full of thoughts she can't shut off.

She strums a chord progression she's been picking at for the past hour—something haunting and raw that matches the ache in her chest. The melody feels familiar, like it's been waiting inside her since that phone call with Joe.

Mmm, mmm, mmm

She hums softly, testing the sound. Sometimes songs start with nothing but a feeling, a vibration that needs to find words.

Riley's fingers move across the strings, and fragments start coming:

Everyone says I look happy...

She stops, shakes her head. That's not quite right. She tries again:

The more that you give, the less that I need...

She scribbles lines in her notebook, crossing out, rewriting. The melody pulls her toward something rawer, more honest:

'Cause they say that misery loves company It's not your fault I ruin everything And it's not your fault I can't be what you need

Her voice cracks on the last line. This is the part that hurts most—not that Joe was wrong, but that maybe she really is too much. Too complicated, too messy, too likely to bring chaos into someone's carefully ordered life.

Baby, angels like you can't fly down hell with me

She stops playing, staring at the words she's just written. The line came from nowhere, but it fits. It's about the distance between them—not just physical, but fundamental.

I'm everything they said I would be

Riley plays the line again, feeling the weight of it. Simple words, but they carry everything—all the ways she's been labeled, all the expectations she's lived up to whether she wanted to or not.

She keeps working, the words coming easier now:

I'll put you down slow, love you goodbye Before you let go, just one more time

It's about the inevitable ending she can see coming. The way loving her always seems to hurt the people who try. The way she's learned to protect herself by leaving first.

A little more hurt won't kill you Tonight

The words feel like confession and accusation rolled into one. Like admitting she knows she's poison while daring someone to love her anyway.

Riley writes until her fingertips are sore from the steel strings, until the notebook page is covered in lyrics that tell the truth about being the kind of person who breaks things just by existing in them. The song isn't finished—songs like this never really are—but the core is there. The raw honesty of knowing you're someone's biggest mistake.

By the time she finally sets the guitar aside, dawn is creeping through her windows. Her fingers ache and her voice is hoarse from singing the same phrases over and over.

Riley climbs into bed, leaving the notebook open on her nightstand. The pages are covered in her messy handwriting—crossed-out lines, fragments, half-formed thoughts that might become something real.

She closes her eyes and for the first time in days, the silence doesn't feel heavy. The song isn't finished, might not ever be, but it's hers. Her truth, her pain, her choice about what to do with both.

Sleep comes easier than it has since that phone call, dreamless and deep.

* * *

Saturday, 11:47 PM Can we talk?

Sunday, 7:23 AM Riley

Sunday, 10:15 AM I saw the actual video. I'm sorry.

Sunday, 2:33 PM Please answer

Sunday, 6:45 PM I know I fucked up

Sunday, 9:18 PM Don't want to lose you over this

Monday, 6:30 AM Riley

Monday, 11:42 AM Just want to talk

Monday, 3:55 PM Your team won't answer either

Monday, 7:21 PM This silence is killing me

Monday, 10:33 PM I was wrong about everything

Tuesday, 8:15 AM Practice today. Thinking about you

Tuesday, 12:00 PM Are you still coming Friday after my game?

Tuesday, 4:47 PM Riley please just tell me you're okay

Tuesday, 8:30 PM Long day. You would have made it better

Tuesday, 11:52 PM Can't sleep without knowing we're okay

Wednesday, 7:45 AM Your flight's still booked for Saturday

Wednesday, 2:20 PM I'll pick you up at the airport if you let me

Wednesday, 9:15 PM Last preseason game Friday. Then I'm free

Thursday, 6:30 AM Game tomorrow. Season starts next week

Thursday, 1:10 PM Remember when you said this would be your first season watching?

Thursday, 8:00 PM Still hoping you'll be there Saturday

Each message shows as delivered but never read. Joe stares at his phone after sending the last text, the simple words feeling inadequate but also all he can manage.

He doesn’t know that across the country, Riley’s phone is still in pieces in a drawer, and she’s been borrowing Pete’s phone for the essentials, staying offline the rest of the time.

He doesn’t know that she picked up a new phone yesterday but hasn’t set it up yet—no texts, no calls, nothing beyond what her team and family need.

He doesn’t know her flight to Cincinnati is still booked for Friday, or that she’s been staring at the confirmation email for hours, unable to decide whether to cancel or just not show up.

All Joe knows is the silence, and the growing realization that she might not be coming this weekend after all.

* * *

Joe stares at his phone Thursday night after sending what feels like his hundredth unanswered text. The silence is eating him alive, and tomorrow's preseason game feels meaningless when all he can think about is whether Riley will be on that flight Saturday.

He scrolls through his contacts and calls his dad.

"Joey," Jimmy answers on the second ring. "How you doing, son?"

"Not great."

Jimmy's tone immediately shifts. "What's wrong?"

"Riley and I... we had a fight."

There's a pause. Jimmy knows how Joe feels about Riley—he's been asking about her for months, has seen the change in his son since they started dating.

"What happened?"

Joe gives his dad the short version—the headlines, his team freaking out, telling Riley they needed to be more careful.

"She hasn't talked to me since," Joe says. "It's been five days."

"You try calling her?"

"Phone goes straight to voicemail."

Jimmy is quiet for a moment. "You know what doesn't work when you mess up?"

"What?"

"Sitting around waiting."

Joe feels something shift. "You think I should go to LA?"

"I think if you care about her, you don't let her sit there thinking you chose everyone else over her."

"What if she doesn't want to see me?"

"Then you'll know. But Joey, from everything you've told us about Riley, she's not someone who gives up easy. If she's not talking to you, there's a reason."

Joe thinks about that last conversation, how hurt she sounded. "My game's tomorrow."

"Saturday's when she's supposed to come here?"

"Yeah. If she still is."

"Then you better figure out how to get to LA Saturday morning."

Joe's chest tightens. "What if I get there and it's over?"

"What if you don't go and she thinks you don't care enough to try?"

After Joe hangs up, he sits in his house thinking about Riley's voice when she hung up on him. How she said he was treating her like a problem to manage.

He calls Sarah to book a private flight to LA for Saturday morning.

Joe books it.

Tomorrow's the last preseason game. Saturday he'll find out if he still has her.

Either way, he's done waiting.

* * *

Riley stares at her new phone, Joe's messages lighting up the screen one after another. She got the replacement yesterday after living phone-free for three days, borrowing Pete's when absolutely necessary. Now all of Joe's texts from the past few days are flooding in, a steady stream of apologies and questions that her broken phone never received.

She could respond. Could end this silence that's been stretching between them for five days now.

She doesn't.

"He's asking if you're still coming Saturday," Haley says, reading over Pete's shoulder at Joe's latest message. "To Cincinnati."

Riley looks at her laptop screen, where the flight confirmation email sits open. Departure: Saturday 4:20 PM LAX to CVG. She's been staring at it for twenty minutes, cursor hovering over the "cancel trip" button.

"I don't know," she says honestly.

"What does your gut say?" Andy asks from where he's sprawled across her living room floor, supposedly helping her reorganize her vinyl collection but mostly just making piles based on "vibes."

Riley’s gut twists with how much she misses Joe. She keeps reaching for her phone to text him the stupidest things—a weird billboard, a song that made her laugh, even the fact that she caught herself watching his team’s highlights on SportsCenter just to feel close to him.

Her gut also says that nothing he's texted changes what he said to her on that phone call. That when things got complicated, his first instinct was to protect himself, not her.

"My gut says I'm tired of being someone's secret," she says finally.

Daniel looks up from the corner where he's been quietly tuning his guitar. "But you were okay with keeping it private before."

"Yeah, well, that was before I realized I'm always gonna be the problem." Riley's voice gets sharper. "The messy one, the complicated one, the one who makes everything harder. I'm so fucking tired of men treating me like I'm too much."

"And you think Joe's ashamed of you?" Laura asks gently.

Riley considers this. "I think Joe's more worried about how I look on paper than who I actually am."

Her phone buzzes with a text from—

Gwen: How are you holding up? Ready for rehearsal Monday?

Riley types back: As ready as I can be.

It's not entirely true. She's been trying to channel her heartbreak into her music, but everything she writes comes out either too angry or too sad. She needs the sweet spot—the place where pain becomes art instead of just noise.

"You know what's fucked up?" she says, looking around at her friends scattered throughout her living room. "I was actually excited about football season. I downloaded apps, I was going to understand down and goal and all that shit. I was ready to care about something I've never cared about because I cared about him."

"You still could," Pete offers.

Riley shakes her head. "Not anymore. Every game would just remind me of this."

Her phone buzzes again with another message from

 Joe: Still hoping you'll be there Saturday.

The casual hope in that message breaks something in Riley's chest. Like he just assumes she'll show up, that she'll swallow her hurt and pretend everything's fine because it's easier for him.

"I'm not going," she says suddenly.

"To Cincinnati?" Haley asks.

"To Cincinnati. I'm canceling the flight."

She pulls her laptop closer and clicks "cancel trip" before she can change her mind. The confirmation disappears, replaced by a cancellation notice and a small refund to her credit card.

