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moonsaver · 10 months ago

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Where the Lamb does not Belong.

You're isekai'd into the world of Honkai Star Rail. Thankfully, you're taken into the Astral Express and continue your journey peacefully, until you reach Penacony. Something, or someone, seems to be causing your system to continually crash. Perhaps it's because you did not belong here at all.

Warnings: yandere, obviously. Uh, mentioned fracture(?)

A/n; reader is a tad forgetful and can brush off a few things, and get distracted slightly easily. But for the most part, i think it won't ruin the immersion. Its my first time writing something "self aware" related, and something like a character breaking the 4th wall. I really love these tropes but rarely write them. I hope i did it well. Its roughly 4.5k long. Enjoy.

----

“Ace!”

“It's not ace.”

“Uno!”

“March, you're supposed to say it after you put down your second card.”

“Oh, sure.”

…

“March, it's not your turn.”

“Huh?!”

You giggle, listening in on their banter. You're leaned up comfortably on Dan Heng's back, messing around with a level on Stelle's phone she hasn't been able to beat.

You hear a loud groan, a fwop as March drops on her back onto the bed,

“This is so confusing!”

“The rules are simple, you're just trying to rush things.”

Dan Heng takes the cards and settles them, tapping them vertically to level and gather them onto the little table. You stretch your neck to look back and catch a glimpse of March sulking. Stelle gently pries the phone out of your hands as you do so.

“Hey let's go through our photo album again!”

“It's the 6th time this month.”

You chuckle, getting up from Dan Heng's back as you feel him shift, moving over to situate yourself around the table aswell, the the bed dipping under your weight.

“I knew you were into photography but wow, this is something, March.”

You say, leaning over on the table, your elbow resting on it as your chin rests on your palm,

“Well, you better be grateful ‘cause I just finished up your entry!”

“My entry?”

You blink, confused,

“She's been dutifully taking pictures of your progress as a new member of the Astral express. I've.. learnt from experience It's better that you don't try to stop her.”

You laugh awkwardly, staring down as March excitedly flips through the photo book. It's a bit embarrassing now that you recall.

“Here! Look, look, look! I caught [name] in all their glory!”

“March..”

You awkwardly laugh, as Dan Heng looks over at the photo March points to in her photobook,

You cringe as you see your own expression, dull and groggy, a stark contrast to the bright letters and stickers decorating the edge of the photo that's glued tightly onto the page. You're drooling, to top it off.

“Hehe, [name] looks cute here don't they?!”

March points down to another photo right below, blurry in the midst of action. Your hazy figure is sitting up on a bed, Stelle draped over your lap while in charge of watching over you when you first appeared.

“I should have stayed to watch over, instead.”

Dan Heng comments under his breath, glancing back momentarily at Stelle, her chin hooked over his shoulder after having abandoned the game, seemingly more interested in the collection.

You chuckle softly,

Where did it begin exactly?

You boarded as an official member of the Astral Express about a few months ago, a gold brooch handed over to you, and many new faces who welcomed you onboard. You remember being home one day, going to sleep and hoping, just hoping that all of your worries and stress would just.. disappear. Your head hit the pillow and then-

You woke up. Here.

Suddenly you woke up in the very game you played to relieve your stress. Ironically, that moment you woke up was one of your most stressful memories, panicking at the situation you were in–

“Aw, dang it. I got defeated.”

All of you look over to Stelle, and to the red screen on her phone. You chuckle, as March sighs and shifts the topic.

You yawn and settle back onto the bed, leaning on a pile of pillows as March and Dan Heng continue their banter, taking this time to go through your stats, swiping and tinkering on your phone.

You've reached a higher level now. Having unlocked many items and even levelled up some basic features which allowed you to at the very least, defend yourself.

You read through the archived stories, gazing over all the past dialogue you've shared with this trio from the “main quest” ever since you boarded. Your friendship level with many had increased gradually over time, and shot up with the trio, as expected.

“[Name]..”

Stelle whines, pushing her phone back to you. You giggle, taking the device from her hands,

“Alright, I won't get distracted this time.”

This was your first expedition as a new member of the Astral Express. Which didn't help considering you were going into Penacony of all places.