"There," she says, closing the laptop. "Decision made."

Andy sits up from his record sorting. "How do you feel?"

Riley takes inventory of her emotions. Relief, mostly. And something that might be disappointment—not in herself, but in Joe. In the possibility of them that she's officially letting go.

"Free," she says, and means it.

Her phone buzzes with another message from 

Joe: Remember when you said this would be your first season watching?

This one hurts because yes, she remembers. She remembers being excited about learning his world, about having something to root for besides her own career. She remembers texting him that silly David Byrne video and feeling like they were building something real together.

"He doesn't know you're getting all of these," Laura observes.

"No," Riley agrees. "And I'm not telling him."

"Why not?"

Riley thinks about it. She could text him, let him know she’s seen his messages and explain why she’s been silent. It would probably fix things, at least for a little while.

However, it wouldn't address the bigger problem: that Joe's first instinct in a crisis is to pull away from her, rather than toward her. That he spent more energy managing the situation than supporting her through it.

"Because his first reaction told me everything I need to know," she says. "About him, about us, about what happens when things get hard."

“For what it’s worth, I think he’s panicking. Like, losing his mind a little…or a lot.”

"Good," Riley says, and she's surprised by how much she means it. "Maybe he'll learn something from it."

"And if he doesn't?"

Riley looks around her living room—at Andy surrounded by vinyl records, at Daniel with a guitar, at Pete and Haley and Laura, who've all rearranged their lives this week to make sure she wasn't alone. At the evidence of a full life that existed before Joe Burrow and will continue to exist after him.

"Then I'll be fine," she says. "I was fine before him. I'll be fine without him."

It's not entirely true yet, but she's working on making it true. And for the first time since that devastating phone call, Riley thinks she might actually get there.

Her phone stays silent for the rest of the night. But for once, the silence doesn't feel like abandonment.

It feels like choice.

* * *

X

@PopSpotter:

Not Ethan Mills and Riley Carter fighting in public again…She’s always in something messy.

@NFLFanatic89:

Why is Joe Burrow’s name getting dragged into this Riley Carter drama? Man’s never been messy a day in his life.

@AnonMusicTea:

So are Riley and Joe Burrow actually together, or did TikTok just make that up? Either way, if they are, I’d be running after last night.

@RileyCStan:

Okay but you can literally see Ethan grab her wrist in the video and people are calling her unhinged? Do better.

Instagram

@starwatchupdate:

Swipe for video: “Riley Carter Restaurant Meltdown? Fans spotted her arguing with ex Ethan Mills last night. Rumors swirl that NFL star Joe Burrow is ‘freaked out by the drama’—but nothing confirmed.”

Top Comments:

goldengoosefan: If she and Joe were together, he’d be long gone after this lol

ethanisoverparty: How is Ethan always at the center of the mess?

softvinylz: Feels like everyone’s blaming Riley when Ethan’s right there starting it.

Reddit

r/popculturechat [Megathread: Riley Carter, Ethan Mills, and Joe Burrow Rumors]

u/notanotherstan:

Why is everyone acting like Joe and Riley are a thing? I feel like there’s no actual evidence except one tabloid photo from months ago.

u/football_boy:

Honestly if she was with Joe, you think he’d deal with all this drama? Guy hates being in the spotlight unless it’s football.

u/musicrocks:

Poor Riley. Every time she gets her life together, some ex drags her back down.

TikTok

@popcultdive (duet with viral restaurant clip):

“POV: You’re Joe Burrow, waking up to your name trending because of someone else’s drama. The man’s probably making coffee in total peace and the internet’s like: what would Joe DO?? #notmycircus #rileycarterdrama”

@rileysrideordie:

[compilation of Riley’s best live performances and a caption: “She’s been through worse. Stop blaming women for their ex’s bullshit.”]

News/Blog Headlines

“Blind Item”

Blind Gossip:

“Which low-key NFL star is allegedly regretting his private flirtation with a headline-making musician after her ex caused a scene in public? Sources say he’s ‘focused on football and not here for the drama."

[msbigredmachine]

Black Sweatpants (Roman Reigns)

Why did the Tribal Chief arrive late to the Pat McAfee Show? Based on Roman's appearance on March 22 2024. Pat was forced to cut a promo on the fly because Roman took too long to come out 😂

Pairing: Roman Reigns/OC

Word Count: 1.8k

Warning: Smut

-------------

You knew he would get out there late, and you accepted full responsibility. But given the way you were getting dicked down right now, it was totally worth it.

Your blood-red lace thong dangled from your right ankle as Roman jackhammered into you, his thick shaft stuffed inside your tender walls. Biting down on your bottom lip, you wrapped your arms tight around the big man, long-awaited pleasure coursing down your spine all the way to your pastel-colored toes as he pounded you out in the corner of the spacious locker room.

"Oh, ohhh fuck," you couldn't help but cry out at one particularly deep thrust.

"Keep it down before someone comes in here," he growled. Hunched over you, the wicked gleam in his eyes watching you struggle to suppress your moans, told you he was relishing every second of your agony.

"I'm trying, you ain't helping," you whined back.

"Not hard enough," he countered, nudging your legs wider and making you watch his dick disappear inside your wetness. He slapped your hand away when you placed it on his abs to push him back because he was getting too deep. "Naw, you wanted this dick all day, you better take it now..."

When you ordered the new all-black hoodie and joggers set from Nike for Roman, you knew he would look good in it. However, when he returned for his scheduled private flight to Iowa for Pat McAfee's show wearing it, you didn't expect him to look that good. And you certainly did not expect his dick print to be on display like that. You had endured three tortuous weeks of no sex because he'd been away spending time with his two kids he shared with his ex-wife. So you were excited to have him back, and judging from that not-so-little bulge between his legs, he was excited to see you too. You could all but see it, that long, thick brown cock that time and again wreaked the unholiest of havoc in you, protruding against the cotton material and calling for your attention. But the man had the gall to play hard to get, deliberately spurning your advances, acting all platonic and professional, like the rest of his team didn't already know you were lovers. Never one to back down, you ramped up your actions, rubbing his inner thigh throughout the flight and on the ride to Field House, brushing your body against him every chance you got, teasing him right back, trying to get him to crack. As soon as he ordered everyone out of his locker room just minutes after arriving, you knew you succeeded.

Roman planted wet kisses along the side of your neck, the soft prickles of his thick beard unleashing another flood between your legs. His hulking body stretched over yours, his sweatpants rolled down to just underneath the curve of his ass cheeks for the purpose of this quickie. He was so hard inside you, demanding your pleasure as he impaled you with no mercy, his tempo hot and frenetic from the very start. His big hand slipped from your breast downwards to twirl his fingertips around your clit, your throaty whines music to his ears as your sweet moisture pooled around his fingers. The squelching noise pierced the air that was already thickened by your heavy breaths and his hips smacking into yours.

"Mmm, wet as fuck, just the way I like it," Roman grunted, leaning down to suckle on your left nipple, his saliva smearing the puckered skin when he released it with a wet pop, "I can tell you was goin' crazy without this dick, right, baby?"

"Yes, and yet your punk ass still ignored me all day, too fuckin' busy making your damn TikTok videos," you griped.

"Quit your whining, Daddy always gives you what you want in the end. Unh, how you feel so good all the time? I love it," he moaned, his brown irises rolling back briefly before they landed on yours again in an intense stare. Through the lustful haze of passion, you felt your heart thumping rapidly inside your chest as you looked into his eyes. It didn't matter if you were having sex or not; it always sped up in his mere presence.

You fell in love with him not long after you became his personal assistant a year and a half ago. You worked hard to please him, on the job and off it, and he showed you his gratitude in a plethora of ways, carnal and otherwise. You were a walking cliché, but you couldn't care less, not when it bagged you a man like that. The sex appeal oozed from his pores. He was confident and self-assured and had worked his ass off to get to where he was today. He got along with all of his team, was a decent and fair employer, and was generous to a fault, showering his staff with presents on birthdays and Christmases. The diamond pendant he gifted you for Valentine's Day currently hid between your cleavage he was kneading with his big hands. He was everything you could ask for in a boss and a boyfriend, which was honestly an impressive feat.

You placed one hand behind his neck and tugged him down to flick your tongue inside his warm mouth. His thrusts remained indulgent as you kissed hungrily, branding you, marking you, wiping out everything from your mind except the euphoric feeling that engulfed you every time he kissed and fucked you dumb. He pushed your dress further up your waist and gathered your supple ass cheek in his competent hand, lifting you right up against him. He was all up in your stomach and your walls suckled his cock greedily, holding him in a vice-like grip. The gruff yet sensual sounds pouring from him teased your core, making you need more of it, more of him.

"Awww, shit, yes," Your eyes fluttered shut when he began to wind his hips, circling clockwise and then in reverse, the head of his cock churning your sweet spot, his triumphant growl accompanying every thrust. In and out, in and out, the erotic loop punctuated by the low, husky groans of your Tribal Chief, causing your head to rock back from blinding bliss. "Ooooh baby, baby right there, ahh," you whimpered.

"Uh huh, I'm deep in that shit. Got this pussy feelin' good, huh?" Roman said, his haughty taunts disappearing in another moan as your pussy rippled around his dick over and over. He kept up his grinding strokes which seemed to intensify the throatier and more desperate your moans grew, as though the mere sound of them fueled his ruthlessness. His paw curled around your throat, his display of dominance leaving you a sopping, dripping mess as he made you take every inch of him. You were dizzy, on the verge of falling apart, and your body burned for release, yet all you could do was hold on while this man continued to destroy you, rendering you helpless and pathetic and under his heady spell.

"I'm gonna come, Daddy," you gasped. Your fingernails clawed at his forearm holding your neck, moaning his name as he fucked you harder, making sure there was no way you would last long with the kind of pounding he was giving you right now.

"Mmm-hmm, come on my dick, give it to me," he ordered, barely hanging on himself. He groaned as your pussy walls held his cock hostage, making him swell inside you as his climax beckoned. "Fuck, babe, ahhh, fuck..."

Burying your face in his broad chest, you barely kept your scream muffled as your orgasm tore through you, your body arching, legs trembling around his waist as you came hard. Time and space and coherence blurred into one sensual puddle. His heavy weight almost smothered you as he chased his own orgasm, his eyes glazing over in a telltale sign that he was right there with you. His hips jerked as his dick began to throb and twitch inside you, and you gasped at the feel of his seed spilling inside your walls, his big body shivering from the force of his release, his deep voice exhaling guttural moans as he succumbed to you. It felt so good, feeling him fall with you, toppling over the precipice of pleasure together.

After he finally caught his breath, Roman shifted back a bit to observe you, taking in your face, flushed with satisfaction, your lips plumped and ravaged by his own. You looked damn beautiful, and he showed you by brushing your mouths together in the gentlest, sweetest kisses.

"Happy now?" he smirked.

You grinned from ear to ear. "Very happy, Daddy. I've missed you. Love you so much."

"I love you too, baby," he replied with one last soft kiss, both of you moaning as his drained dick slipped out of your warm confines. You dragged yourself to a seated position when he climbed off you and hurriedly tugged his pants back up. Adjusting your dress, you checked your watch and sighed. "Great, you're two minutes behind schedule. You're not even mic'd up yet," you said, fishing out Roman's bottle of Jean-Paul Gaultier cologne from his backpack and giving the room a few quick spritzes to stifle the cloying scent of your latest sexscapade.

"Well, Pat's gonna have to wait," he answered flippantly as he raked his hair back into its trademark bun. He watched you reach for your underwear that had tangled around your foot and beat you to the punch, snatching up the tiny scrap of lingerie and tucking it into his back pocket.

"Roman!" you exclaimed.

"What? It's mine now," he declared, grabbing his gold championship belt and standing to his full height. You bit your lip as you drank him in, your gaze stopping between his sturdy thighs. You just had sex but you found yourself getting aroused again.

"Your dick print is still showing," you pointed out, licking your lips reflexively.

"Course it is, I got that thang on me," he bragged, smoothing his big hand over his groin, his body tingling from the memory of your delicious warmth. Noticing the heat in your eyes, he smiled that suggestive half-smile of his and tapped your backside. "Down, baby girl, Daddy's gotta go to work. You can have me all you want after TV tonight."

As you followed him out of the locker room and stepped into the cold sunshine, you caught the slightly pronounced limp in your man's walk, his glowing, kiss-swollen features, the extra width in his smile, and beamed with pride.

Yeah, I did that shit.

THE END

--------------

Another short one. Thoughts?

I have a few more Roman ones I'm working on and hope to get out soon.

Thank you all so much for reading!

Banner made by me. Credit to the owners of the pics and gifs.

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[muffinsin]

helllo, hope you're doing well. I'm wondering if you'd be interested in doing a scenario where one of the Dimitrescu faints, you can choose who, and you can choose why and where it happens.

My only request is if there could be a bit of mama worry and care as well as sisterly care- I know your not a fan of writing alcina but I've been seeing her pop up more often so it makes me believe you're getting more comfortable writing her? But still add her if you want and I hope mother care and sister care is not to much of a big ask.

Im trying to keep this ask to have more freedom in case of writers block sooo idk if it will help but here you go 🫰🏽

Hey, hon! :) I absolutely am interested, this sounds adorable! I love writing Alcina in fluffy prompts, actually XP But I find her quite difficult to write. Anyway, let's get some good mama bear and protective sisters incoming

Let's get into it!

Masterlists

Bela overworking herself is... an understatement

Between a busy schedule cramped with a nearly impossible mountain of tasks, spontaneous issues and worries being dropped on her by the staff and, perhaps most of all, constantly having to monitor her younger sisters, Bela is known to tackle more than enough tasks a day

So headstrong, her mother praises

So perfect, her sister mocks

So capable, her other sister admires

So resilient, others speak highly of her

An impressive heir. A dedicated worker. A respectful woman. The prime example and role model of a sister

Bela Dimitrescu

None know what is behind the titles, the overwhelming amount of stress, the angry tears and breakdowns each night, the headaches daring to overwhelm her after neglecting meals in favor of working more, or simply being too stressed and forgetting about them entirely

Alcina, always praising her for being so headstrong, for the tasks she accomplishes in record time, could never guess the intense toll it takes on her eldest

She knows only of her bright smile when she is praised, cannot catch a glimpse of how her precious eldest breaks herself to perform better, faster, more tasks than she is given, more tasks than anyone ought to take on, desperately chasing the next words of praise from her

Cassandra, mocking and rolling her eyes when her sister scolds her, just rarely sees the utter exhaustion in her well kept features, just rarely picks up the unease her sister's swarm seems to convey, just rarely notices how her sister trembles when she crosses her arms and scolds her

Daniela, who so often mocks and pouts, who so often causes more trouble, intentionally or not. Always looking up at her sister, yet incapable of looking at her, the eldest constantly surrounded by thick walls shielding the true exhaustion her life brings

Bela Dimitrescu

Desperate to do good, to be a good role model, to be worthy of her family's love. Desperate, to keep her family safe

It's like this that she pushes herself too far

She doesn't understand what's happening, doesn't understand how she could trap herself in this room with no escape

She wants to blame Cassandra

She wants to snarl about how she told her to catch the man-thing and she deliberately let him go, only to continue on and postpone her childish, sadistic hunt

Naturally, catching him is now her task

What she didn't account for, however, is being locked inside a room with two large, broken windows and the cool wind causing more and more of her flies to drop rapidly

She feels pain course through her entire body as shots are fired at her, feels as her body trembles, then falls to the ground, her knees weak

Everything goes blurry first, her vision swimming, her head so light and mind hazy

Then, darkness, pain, and silence

She awakens to...noise?

Whispers, hushed voices and snarls. Her eyes feel heavy, her body even more so

She's cold, terribly so, but feels something warm surrounding her. A blanket? No, there must be more than one. Three thick ones, at least

Bela stirs a little as she feels her body be readjusted, her mind reeling as she attempts to figure out where she is

Next, however, she picks up a series of familiar scents

Rich perfume and roses- her favorite scent, the one bringing her the most comfort- Mama is here

Then, there is the scent of iron and blood, of pine trees and the kind of indescribable smell that belongs to rain and water- Cassandra is here

She picks up the last, too, the sweet perfume mixing into the coppery scent of blood- Daniela is here

Ah, but she hardly needs her scent to tell that. She winces when she feels something press against her stomach, her eyes fluttering a little as the thing- a hand, she is sure- is immediately removed and she picks up the hushed snarls of Cassandra as she scolds the redhead

"Move it!"

She opens her eyes to the sound, feeling her body protest as it yearns for just a little more rest

Immediately, she gasps as a body crashed against hers and she feels her youngest sister's head bump against her throat. She hugs her, so tight it hurts, her front and dress rubbing up uncomfortably against the countless wounds on her body

She doesn't dare push her away

"I'm so sorry!", she hears her cry. Again, she feels the discomfort of warm breaths hitting her neck and wet tears running down her skin, though she doesn't dare push the younger woman off. Instead, she groggily raises her aching arms to wrap them around her, not trusting her voice judging by how dry her throat feels

Opening her eyes fully, she finally recognizes the room she's in

She's in her mother's arms, four blankets piled on top of her and countless smaller things- pillows, dolls, stuffed animals and dead mice set up around her almost like an offering of comfort and a plea for forgiveness. Too exhausted, she can't bring herself to smile, though weakly raises her fingers towards her other sister until she feels Cassandra hold them wordlessly, not daring to meet her eyes

She knows, after all, it was her job to kill the man-thing. Her task to get rid of him. Her fault her sister collapsed and nearly froze over, she's sure, unaware of just how hard she has been pushing herself prior

Still, despite the pain she's in, she croaks out a little laugh when Cassandra eventually tugs at the back of her sister's dress, drawing unhappy whines from her as she's yanked back and away, completely oblivious to how the blonde breathes a sigh of relief now the pressure on her wounds and aching body has been lifted