You were nervous – how was your presence going to alter the timeline? Maybe a less “on screen” role like Himeko's? Or maybe you should have just stayed back with Dan Heng? But the experience, materials and all sorts of gizmos Penacony was going to offer.. It was too tempting.

And here you are, in the lobby. Himeko and Welt continue negotiating with the young woman at the reception. You were already on edge, but it seemed things just had to go wrong as well.

To distract yourself, you fidgeted and anxiously viewed the prologue to Penacony the system had just offered to you, repeatedly scrolling up and down on your phone, tapping your foot, pacing around the hotel a bit when–

A hand came up to your shoulder.

“It seems you're quite worried.”

You looked back.

It's Robin.

“Sorry, uh, we're.. having difficulty with the check-in and..”

You momentarily trail off, almost lost as you look at Robin. Her in game model was beautiful, but now that you're standing in front of her, it's almost.. mesmerising. Her eyes are beautiful – deep and ethereal. Pretty pink lips and softly dusted cheeks, her hair wispy and framing her face just the right way. You're awestruck for a moment, before panicking and snapping out of your daze.

You're at a hotel lobby for aeons’ sake!

“O-Oh, uh, my family is–”

You turn over to see Himeko and Welt continuing to go back and forth with the young woman at the reception, and turn again to see March and Stelle slightly off in the corner talking anxiously.

“They seem lovely.”

Robin smiles at you. And suddenly, your eyebrows and shoulders relax. Your jaw slightly slacks. Something about Robin seems to soothe you more than you ever thought.

Your eyes trail over to the bar in the corner;

Friendship level: 0

Right. She's still a stranger, in this timeline of events.

You're snapped out of your thoughts momentarily as another, unfamiliar voice speaks up from the crowd – a blonde man, addressing your fellow trailblazers.

This can't be good.

You walk up, regrouping with March and Stelle as they watch it all happen.

–

The golden hour was a familiar map to you, particularly because you'd loved exploring the place back when you used to play.

But actually being there is stunning.

The yellow lights brighten up the night-like atmosphere in a beautiful, classy way. It's almost as though you're in an old film, the way everything around you is hazy and glowing. There's laughter in the background and shimmering lights somewhere in the distance, drinks and the smell of food occasionally wafting in the air from corner cafés or so. You wander, awestruck at the sight of the landscape when–

You bump into someone, a small sound leaving you at the impact.

You look back to take a look at the stranger - more to try and ground yourself into this “dream” and your current reality. You were in Penacony. And all of this was physically interacting with you, regardless of how miniscule you must be. Whether you would have been reincarnated as a Cafe owner, or an NPC, or anyone else. As long as you were on Penacony, you were going to be a part of Sunday's grand plan.

You zone out, the hazy cacophony of ecstasy in the background blurring in the crowded space of your mind, thoughts overarching and bubbling up.

Beep!

You look at your phone, buzzing as quests pop up. You take a moment to look around the various shops, before your eyes land on a cozy cafe.

It won’t hurt to rest for a moment.

–

“Shit, shit, shit..”

You curse to yourself, frantically tapping on the screen and trying to fix this mess.

“Just– cooperate damn it..!”

Your teeth gnaw at your lip, biting and peeling off bits of the skin. It stings, but in your anxious state, you barely pay mind,

Why was the system not cooperating with you?!

None of your teleportation points worked, you weren't levelling up, barely any of the trinkets given by completion of quests were being used up! It was rudimentary junk in your inventory and now for some god awful reason, your entire system was going haywire!

System error: freespace is occupied!

System error: unavailable tab

System error: unable to access tab

System error: unable to complete..

“Yeah, yeah I got it you little-”

“Is something the matter?”

You gasped under your breath, a chill shooting up your spine as you turn around,

“No, no! Nothing, haha just.. uh..”

You awkwardly shuffle, pretending to look into your bag,

“You seem to be having trouble.”

Sunday's poised figure contrasts your sweaty, nervous, fidgeting one, as you only panic more at his words.

“Oh, just.. well.. it’s my first time visiting another world, so..”

“Ah, first time jitters? I’m faintly familiar.”

You chuckle awkwardly, but your humour doesn't seem to be exactly matched. Sunday’s smile doesn't widen or lessen, and neither does he chuckle. You realise how uncanny he looks in the dim lights of the Golden Hour barely illuminating his face in the alley.