She feels a large hand lovingly cup her head and sighs in relief yet again, leaning into the touch as her eyes slip shut again

She doesn't dare meet her mother's eyes, not after this. She couldn't bear the immense worry in her eyes, knowing she caused it. Knowing it's her fault

Despite her efforts, however, her mother knows

She always does

Bela whines lowly at the back of her throat as she’s turned and her chin is lifted, pressing her eyes shut when she feels tears build up

She couldn’t bear the disappointment she is sure Alcina must feel

Instead, her eyes snap open wide when she feels the woman kiss her forehead as she has so often back when they were still little. Much to her embarrassment her bottom lip wobbles when she catches the utterly loving and caring expression her mother’s face shows

No disappointment- at least not revealed by her expression

She jumps as she feels a body against her back, giggling tiredly as she feels Daniela sling her arms back around her, sniffling quietly by her ear

Her heart aches again as she hears the woman whisper and sniffle, promising to be “the best sister in the world and never cause trouble again” if only she gets better and doesn’t die

She wants to promise her; she won’t die, but the words die in her sore throat and she’s left coughing, which seems to only have her younger sister panic more

Her golden eyes wide and bottom lip quivering, Daniela watches as Bela is guided to lay back again, her eyes closing momentarily at the warmth surrounding her

Still, just to make sure, she allows some of her flies to rest by her sister’s head

For protection

As Bela nestles back against the many blankets around her and feels her mother’s hand stroke soothing circles against her shoulder and back to warm her up, she catches both her sisters looking at her expectantly, as though unsure what to say or do

Guilt. Love. Hope. She easily picks it up in their expressions and pose

She sends them a gentle smile, her throat aching a little as she croaks out an “it’s okay”

Daniela is the first to cuddle up when beckoned closer, by her left

She can only smile again as she feels the woman steal away some of the blankets for herself and whine for Alcina’s other hand until she too receives gentle head scratches

Cassandra stays back for a moment longer, her eyes downcast again until she too joins the pile of blankets

She doesn’t dare meet her sister’s eyes, doesn’t dare bump into her in fear of worsening the pain she’s sure she must be in

She does, however, snarl automatically in surprise when she’s yanked closer, her eyes finding other golden ones as she eventually too curls up against her sister and the blankets

Maybe, it was her fault

But maybe, it doesn’t matter now, with Bela recovering, with her forgiving her

[trippiexlove]

Story Masterlist

Main Masterlist - if you would like to be added to my tag list comment below. Have a request? Click on this link to drop it ☺️ ENJOY!

Ch.3

Previous Part

The automatic doors of the hospital hissed open, releasing a wave of antiseptic air that usually signaled the start of Evren's eventful day. Today, however, a knot of unease tightened in her chest as she swiped her badge and headed towards the familiar bustle of the nurses' station.

"Morning, sis," Zahria chirped, already immersed in charting but glancing up with a warm smile. "Ready for another day of saving lives?"

Evren managed a weak smile in return, the earlier anticipation for her work already beginning to fray. "Morning. Hopefully, it'll be more saving lives and less getting harassed by Dr. Rhodes."

"Don't count on it," Zahria chuckled knowingly. "He looked like a thundercloud brewing when you left the other day."

"Tell me about it," Evren sighed, her gaze drifting towards the posted surgical schedule. It was routine to check her assignments first thing. Her eyes scanned the list, finally landing on her name next to a complex laparoscopic cholecystectomy she'd been prepping for all week. A small surge of professional satisfaction flickered, only to be extinguished as she noticed another name scrawled over hers: Martinez, P.

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She reread the schedule, double-checking the date and the patient's name. It was the same surgery. Why had she been taken off?

"Something wrong?" Zahria noticed Evren's perplexed expression.

"I was supposed to be on this cholecystectomy," Evren said, pointing to the schedule. "I prepped the patient yesterday and everything."

Zahria leaned closer, her own brow creasing. "Really? I didn't hear anything about a change in staffing." She glanced around the busy station. "You think Rhodes did this?"

But Evren's gut churned with a unsettling feeling. This wasn't a typical last-minute shuffle. It felt pointed. She remembered Dr. Rhodes's forced smile and the dismissive tone he'd adopted after she'd rejected his dinner invitation. A cold realization began to dawn.

"I'm going to check the assignment board in the OR," Evren said, a newfound resolve hardening her voice. She needed to know what was going on. As she walked away, Zahria's concerned gaze followed her, a silent acknowledgment of the brewing storm. The familiar energy of the hospital now felt charged with a subtle, personal antagonism, casting a shadow over the start of Evren's day.

The sterile, cool air of the OR floor offered no comfort as Evren scanned the assignment board. Just as at the nurses' station, her name was conspicuously absent from the cholecystectomy list, replaced by Pamela Martinez. A knot of frustration tightened in her chest. This wasn't a mistake; it was deliberate.

She found Dr. Rhodes in the doctors' lounge, leaning against the counter, a half-empty mug of coffee in his hand and a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he scrolled through his phone.

"Dr. Rhodes," Evren began, her voice carefully neutral despite the simmering anger within her.

He looked up, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Oh, Evren. Good morning. Something I can help you with?" His tone was overly casual, a subtle power play.

"Yes. I noticed I was taken off the schedule for the laparoscopic cholecystectomy today," She subtly raised her eyebrow "I was under the impression I'd be assisting."

Dr. Rhodes took a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze drifting away for a moment before returning to her, feigning nonchalance. "Ah, yes. There was a slight change in staffing. Melanie needed the experience."

"But I've been prepping for this case all week," Evren pointed out, trying to keep the frustration from her voice. "I reviewed the patient's history, gathered the necessary equipment..."

He waved a dismissive hand. "Of course, Evren, and I appreciate your initiative. But sometimes, these things happen. We need to be flexible in a dynamic environment like the OR."

His explanation felt flimsy, a transparent excuse. "And what will I be doing instead?" she pressed.

He finally met her eyes, and the subtle shift in his expression confirmed her suspicions. There was a glint of something akin to triumph in his gaze. "Well, we need someone to meticulously review the post-operative charts in the ICU. The lab is backed up, so your assistance with morning blood draws would be invaluable. Efficient patient care is paramount, after all." 

Evren stared at him, a wave of disbelief washing over her. Chart reviews and blood draws were tasks typically assigned to new nurses or those with less experience in the OR. It was a clear demotion, a pointed message.

"With all due respect, Dr. Rhodes," she said, her voice now edged with a steeliness he couldn't ignore, "those tasks are well below my current responsibilities and skill level."

He chuckled softly, a condescending sound that grated on her nerves. "Nonsense, Evren. Every task is important in patient care. It's about being a team player, wouldn't you agree? Besides," he added, his gaze lingering on her a moment too long, "it's a good opportunity to... broaden your horizons."

The thinly veiled insinuation hung in the air. He was making it clear that her refusal had consequences, and he was enjoying wielding his authority.

Evren clenched her fists subtly at her sides. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her anger. She turned to leave, the weight of his petty retaliation settling heavily on her shoulders. 

As she walked away, she could feel his gaze on her back, a silent, arrogant smirk that fueled her resolve to document every single instance of his unprofessional behavior. This wasn't just about a surgery anymore; it was about respect and her professional integrity.

~Later That Day~

The discourse of the hospital cafeteria was a familiar lunchtime hum, a mix of clattering trays, muffled conversations, and the insistent beeping of a nearby microwave. Evren sat across from Zahria and Kim, the lukewarm pasta salad on her tray largely untouched. She'd recounted the morning's events, the dismissive conversation with Dr. Rhodes replaying in her mind like a broken record.

Zahria's usual bright demeanor was clouded with indignation. "That entitled-I can't believe he actually said that! Taking you off a surgery you were prepped for just because you won't go out with him."

Kim, a petite woman with a no-nonsense attitude honed by years of navigating the hospital's social and professional landscape as Dr. Orton's wife, listened intently, her brow furrowed. "He specifically told you to do charts and blood draws?"

Evren nodded, picking at a piece of lettuce. "Word for word. Said it was about being a 'team player' and 'broadening my horizons' The condescension was dripping off him."

"Oh, I've seen that charming side of Cody before," Kim said, a hint of steel in her voice. "Randy's had a few run-ins with him over the years. His daddy poured a lot of money into this hospital. He's got a Napoleon complex the size of Texas."

"It's just so frustrating," Evren sighed, finally putting her fork down. "I feel like he's deliberately trying to make me feel incompetent. And it's working, a little. I keep second-guessing myself."

Zahria reached across the table and squeezed Evren's hand. "Don't let him get to you, girl. You're one of the best nurses in the OR. Everyone knows it. This is just him throwing a tantrum because you wouldn't go to dinner with his creepy ass."

"But what do I do?" Evren asked, her voice laced with uncertainty. "If I go to HR, it'll be my word against his. He's been here longer, he's a surgeon, his dad donated millions.. they'll take his side."

Kim leaned forward, placing a hand on one of Evren's, her expression serious. "That's what he wants you to think. But you're not powerless here, Evren. Zahria's right, you need to document everything. Every task he assigns that's below your level, every condescending remark, the dates and times. Build a solid record."