“You seem to have been separated from your group. Would you like me to accompany you on your way back?”

“Sure–”

Warning: you are currently interacting with an influential figure. Proceed with caution.

“..you seem hesitant.”

You look at the glaring notification on your screen - akin to when an amber alert pops up, or when an earthquake warning resounds.

“..uh, I think.. I’ll be able to find them on my own. I should be fine.”

“I insist. As the representative and Spokesperson of The Family it is my duty to ensure the safety and relaxation of guests in the Dreamscape.”

Shit. This guy isn’t giving in.

You hesitate, a bead of sweat forming on your forehead and grazing the top of your eyebrow,

Beep!

Optional: would you like dialogue suggestions to be displayed?

[Yes]

[No]

[No – do not ask again]

You sigh internally. At least this system knows how to assist you when you need it.

“Shall we?”

Sunday beckons you to follow, as the pop-up blinks away, before you get the chance to select.

There’s no getting out of this. You’re just gonna have to suck it up and be careful.

“..sure.”

Sunday doesn’t remember when it exactly began.

Strange patterns, predictable dialogues, and the anomalies that occured..

Right after Sunday discovered your name.

He watched as the cup from the trash pile slipped and fell onto the pavement. Your name was written on it – messily and hurried. The cup rolls down a bit before hitting the side of his shoe. Sunday watched it with indifference, opting to simply move it aside before he spotted it. Your name. But it wasn’t supposed to be.

An alias? Maybe. It was different than the name administered in your profile.

He opted to push it back for later; but it was an interrupted thought as he walked ahead and watched you fiddle around with your phone, buzzing constantly as you cursed at it.

He breathes out, before deciding to approach you.

–

“Alone?”

“Alone.”

You respond, your eyes embarrassed and watching the various shuffling of feet in front of you, the crowd forming in front of the Rollercoaster you were too scared to go on.

Well, it's rather you haven't been able to go onto them.

Stelle and March offered you to join, and usually you'd be able to accept the invitation pop up, but as of recent, your system has been going haywire. The system probably narrowed down the scenarios you'd be allowed to participate in,in order to control the situation.

So you stood there, your mood dampened as you accepted that the system would not allow you to partake in the ride with your friends, shaking your head and telling them to go on instead, leaving you behind.

And Sunday saw all of it.

Or rather, just that you haven't gone onto the ride.

“Are you afraid of heights?”

“No, nothing like that.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. Even if you were.. he's not exactly the person you'd tell it to, anyway. You ignore the buzzing of your phone as it displays the same warning, jaded and moody as you'd been denied a great opportunity to have fun.

“..there is a new bakery that's opened up in the corner. Would you like to visit?”

You blink, and look at him, confused. He seems to have understood your confusion, and follows up,

“Until your companions have had their fill. Just for a cup of coffee.”

You hesitate, humming in contemplation. You look at the options displayed;

Options:

□ “Sure. Let's go.”

□ “sorry, my husband's waiting for me on the express.

□ “No thank y–

System Error: no options available

You sigh. You really need to do something about these errors. You nod,

“Sure. Let's go.”

…

The bakery was warm, and lively. As soon as you entered, the faintly sweet smell of pastries and the waft of coffee enveloped you two. You gawked at the mesmerising scenery, while Sunday asked for an available booth that's more hidden from the public eye.

The seats were soft, and pliable as you took your seat, still taking in the view of the bakery. You hear Sunday clearing his throat and tapping the table, your gaze shifting to him. He points to the menu. You understand his cue and take to reading it, your eyes scanning the plethora of options as Sunday does the same.

“Have you.. been here before?”

“I have visited once in the past. With my sister.”

“Ah, how is Robin?”

Your eyes settle on a particular option, as the silence between you two fills with comfortable conversation,

“She has been well. Are you looking forward to her performance at the coming Festival?”

You blink as you realise. How could you forget? The entire reason you and the rest of the crew even came to Penacony! This was the guy who was gonna put everyone into a coma!

“O-Oh, uh, yes! March has been talking non-stop about it, so..”

You chuckle awkwardly, flustered as he caught you a bit off guard. He hums, his face indifferent and neutral as your words process in his mind.

“I suppose I shall expect you in the audience, then?”

“March will drag me to the front, so you'll probably get a clear view of me in my uncomfortable glory.”

That seems to elicit a small, soft chuckle from him, as his eyes land on a specific item on the menu, seeming to have decided his own liking.

“Very well. I'll look forward to it.”

Soon enough, a waitress comes up to the table, and begins taking your orders.

–

“It does seem a tad scary, but the view is always beautiful in the Astral express.”

“I'm sure of it. It sounds wonderful.”

Sunday listens to you dutifully, as you continue talking. Somewhere along the way, your discomfort at the awkward silence between you two led to you talking and filling in the silence, your coffee cup hanging idly in your hands. One thing led to another, as both of you started talking about your childhood memories, tea flavours, desserts, and so on. You find Sunday has been easy to converse with. You'd been ignoring the constant buzzing of your phone – most likely achievements or quests that popped up constantly wherever you went.

You take another sip from your coffee as Sunday takes his initiative to talk, listening to him well, and chuckling slightly at one or the other thing.

“I came to know tea is supposed to be made with hot water, but by then I'd gotten accustomed.”

You giggle, slightly in disbelief,

“Well, do you like iced tea now?”

Sunday shakes his head,

“I prefer coffee, more than that. Perhaps due to needing it more than a preference..”

His eyes trail to your cup, as you hold it in your hands. You follow his gaze,

Is something wrong? He'd been glancing at your cup a few times now, but you didn't comment on it before.

“Is.. something wro–”

Your words are cut off as your phone loudly rings, making you almost fumble and drop your coffee as you hurriedly take your phone.

It's March!

Crap, you forgot.

“Sorry, I uh..”

You scroll through the plethora of notifications, almost all of them missed calls and various texts.

“It seems your companions were searching for you.”

You look up, as Sunday looks into the distance, Stelle and March running towards you.

–

It was strange how things progressed since you came to Penacony.

Some of your equipment took ages to level up, the others taking barely anything before they hit their maximum level. Your friendship level progressed pretty highly on some days, and barely moved an inch on other days.

Your friendship level with Sunday, on the other hand, shot up to a 5. Not even anyone on the Astral Express had that level.

You only noticed it a fraction before you cleared all your notifications at once, swiped away before your finger had the chance to tap on it.

Regardless, that wasn’t your exact concern as of late. The story of Penacony had been well under way now, and things were starting to pick up.

As of recent, you haven't been able to remember the quest contents as much as you used to, only remembering enough in the last moment to avert an extremely bad decision – at least for yourself. Your own personal missions left you alive by a hair's breadth.

But if that didn't upset you – your crew did. The pressure of everything happening on Penacony seemed to have started to weigh down on your team, as they barely regard you anymore. You could technically blame it on the system – it's been trying desperately to revive and fix itself as the game progresses. You might be interfering with the inner workings, so you suppose it's only natural the game tries to limit your interactions with the world.

So for the most part, you've resigned yourself to be an NPC; walking around all of the tourist attractions, getting who knows how many cups of coffee, trying on various clothing items, and occasionally running into Sunday. The first few times, you awkwardly fiddled with your phone for optional dialogues, but as time went on, you felt more comfortable. Regardless, it's not like anything you say can technically avert him from his current plan. It's been in the schemes for who knows how long? As of now, it's less complicating to remain ignorant and act unknowing, and enjoying another walk with him as he surveys the Dreamscape. Considering how close you two might be getting, you'll probably end up telling him a few secrets from your past.

“The Grand theatre is Penacony’s main attraction.”

Sunday’s face is illuminated by it in the distance, as he stands, staring at it. His voice is barely audible, seemingly as if he speaks to himself. But that idea is swept under the rug the moment he turns slightly to you.

When was this cutscene? You curse your memory, the fog of your mind still not cleared from when you first came to this world,

“Have you decided to attend?”

Truthfully, you didn’t want to. Considering the story, you actually knew the event wasn’t going to happen. But in the case it did..

Options:

□ “Ill be there first in line to enter.”

□ “Im thinking about it.”

□ “probably not..”

“..I have.”

You hesitantly answer.