"And talk to other nurses," Zahria added. "Has he pulled this kind of crap with anyone else?"

Evren thought for a moment. "I've heard whispers... a few of the younger nurses have mentioned feeling uncomfortable with his attention, but no one's ever filed a formal complaint."

Kim nodded. "That's often the case. People are afraid of retaliation. But if you have a solid record, and if others are willing to corroborate... it strengthens your case significantly."

"Randy always says, 'Sunlight is the best disinfectant,'" Kim continued. "The more you bring it out into the open, the harder it is for people like him to operate in the shadows. And honestly, Evren, what he's doing isn't just unprofessional, it could be bordering on harassment."

Evren felt a flicker of hope ignite within her. She wasn't alone in this. "So, you think I should really consider going to HR?"

Kim exchanged a look with Zahria. "At the very least, get your ducks in a row. Document everything. Talk to HR and see what their procedures are. You don't have to file a formal complaint immediately, but knowing your options is important. Don't let him bully you into silence."

Zahria chimed in, her usual fiery spirit returning. "Yeah, screw that guy. We got your back, Evren. You're not going through this alone."

A small, genuine smile finally touched Evren's lips. Knowing she had the support of her friends made the daunting prospect of confronting Dr. Rhodes a little less terrifying. The untouched pasta salad still sat before her, but the knot of anxiety in her stomach had loosened slightly, replaced by a burgeoning sense of resolve.

The fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway seemed to hum a weary tune, mirroring Evren's exhaustion. She swiped her badge, the green light a small victory signaling the end of a frustrating day. Just as she was about to push through the automatic doors leading to the outside, a familiar voice drawled from behind her.

"Leaving so soon, Evren? I thought you were enjoying your... varied tasks today."

Dr. Rhodes leaned against the wall, a smug look on his face, Icy blue eyes staring at her, clearly fishing for a reaction.

Evren turned, meeting his gaze with a stoic expression. She refused to let him see the turmoil his actions had caused. "Dr. Rhodes." Her tone was flat, devoid of any emotion he could latch onto.

His smile tightened, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features at her lack of reaction. "Such dedication to the mundane. It's admirable." He paused, waiting for her to rise to the bait.

Evren simply nodded curtly. "Night, Dr. Rhodes." She turned again and walked towards the exit, leaving him standing there, his attempt at provocation falling flat.

Outside, the cooler evening air was a welcome change. Zahria was waiting near the doors, scrolling through her phone.

"Hey, you good?" Zahria said, looking up with a smile. 

Evren let out a long breath. "You have no idea. But at least it's over."

"Did he say anything else to you?" Zahria tilted her head, her eyes full of concern.

Evren nodded grimly. "Oh yeah, just now but I didn't give him a reaction. The man is unbelievably petty."

Zahria's jaw tightened. "I swear, one of these days..."

Evren chuckled humorlessly. "Save your energy. Y'all gave me some good advice at lunch. I'm going to start documenting everything."

"Good," Zahria clapped her on the shoulder. "you got this"

They walked in comfortable silence for a few moments towards the parking lot.

"Well," Zahria said, stopping at her car, "I'm heading this way. You good to drive home?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. Just tired."

"Alright. Text me later, let me know how you're doing. And if you need anything, anything at all, don't hesitate."

"Thanks, sis. I will." Evren gave her a small hug before heading to her own car.

The aroma of sesame chicken and fried rice filled Evren's cozy room. Curled up in bed in an oversized shirt, the remnants of her takeout containers on the nightstand, she finally felt a semblance of relaxation. Her phone buzzed with a new message.

From: Fatu, Joshua #1759 How was your day, ma? Hope it was better than mine 

Evren hesitated for a moment before typing her reply, deciding to confide in him.

To: Fatu, Joshua #1759 It was frustrating. My work was made unnecessarily difficult by someone being petty and vindictive. Thank God I am off for a couple days

A few minutes later, his reply came.

From: Fatu, Joshua #1759 Damn, I'm sorry to hear that ma. You wanna talk about it? 

Evren took a deep breath and began to type, the words flowing more easily than she expected. She recounted the events of her day, Dr. Rhodes's behavior, and her feelings of being undermined. When she finished, she simply sent it, a sense of vulnerability washing over her.

The reply came quickly, and it was different from his usual straightforward tone.

From: Fatu, Joshua #1759 That's fucked up. You don't deserve to be treated like that. It says a lot more about him than it does about you. Remember that. You're strong and you're good at what you do. Don't let some insecure mf dim your light. If I was there, I'd- never mind we not even gon' get into that. Just know say the word and I got you.

Evren read his words again, a warmth spreading through her chest. It wasn't just the sympathy, but the underlying protectiveness in his message. This glimpse of a softer, more caring side of Jey was unexpected and surprisingly comforting. Despite the physical distance and the circumstances of their connection, a genuine sense of understanding seemed to be forming between them. She typed a simple thank you, wishing him a good night. Turning off her phone, a small smile gracing her lips as she drifted off to sleep.

The stale air of the prison phone bank buzzed with the murmur of hushed conversations. Jey gripped the receiver, the plastic warm against his ear as he waited for his call to connect. When Jimmy finally answered, his voice was a familiar, slightly chaotic sound on the other end.

"Yo, what up, uce? Figured you were gonna call. Everything good on yo' end?" Jimmy's usual playful tone was present, though Jey could detect a subtle undercurrent he couldn't quite place.

"Yeah, same old shit. Just checkin' in on things your way," Jey replied, keeping his voice low, aware of the guards patrolling nearby.

"Things goin' as they should," Jimmy said vaguely. "You know how it goes."

Jey let out a dry chuckle. "Tell me bout it. Anything I need to know about?" He kept his tone casual, fishing for information without being explicit.

There was a brief pause on the other end. "Nah, man. Just the usual headaches. You know how it is with everything. What you been up to?"

Jey nodded, even though Jimmy couldn't see him. He decided to tread carefully. "Right, right. I been keepin' busy with writin' and stuff."

Jimmy's tone immediately shifted, a playful teasing entering his voice. "Oh yeah? Writin', huh? Last time you were 'writin',' you were penning angry letters to that ref who called that bogus foul in our high school game."

Jey rolled his eyes, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. "Nah, man, it's not like that. Just connectin' with someone, you know?"

"Connectin' with someone?" Jimmy repeated, drawing out the words with exaggerated curiosity. "Since when did my antisocial twin brother start 'connectin' with people'? You finally join one of those prison book clubs?"

"Nah, nothing like that," Jey said, trying to sound nonchalant. "Just somebody."

"Ooh, I see you uce!" Jimmy exclaimed, practically singing the word. "Well, well, well. Look at you, Jey-bird, making friends. Does this 'someone' got a name? Or are they just a figment of that lonely incarcerated imagination of yours?"

Jey sighed. "Man, quit playin'. It's just someone I'm writin' to. That's all." He wasn't ready to admit, even to Jimmy, the strange pull he felt towards Evren. "Just a friend."

Jimmy snorted. "A 'friend' you're suddenly talkin' all mysterious about? Come on, twin. Spill it. You finally found yourself a pen pal? Someone to keep your spirits up in the concrete jungle?"

Jey hesitated. "Somethin' like that." He shifted the phone to his other ear. "Look, man, that ain't really what I called about." He needed to change the subject. "There's somethin' I need you to do for me."

The playful tone in Jimmy's voice immediately faded, replaced by a note of seriousness. "What's up? What do you need?"

Jey paused again, glancing around the phone bank before lowering his voice even further. "I need you to do somethin' for me. Discreetly. No one else can know about this, you hear me?"

"I gotcha uce. What do you need me to do?" His voice laced with a bit of concern.

Jey took a deep breath, the weight of his request settling in his chest. "There's this girl... her name is Evren. She works at Atlanta Central"

Jey explained what he needed from him. Jimmy didn't hesitate. Reassuring his twin that he'll do what he asks of him. 

The call ended, leaving Jey standing in the noisy phone bank, the weight of his request heavy in the silence that followed. He had just pulled his twin brother, his connection to the outside, into this unexpected corner of his life. Feeling confident in his brother he made his way back to his cell as they started lock down for the night. 

What y'all think Jey got Jimmy doing for Evren? How are y'all liking it so far, and what do y'all want to see happen next?

Previous Part

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[crimson-kisses]

If you don't want to write this, I completely understand.

Can I request hetalia x reader where Russia sees his s/o have a seizure for the first time? Even though I'm really good with my medicine, I still get them now and again. I don't have seizures where I shake a lot, I just end up on the floor jerking very tensed up.

Встреча

Warnings: Usual YANDERE behaviour, reader having a seizure, poor babygirl fr.

Hope I did it well! This was such a pleasure to write, and I tried to make it fluffy but with creepy Ivan lol. really hope it was to your liking. I'm sorry if it wasn't so relatable for you ♡ So much going on in the world right now, remember to educate yourself and contribute in anyway you can. ♡

Other work recommended // another one recommended // check out this as well.