“You haven’t made up your mind.”

Sunday states, more as a fact than a question. You can’t blame him, considering the hesitance apparent in your voice.

“..out of everyone, I’d hoped you would have attended.”

The options flicker and appear, but before you can press and respond, he continues,

“I understand. How has your family been?”

He turns to face you, you stay silent for a moment, before humming and clicking on an option,

□ “They’re alright.”

□ “I hope they’re all okay.”

□ “I wouldn’t really know..”

“Ah, uh.. we’re all kind of in our separate ways right now, so.. I wouldn’t really know.”

“I see.”

Both of you stand in silence, as you follow his gaze to the glowing theatre. After a moment, Sunday breaks his silence,

“When I was a child, I was particularly soft-spoken. Back then, Robin used to stand up for me frequently.”

Your ears perk up slightly. Is he talking about a childhood memory right now?

“One day, she wasn’t around, taking a few extra music lessons. The other kids were simply curious enough to take me in.”

You hum, listening to him intently. Your eyes gaze over his features – softly shaded by the cold light of the theatre, and illuminated by the yellow lights of the path.

“We were all kids. One of them pulled and broke my wing that day.”

You gasp, involuntarily. Ouch.

But sunday only chuckles at your reaction, his eyes downwards and distant. You don't think he finds it funny.

“But do you know? Right after that - they visited me. Day after day. Every step of recovery. Every recess when I had to sit back, they accompanied me. I thought about it recently. Humanity is worth saving.”

You stay silent, before smiling. The silence seems pleasant over you two, as you stare at the Grand Theatre in the distance.

“That, is when human spirit and strife first piqued my interest.”

You blink, and turn to look at him, the smile on your face faltering,

“What must the weak, the misfortunate, and the falsely accused do to gain balance within this world?”

You’re left speechless for a moment. It seems even the system cannot exactly provide you any dialogue options, as you glance over to your phone.

“..balance in the world isn’t achievable, which is why the human spirit strives to fix it.”

You stay silent, listening to him.

“Would a bird that cannot fly be allowed to, simply because it yearns to? Would it be righteous of you, or of the bird, to allow the freedom and death of the vast sky? Is it still righteous, if you withhold its freedom?”

He inhales, slowly, speaking in a low voice, wavering.

“Is death the only comprehensible freedom life offers, beside slumber, to the weak? Is that truly freedom?”

Sunday turns to look at you – his golden eyes almost searing into your soul.

You break out into a sweat, panicking as you check your phone, desperately trying to find an option when–

System Error: options not available

Shit, shit, shit. Holy crap. Can you even speak right now?

You're left silently staring at Sunday. He stares back before resigning to quietly look away.

You should leave.

—

Your memory seems to be strangely affected – either because you haven't been able to adjust to the new world, or you just haven't been able to adapt to Penacony.

You groan and slump into the couch of your room, in the real world. You keep forgetting to charge your phone – which isn't technically a hassle; you can access the same menu options, it's just more.. time-consuming. Not to mention you lose your only source of dialogue option pop ups.

How long has this been going on? You knew Penacony had a vast and complicated storyline, but living it feels entirely different. Feeling it is entirely bizarre. No wonder your head's spinning.

But thankfully, it should end soon. Your last quest is to face off Sunday in his boss form. You and your members have decided to meet up at the Grand Theatre, where the event will take place.

You place your phone into charging, and right on cue, March pops up into your room. She stumbles around your room a bit the moment you turn your back, even hear her drop and accidentally knock over some items on her way, simply laughing at the girl, as you continue packing up and preparing for the final “showdown”. You disregard her words, when she tells you she felt something push her.

You're not sure when the next cutscene plays.

You're in the grand theatre; just having defeated Sunday, and collectively waiting to return to the Astral Express. This is when you meet Boothill and Black Swan, where she wakes you up using Misha as a fallacy within Ena's dream.

But you aren't waking up.

You've just been stranded in the empty grand theatre after the darkness lifted.

You try to turn your phone on – but its busted. March must have disconnected the plug when she stumbled across a few things.

You sigh, irritated and antsy, choosing to walk ahead and look warily at the mechanical statues. The quest description is empty; devoid of any explanation. The title is vague and doesn't indicate much. Are you stuck in the loading screen? What the hell is going on?

And just as you are about to shout out for help – Sunday appears. There he is, on the stage. But this time, there's no spotlight. He stares down at you, emptily. You're creeped out for the lack of a better word, feeling your skin crawl with every second he stares. The silence is paper thin and thickly dense at the same time; electrified with tension and the unknown.

He makes the first step, slowly descending down and towards you.

“You are an outsider.”

System error: cannot process dialogue

“You do not belong here.”

System error: cannot proceed further

“I do not belong here.”

System warning: further interaction in this context may lead to irreversible da–

Sunday's hand rips through the warning, causing it to glitch violently, and disappear. You're scared, your throat constricting and your heart almost lurching out of your chest as he continues walking towards you, eyes searing into your soul,

“We do not belong here.”

Beep!

Options:

□ We do not belong here

□ I do not belong here

□ You do not belong here

□ We belong together

■ There is nothing else left for you here. You cannot turn back. There is no other option.

The screen glitches out, as Sunday stands before you, his hand reaching out,

“Tell me. What is your name?”

You can't access anything – the menu, the quests, your inventory, nothing. You stare almost endlessly in horror, as Sunday speaks of your real name.

You shouldn't have used it on that coffee cup.

2K notes · View notes

sunshineangel0 · 15 days ago

Text

VALENTINES DAY PACT —﹙ B.C ﹚

⌁ wc 6.2k warnings nsfw content, protected intercourse, afab reader, greedy chan, childhood friends to lovers, one bed, fake dating, unresolved feelings, small town au! ⌁ part one of the "twin heart series"

Y/N stared down at the RSVP card like it had personally insulted her. Like if she focused hard enough, maybe the gold-embossed lettering saying "Save The Date, for this Valentines day, for the long anticipated Wedding of Kim Seungmins and F/N L/N!", would curl up in flames, the heart-shaped wax seal would melt into a puddle of regret, and the whole thing would vanish from the little round diner table of the "Seaside Diner" between her and Bang Chan. No such luck. It sat there, pristine and mocking, practically radiating smugness with its “You’re Invited!” script and tasteful floral border.

Across from her, Chan took a lazy sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of the mug. “You’re seriously going to fake an engagement?” he asked, like he was asking about the weather, like this wasn’t the most absurd idea either of them had heard before 9 a.m.

She didn’t blink. “No,” she said slowly, eyes flicking up to meet his. “I’m seriously going to fake our engagement.”

He choked, just slightly, and set the mug down with a thud. “I beg your pardon?”

“Unless you want me to show up to this wedding alone, in a pastel tulle dress I didn’t choose, forced to make small talk with Jamie’s third cousins while everyone gives me the ‘poor Y/N’ look and offers me consolation shrimp,” she said, voice rising with every syllable.

He blinked. “You’re not even in the bridal party.”

“That’s not the point,” she snapped, then sighed, folding her arms over her chest like armor. “Sunhoo’s going to be there. With her. Because Seungmin literally invited every every single person in Summerdale, and everyone still thinks my glory days ended after prom night.”

Chan tilted his head, considering this with all the seriousness of someone analyzing a chessboard. “I mean… you did peak at seventeen.”

Her foot connected with his shin under the table before he could smirk. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make her point.

Chan grinned, that easy, lopsided one he always pulled when he was trying to cut the tension. But this time, it didn’t stick. Slowly, the smile faded, leaving something quieter behind — something almost solemn.

“You know I’ll do it, right?” he said, his voice softer now. “If you want me to. You just have to say the word.”

He made it sound simple. Too simple. Like this was just another favor. Like he was offering to carry her groceries or kill a spider in her apartment, not upend their already-complicated friendship for a weekend of smiling through their teeth and pretending to be in love.

She didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t. Because it wasn’t simple. Not by a long shot. Y/N stared into her coffee like it might offer some clarity, but all she saw was her own reflection, warped and blurry. She felt her pulse ticking in her wrist, in her throat.

Chan leaned forward a little, forearms on the table, fingers laced together. Waiting. Not pushing. That was always the worst part with him—he never pushed. He let her make the first move. The last move. All the moves, really. “You don’t have to decide right now,” he said, gently. “You could ask one of your book club girls. Or… I don’t know, that guy who sold you your couch?”