The snow crunched under your boots with satisfying sounds as you sped towards the supermarket, your handbag swinging wildly behind you along with the ends of your cape. Your breath formed clouds in the cold air, disappearing as quickly as they appeared.

The supermarket's fluorescent lights spilled out into the darkening evening, a beacon of warmth against the biting cold. Pushing through the glass doors, you welcomed the sudden rush of heated air, your cheeks tingling with the shift in temperature. The store was surprisingly empty, save for the soft hum of refrigerators and the occasional distant clatter of a shopping cart.

Moving through the aisles, you took a moment to appreciate the solitude that the near-empty supermarket offered. The shelves were neatly stocked, the bright packaging of products creating a kaleidoscope of colors that caught your eye

You sighed with relief, the tension from the cold beginning to melt away. Opening your bag, you searched for the grocery list you had prepared earlier. Your fingers found the crumpled paper tucked away in a side pocket, the handwriting slightly smudged but still legible.

It was a simple list, but it grounded you, a plan to follow amidst the vast array of choices the supermarket offered. You wouldn't have to debate with yourself in your head on what groceries to pick. The one time you got caught mumbling to yourself was embrassing enough.

First, to the produce section, where the fresh scent of fruits and vegetables filled the air. You selected a few ripe apples, their skin smooth and glossy under the store’s fluorescent lights. Several oranges, all juicy. Then you also picked up a sweet melon.

Next, you navigated to the bakery, where the warm, comforting aroma of freshly baked bread was almost overwhelming. You chose a loaf of crusty bread, imagining the crackle of its crust as you would later break it apart at home.

As you turned towards the dairy aisle, your handbag bumped lightly against the shelves, the sound echoing softly in the quiet store. You were lost in the simple pleasure of shopping, the act of choosing and deliberating bringing a sense of peace. Different from your usual hectic schedule, juggling several university classes and a job was hard on you recently.

It was in the midst of this calm, with your basket slowly filling, that the first warning signs appeared.

A subtle shift in your perception, a light-headedness that seemed out of place. You paused, trying to steady yourself against the sudden wave of dizziness. The colors around you started to blur, the sounds of the supermarket fading into a distant hum.

Your focus narrowed as you tried to push through the disorienting sensations, determined not to let them overshadow the tranquillity of your shopping. But as you reached for a carton of milk, your muscles tensed, an involuntary response that heralded the onset of a seizure.

Panic fluttered in your chest, not for the seizure itself, but for the vulnerability of experiencing it here, in this public yet intimate setting. You were quite experienced in handling yourself, but nonetheless, the uncomfortability was present whenever it occurred in a public setting.

Before you could brace yourself or seek help, your legs gave out, and you found yourself collapsing onto the cold floor. The world around you dimmed, slipping away as the seizure took hold.

The cold, hard floor felt unforgiving as you twitched and jerked involuntarily, a wave of anxiety tightening in your chest. Your heart raced as you tried to regain control, each gasp for breath labored. In the distance, the sound of a cart and hurried footsteps grew louder. Someone was calling out with worried tones, her urgency cutting through the disorienting haze.

────────────

Ivan, despite his big stature, had always been surprisingly adept at the subtle art of observation. He had a natural talent for noticing the small details that others might overlook, and he used this ability to keep a watchful eye on those he cared about obviously, duh.

Since he was truly just observing you, it wasn't stalking or spying, per se; he was merely taking moments out of his day to look after you, albeit from a distance and with utmost discretion. He was only making sure that you were safe and happy as a worthy man ought to do.

Although a part of him didn't particularly care if you or anyone else noticed him, confident that his imposing aura and towering figure would be enough to deter any suspicion. Ivan continued his watchful vigil, his presence commanding enough to keep most at bay without him needing to actively assert his dominance.

If someone made too much of a fuss, he would simply take care of them in the way he knew best, ensuring they never got in the way again.

He had traced your footsteps left behind in the snow, marveling at the stark size difference between the imprints you left and his own. Slowly catching the door just before it closed behind you, he entered cautiously. His eyes scanned the mostly vacant store, the fluorescent lights casting an eerie glow on the empty aisles, until they finally landed on your retreating figure.

The usual empty smile crawled to Ivan's lips, slowly slipping away to a firm line as he silently followed you through the aisles. He moved with careful steps, his large hands skimming over items on the shelves—selecting a few apples there, picking up a loaf of bread here—to maintain the facade of a casual shopper. His keen eyes never left you, watching your every move while trying not to attract your attention.

Dressed in a fitted black sweater that accentuated his massive frame, military-style jeans, and a cap pulled low over his brow, Ivan attempted to blend in as best as he could- scarf left at home because of his own moment of stupidity he supposed. The attire was practical, meant for comfort and functionality, yet it gave him a somewhat intimidating presence especially with the visible bandages on his neck. Despite his size and the somber look on his face, he hoped you wouldn't find him suspicious.

As you moved towards the dairy aisle, Ivan adjusted his pace, ensuring he was always a few steps behind. His mind raced with thoughts of protection, a sense of responsibility that drove him to keep an eye on you from a distance. He couldn't help it, you were just such an adorable, vulnerable and a kind-hearted lady, you had to be taken care of.

Every now and then, he pretended to examine a product on the shelf, all the while maintaining his surveillance of your movements. Ivan planned to find a way to casually bump into you before you left, ensuring he could gauge your well-being as well as finally initiating a conversation.

His steps were quiet on the polished floor, his gaze unwavering as he continued to shadow you through the store —

Until you collapsed.

Ivan felt as if he had been drench with cold water, buried under heaps of snow, as he watched you suddenly stiffen, shaking slightly until you fell down. At first, he didn't understand what was happening. He froze in place, his eyes widening as they took in your tensed form on the cold supermarket floor.

His heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing to comprehend the situation. It was as if time had slowed down around him, the world falling away as he focused solely on you. Ivan's hands twitched at his sides, aching to reach out and help, but he held back, something in his mind racing-

“Someone! I- I don’t understand what’s going on! Oh dear—”

Ivan snapped out of his anxiety-induced trance at the new predence and the sound of a pleading lady kneeling beside you. Her presence and your state prompted him to move swiftly. His mind quickly deciphered the situation as the lady moved away, allowing him to gently hold you in his lap. Familiar with what was going on with you.

You were having a seizure.

And he had just frozen as you fell to the ground. His heart plummeted at the realization, guilt gnawing at him for not reacting sooner. He hadn't known you for long, and although he could have easily obtained all of your details with a tilt of his head, he had chosen to get to know you traditionally. He wanted to build a genuine connection with his future wife! But now, as he watched you in distress, he regretted not being more proactive.

If he had at least tried to learn your basic details, he would have known about your medical condition and been better prepared to help you in this moment of distress. To protect your feeble self from this cruel world.

Kneeling beside you, Ivan’s hands trembled slightly as he carefully positioned you, ensuring you were safe. He spoke softly, trying to offer comfort despite the turmoil within him. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here.” His stoic demeanor was replaced with genuine concern, his eyes never leaving your pretty face as he monitored your condition.

Ivan held you securely, ensuring you didn’t hurt yourself during the seizure. He kept you in a safe position, making sure your airway was clear and that you wouldn’t injure your head or limbs on the hard floor. His strong hands gently cradled your head, providing a cushion against the unforgiving surface.

As the seizure gradually subsided, your body began to relax, the violent jerking easing into a stillness that left you exhausted. Ivan stayed vigilant, watching for any signs of lingering distress or complications. He was quite experienced during such situations, though he was also so scared that you could be hurt.

Once the seizure had fully stopped, Ivan carefully turned you onto your side, adopting the recovery position to ensure you could breathe easily. He continued to speak to you in soft, soothing tones, reassuring you even though you might not fully comprehend his words in your disoriented state.

After ensuring you were stable, Ivan reached into his pocket for his phone, quickly dialing his personal medical team. He knew it was essential to get you medical attention, even if you seemed to be recovering. He was not taking any chances whatsoever. While waiting for "help" to arrive, Ivan kept you close, your state driving him to stay by your side and almost engulf you with his body.

He monitored your breathing, making sure you were as comfortable as possible. His eyes never left you, his concern for your well-being overriding everything else.

As he continued to keep an eye on you, a deep frown crept onto Ivan's face. His brows scrunched in a thoughtful expression, he took in the scene around him. The lady from before was still there, watching with confused and scared eyes, her hands nervously wringing the hem of her coat. She seemed unsure of what to do, glancing between you and Ivan as if seeking guidance.

Ivan was acutely aware of her presence and the urgency of the situation. He knew he had to take matters into his own hands. Immediately. He couldn't afford to wait any longer, not when anyone could have possibly taken advantage of you. His precious snowflake.

Taking a deep breath, Ivan sighed and made a quick decision. Cautiously, he placed one of his thick arms under your waist and the other under your legs, lifting you into a bridal carry with no effort or grunt. You felt as weightless as a maiden made of wool in his strong arms.

The lady nearby gasped and moved backward in awe at his flexed and large stature, her hand covering her mouth. Ivan didn’t pay much attention to her reaction. His focus was solely on you, ensuring his arms were securely around your frame.

As he held you, a wave of realization washed over him—he was really, truly holding you in the flesh, in his arms. The intimacy of the moment almost made him falter, but he steadied himself. Ivan tilted his head towards the lady, who met his gaze with a flushed face.

"I will take care of her," he said firmly, his accent thick, before turning and walking away with you in his arms. The lady watched Ivan walk away, her eyes filled with relief and cheeks pink. Ivan's steps were purposeful, his heart heavy with concern and giddiness as you curled closer to his chest.

────────────

Warmth enveloped you. First, it was the cool hand of the well-being lady, who fretted over you, making you feel rather embarrassed at causing someone else so much worry. Her concern was evident in every touch, every word spoken with urgency.

Then he stepped in— a man you had admittedly eyed eagerly when you caught a glimpse of him near the aisles. You felt even more embarrassed at that, your eyes closed tightly as you tried to breathe quickly to regain control. You remembered stealing glances at him, noticing his imposing stature.

When he started to take care of you, his voice was laced with tender concern. He aided you with patient expertise and goodness, his movements practiced and sure. When he picked you up, it was as if you were made of nothing but a bundle of feathers. He was strong, his arms easily wrapping around you with a firm hold.

You could feel his warmth radiating through you, contrasting sharply with the cold floor you had been lying on moments before. As he carried you away from the supermarket aisle, you couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions—gratitude for his help, embarrassment at your vulnerability, a flutter in your chest.

You kept your eyes closed, trying to focus on your breathing, feeling the steady rhythm of his steps beneath you. Ivan's deep voice cut through the haze of your thoughts, his words soothing and steady.

"Everything will be alright. You're safe now”

You felt the warmth of Ivan's chest against your cheek as you rested your head against him, his presence a solid anchor in the midst of your dizziness.

The supermarket air faded into the background as Ivan carried you towards the entrance, sure of what he was about to do. You opened your eyes to see his charming face above you, specifically the bandages wrapped around his neck. His eyes filled with concern yet also a peculiar glint of something you couldn't quite place.

You managed a small, grateful smile, overwhelmed by everything and especially by his care. Though you were also blushing furiously, despite the man simply being a helpful, decent individual.

Agh, what was wrong with you? You were too old for silly crushes like this, get a grip!

"Thank you," you managed to whisper, your voice shaky from before but sincere.

Ivan's expression softened, a faint smile touching his lips. "You're welcome," he replied, his voice gentle.

He continued on with a carefree smile.

“Don't worry, you are coming home with me, da?"

"....... wha..",

Wait, what —

You rapidly started blinking in confusion, unsure if you had heard him correctly. A sense of dread soon crawled all over you, stinging realization swarming your thoughts. It felt as if pure ice coated your skin, squeezing every organ and rendering you paralysed forever.

You had your doubts, suspicions that had been growing for some time, feeling of being watched, thudded footsteps, muffled whispers. He did look quite familiar when you turned around and caught a glimpse of him, as if you had seen him before. Somewhere, sometimes at night or morning, the library near your apartment or even your university.

He had been following you all along.

"I will take great care of you."

[heart-full-of-lust]

Cravings at the Baby Shower

Jenna had attended exactly fourteen baby showers in her thirty-two years, and every single one had followed the same predictable formula: pastel decorations, awkward games involving baby food guessing, and conversations that inevitably circled back to sleep schedules and diaper brands. She'd mentally prepared herself for another afternoon of polite smiles and strategic mimosa MN consumption when she walked into her cousin Sarah's perfectly appointed living room.

What she hadn't prepared for was Jake.

He emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of artfully arranged canapés, and Jenna felt her breath catch in her throat. Tall and lean with dark hair that looked like he'd run his fingers through it, he had the kind of effortless confidence that came from being comfortable in his own skin. The black chef's apron he wore over dark jeans and a fitted t-shirt somehow made him look more masculine rather than domesticated.

"Ladies, we have smoked salmon tartines, prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, and my personal favorite—bacon-wrapped scallops," he announced to the gathering of women, his voice carrying just a hint of playful authority that made Jenna's pussy clench with unexpected interest.

Their eyes met across the room as he set the tray down, and his smile shifted from professional to something more intimate, more knowing. "And for anyone with more adventurous tastes," he added, his gaze lingering on Jenna, "I've got some special treats in the kitchen."

Jenna felt heat bloom across her cheeks and settle much lower. She'd come here expecting boredom and small talk, not to be eye-fucked by the most attractive man she'd encountered in months.

"Jenna, you remember my cousin Jenna," Sarah said, appearing at her elbow with the kind of knowing smile that suggested she'd caught the exchange. "Jenna, this is Jake from Sublime Catering. He's making sure we eat like queens today."

"Just trying to satisfy everyone's cravings," Jake replied, extending his hand to Jenna. When their skin touched, she felt electricity that had nothing to do with static and everything to do with the way his thumb brushed across her knuckles. "I'm very good at figuring out what people want, even when they don't know themselves."

"That's quite a skill," Jenna managed, hyperaware of how her voice had grown slightly breathless and how her nipples were hardening beneath her sundress.

"Years of practice," Jake said, his eyes dropping briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes. "I find the best appetites are the ones that sneak up on you."

Before Jenna could respond—before she could process the double entendre that was making her panties damp—Sarah was dragging her away to meet other cousins and college friends. But throughout the next hour, as they played ridiculous games and cooed over tiny onesies, Jenna found herself hyperaware of Jake's presence.

He moved through the party with professional efficiency, refilling mimosa glasses and replacing empty platters, but every time he passed near Jenna, the air seemed to crackle with possibility. When he leaned over her to place a fresh plate of desserts on the coffee table, she caught his scent—something clean and masculine with hints of vanilla and spice that made her want to bury her face in his neck.

"Careful," he murmured, so quietly only she could hear. "Those chocolate tarts are dangerously addictive."

"I have excellent self-control," Jenna replied, though the way she was responding to his proximity suggested otherwise.

"Is that so?" Jake's hand brushed against her shoulder as he straightened, the contact lasting just long enough to seem deliberate. "Good to know."

The sexual tension was becoming unbearable. Every glance, every casual touch, every loaded comment was building pressure between Jenna's thighs that had nothing to do with the admittedly delicious food. When Jake disappeared into the kitchen again, Jenna excused herself under the pretense of needing water, her pussy throbbing with anticipation she couldn't quite justify.

The kitchen was a marvel of organized chaos—multiple trays in various stages of preparation, the lingering aromas of herbs and garlic, and Jake standing at the center of it all like some kind of culinary conductor. He looked up when she entered, and his smile was pure invitation.

"Looking for something?" he asked, setting down the knife he'd been using to slice fruit.

"Water," Jenna said, though what she really wanted was to close the distance between them and find out if his mouth tasted as good as it looked.

"Right there," Jake nodded toward the refrigerator, but made no move to get it for her. Instead, he leaned against the counter, studying her with an intensity that made her feel like she was being undressed with his eyes.

Jenna moved to the refrigerator, acutely aware of how the movement made her sundress ride up slightly, aware of Jake watching every step. When she turned back with the water bottle, he was closer—close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

"You know," he said conversationally, "I don't usually get distracted during events. I pride myself on professionalism."

"And now?" Jenna asked, setting the water bottle aside without opening it.

"Now I keep thinking about things that would definitely violate my professional code," Jake replied, his hand coming up to rest against the counter beside her hip, effectively caging her against the refrigerator.

Jenna's heart hammered against her ribs as she processed what was happening. "Such as?"

"Such as how much I want to find out if you taste as sweet as you look," Jake said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Such as how you'd sound if I made you come right here in this kitchen while your cousin's baby shower is happening twenty feet away."

The explicit words combined with the proximity of his body made Jenna's pussy flood with arousal so sudden and intense it almost made her dizzy. "That would be very unprofessional," she managed.

"Completely inappropriate," Jake agreed, his free hand coming up to cup her face, thumb stroking along her cheekbone. "The question is whether you care."

Jenna's answer was to close the distance between them, capturing his mouth in a kiss that was hungry and desperate and absolutely fucking perfect. Jake tasted like coffee and something uniquely masculine that made her moan against his lips.

He pressed her more firmly against the refrigerator, his body hard and warm against hers as their tongues met and danced. When his teeth caught her lower lip and tugged gently, Jenna gasped and arched into him, desperate for more contact.

"Fuck, you're responsive," Jake murmured against her mouth, his hand sliding down to grip her hip possessively. "I want to see how responsive you can be."

His other hand found the hem of her sundress, fingertips trailing along her thigh with maddening lightness. When he reached the edge of her panties, he paused, looking into her eyes with an expression that was both questioning and absolutely fucking feral.

"Yes," Jenna breathed before he could ask, spreading her legs slightly in invitation.

Jake's fingers slipped beneath the lace of her panties, finding her pussy slick and ready for him. "Jesus Christ, you're soaking wet," he growled, his finger sliding easily through her folds to circle her clit with perfect pressure.

Jenna bit her lip to stifle the moan that wanted to escape, hyperaware that the kitchen door was open and party conversation was drifting in from the living room. The risk of discovery only heightened her arousal, making every touch feel more intense.

"Quiet, baby," Jake whispered, his finger now sliding into her cunt with deliberate slowness. "We can't let them know what a dirty girl you're being."

The combination of his finger moving inside her and his thumb working her clit was making it impossible to think clearly. Jenna's hips rolled against his hand, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of everything he was giving her.

"That's it," Jake encouraged, adding a second finger and curving them to hit her G-spot with devastating accuracy. "Take what you need."

Jenna was approaching orgasm with frightening speed, her body wound tight as a spring from the buildup of tension throughout the afternoon. When Jake's thumb pressed harder against her clit while his fingers fucked her with increasing urgency, she felt herself teetering on the edge.

"Come for me," Jake commanded softly, his mouth finding her neck and sucking hard enough to leave a mark. "I want to feel your pussy clamp down on my fingers."

The dirty words combined with his skilled touch pushed Jenna over the edge. Her orgasm crashed through her with silent intensity, her mouth falling open in a soundless scream as waves of pleasure radiated from her core. Jake's fingers worked her through it, prolonging the climax until she was trembling against the refrigerator.

"Beautiful," Jake murmured as she came down from the high, slowly withdrawing his fingers and bringing them to his mouth to taste her arousal. "You taste even better than I imagined."

Jenna watched him lick his fingers clean and felt renewed arousal spike through her. Without fully considering the consequences, she dropped to her knees on the kitchen tile, her hands moving to his belt with desperate efficiency.

"Jenna, you don't have to—" Jake started, but his protest died as she freed his cock from his jeans.

He was beautiful—thick and hard and absolutely perfect. Jenna wrapped her hand around the shaft, stroking him while she looked up at his face, loving the way his expression shifted from surprise to desperate need.

"I want to," she said simply, then took him into her mouth.

Jake's hand tangled in her hair as she began to suck him, her tongue swirling around the head before taking him deeper. The taste of him—salty and masculine and completely addictive—made her moan around his cock, the vibration making him curse under his breath.

"Fuck, your mouth feels incredible," Jake gasped, his hips flexing slightly as she worked him with increasing enthusiasm. "So fucking good, baby."

Jenna had always enjoyed giving head, but something about this situation—the risk, the spontaneity, the way Jake was responding to her touch—made it feel more intense than ever before. She used her hand to work the base of his shaft while her mouth focused on the head, alternating between long, slow sucks and quick flicks of her tongue that had him groaning her name.

"I'm close," Jake warned, his grip tightening in her hair. "If you don't want—"

Jenna's response was to take him deeper, relaxing her throat to accommodate his length while her hand worked faster. She wanted him to come in her mouth, wanted to taste him completely.

Jake's orgasm hit him like a freight train, his cock pulsing as he came down her throat with a strangled groan that he muffled against his arm. Jenna swallowed every drop, then continued to gently suck him as he rode out the aftershocks.

"Holy fuck," Jake breathed as she released him and rose to her feet. "That was—"

"Delicious," Jenna finished, licking her lips with obvious satisfaction.

Jake stared at her for a moment, then spun her around and bent her over the kitchen island. "My turn," he growled, pushing her dress up around her waist and pulling her panties down to her ankles.

Jenna gripped the edge of the counter as Jake knelt behind her, his breath warm against her ass before his tongue found her pussy from behind. The angle gave him perfect access to her clit, and he licked her with the same focused attention he'd shown to food preparation.

"Oh god," Jenna gasped, trying to keep her voice down as Jake's tongue worked magic between her thighs. He alternated between long strokes through her folds and focused attention on her clit, building her toward another orgasm with devastating efficiency.

When he slipped two fingers into her cunt while continuing to lick her clit, Jenna had to bite her arm to keep from screaming. The combination of sensations was overwhelming, made more intense by the knowledge that they could be discovered at any moment.

"You taste so fucking good," Jake murmured against her pussy, his words vibrating against her sensitive flesh. "I could eat you for hours."

Jenna's second orgasm built differently than the first—slower but more intense, radiating through her entire body as Jake's tongue and fingers worked in perfect harmony. When it finally crashed over her, she sobbed his name into her arm, her pussy clenching around his fingers as pleasure consumed her completely.

Jake stood and turned her to face him, his cock already hard again. "I need to be inside you," he said, his voice rough with want. "Tell me you want that too."

"Yes," Jenna breathed, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Fuck me, Jake. Right here."

He lifted her onto the counter, spreading her legs and positioning himself at her entrance. When he pushed into her, they both groaned at the sensation—Jenna at the perfect stretch and fullness, Jake at the tight, wet heat of her cunt.

"You feel amazing," Jake gasped, beginning to move with slow, deep strokes that hit all the right spots. "So tight, so perfect."

Jenna wrapped her legs around his waist, using the leverage to meet his thrusts. The angle was perfect, his cock hitting her G-spot with every stroke while the base rubbed against her clit. The counter was the perfect height, allowing him to fuck her with increasing intensity while she held on for dear life.

"Harder," Jenna gasped, beyond caring about noise or discovery or anything except the feeling of Jake's cock moving inside her. "Please, I need—"

Jake responded by gripping her hips and fucking her with abandon, the sound of skin against skin mixing with their breathless moans. Jenna could hear party conversation from the living room, could hear someone asking where she'd gone, but it all seemed distant and unimportant compared to the overwhelming pleasure building between her thighs.

"I'm going to come again," she warned, feeling her muscles starting to tighten around his cock.

"Come on my cock," Jake commanded, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing in tight circles. "Let me feel you fall apart."

Jenna's third orgasm was the most intense yet, her pussy clamping down on Jake's cock as waves of pleasure crashed through her. She buried her face in his neck to muffle her cries, her nails digging into his shoulders as the climax seemed to go on forever.

The feeling of her coming around him pushed Jake over the edge. He thrust into her one final time, groaning her name as he came deep inside her cunt, his cock pulsing as he filled her completely.

They stayed frozen like that for a moment, both breathing hard and overwhelmed by the intensity of what had just happened. Finally, Jake pulled out slowly, both of them wincing at the sensitivity.

"We should—" Jenna started, then stopped as they heard Sarah's voice calling her name from the living room.

"In here!" Jenna called back, quickly pulling her panties back up and smoothing down her dress. Jake had already tucked himself back into his jeans and was washing his hands at the sink with admirable composure.

Sarah appeared in the doorway just as Jenna was opening her water bottle. "There you are! We're about to start the gift opening. Everything okay?"

"Perfect," Jenna replied, hoping her face wasn't as flushed as it felt. "Just needed some water and got distracted by all the amazing food."

"Jake's incredible, isn't he?" Sarah said, beaming at the caterer who was now arranging desserts with professional focus. "The best I've ever worked with."

"Absolutely exceptional," Jenna agreed, catching Jake's eye and seeing her own satisfied amusement reflected there. "Very good at… satisfying cravings."

Jake's answering smile was pure mischief. "It's all about understanding what people really want," he said. "And making sure they get exactly what they need."

As Jenna followed Sarah back to the living room, she felt Jake's eyes on her. When she glanced back, he mouthed "my number's on the catering card" and winked.

The rest of the baby shower passed in a pleasant haze of gift opening and cake cutting. Jenna participated in the conversations and exclaimed over tiny clothes with appropriate enthusiasm, but part of her attention remained focused on Jake as he cleaned up and prepared to leave.

When the party wound down and guests began to depart, Jenna lingered, helping Sarah organize gifts and chatting about nothing in particular. Jake finished packing his supplies and approached them with professional courtesy.

"Everything was absolutely perfect," Sarah gushed, pressing a tip into his hand. "I'll definitely be recommending you to everyone."

"My pleasure," Jake replied, then turned to Jenna. "I hope you enjoyed everything."

"It exceeded all my expectations," Jenna said, accepting the business card he offered with fingers that barely trembled. "I'll definitely be in touch if I need catering services."

"I specialize in private parties," Jake said with a perfectly straight face. "Very intimate gatherings. I think you'd enjoy my full menu."

After Jake left, Jenna helped Sarah clean up, her mind already racing with possibilities. The business card in her purse felt like a promise, like the beginning of something deliciously unpredictable.

"You okay?" Sarah asked as they loaded the dishwasher. "You seem… I don't know, different. Glowing, maybe?"

Jenna smiled, thinking about the secret she was carrying, about the taste of Jake still lingering on her lips and the feeling of him still between her thighs.

"Just a really good afternoon," she said truthfully. "Sometimes you discover appetites you didn't know you had."

That night, Jenna texted the number on the catering card: "Interested in discussing a private menu. When are you available for a consultation?"

The response came within minutes: "How's tomorrow? I'm very eager to explore your specific tastes."

Jenna fell asleep that night with a smile on her face, already planning her next indulgence. Sometimes the best surprises came in the most unexpected packages—and sometimes getting exactly what you needed meant first discovering what you wanted.

The baby shower had been about new beginnings, about anticipating joy and celebrating possibilities. As it turned out, it had delivered on that promise in ways Sarah could never have imagined.