“You mean Jae the furniture perv?”

“Right, forget Jae.”

She exhaled a slow, shaky breath and looked up at him. “I don’t want them. I want—” She cut herself off. Bit the inside of her cheek. He raised his eyebrows slightly. “You want?”

She hated how steady he looked. Like none of this touched him. Like the idea of pretending to be her fiancé didn’t stir up years of complicated history and one specific memory neither of them ever acknowledged: a truck parked by the beach, a humid July night, her skin pressed to his, the sound of crashing waves and a thousand stars above them that saw everything.

“You said you’d do it if I asked,” she said finally. “But you didn’t say you wanted to.”

Something shifted in his expression then. A flicker of something buried. Old. Familiar. Dangerous. “I didn’t say I don’t want to,” he replied. His voice had dropped a little, rougher now. “I’m just trying to be sure you do.”

Silence stretched between them. Not awkward—never awkward with him—but taut, like a thread pulled tight. She took another sip of her coffee, if only to buy herself time. When she finally set the cup down, she still didn’t feel ready. But she said it anyway, the words heavier than she expected.

“Okay. Be my fiancé.”

For a moment, he didn’t react. Didn’t move. Just stared at her like he was reading a page in a book they’d both sworn not to open again. Then something flickered in his eyes—just for a second. Not quite a smile. Not quite pain. A memory, maybe.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Guess I better find a ring.”

She tried to smile. Tried not to think about how easily he could borrow one from his sister. Tried not to think about how it might fit. Or how it might feel. But they both knew the truth. There was no version of this that wouldn’t mean something. And maybe it always had.

The word fiancé looked wrong on her screen. Too formal. Too fake. Like she was trying on someone else’s shoes and pretending they fit.

Still, she typed it out anyway. Committed to the bit. Or maybe just too far in to back out now.

Y/N: meet me at Bella´s after work Y/N: i need a ring Y/N: bring that hot fake fiancé energy 🔥💍

The three dots appeared instantly, which was either comforting or terrifying.

Fiance (Chan): i always bring the energy Fiance (Chan): but yeah, i’m free after 6 Fiance (Chan): you paying, or am i getting the diamond discount?

She snorted, thumbs already flying across the screen.

Y/N: were going to a pawn shop, chan. Y/N: you’re getting cubic zirconia and raw ambition

A pause. Then his reply:

Fiance (Chan): sexy Fiance (Chan): see you at 6, almost-wife

She stared at that last text longer than she meant to.

Almost-wife. Even as a joke, it buzzed in her chest like static—wrong and right all at once. She locked her phone without answering and tucked it into her bag, trying not to think too hard about what they were really doing.

Fake rings. Fake names. Real feelings they’d agreed to ignore. One night of pretending had already changed everything once. What would a whole weekend do?

She stood in front of the glass case at Bellas’s Trinkets feeling like she’d just committed a felony. Everything inside the case sparkled too much. Too bright. Too knowing. Like the rings themselves were in on the lie.

They glared up at her in neat little velvet boxes—diamonds, sapphires, gold bands winking like they knew exactly what kind of mess she was walking into. What kind of mess she already was.

Beside her, Chan crouched down to get a closer look, resting his forearms on his knees like he was evaluating ancient artifacts instead of pawn shop jewelry. His expression was pure theater—brow furrowed, lips pursed, head tilted slightly to the side.

“So,” he said thoughtfully. “What says ‘I’m hopelessly devoted to Y/N, but also not actually in love with her, except maybe a little bit in denial about it’?”

She didn’t dignify him with a glance. “Probably not the heart-shaped one.”

He followed her gaze and snorted. “Yeah. That one’s giving eighth-grade promise ring. Like I should be wearing a puka shell necklace and quoting The Notebook.”

She scanned the rows until her eyes landed on something understated—a slender gold band with a pear-cut stone. Not flashy. Not loud. Elegant, but practical. Like it belonged to someone who didn’t need to prove anything.

She pointed. “What about that one?” Chan leaned in. Studied it. “Hmm. Classic. Safe. Kind of like you.”

That made her turn. One eyebrow arched, hand on her hip. “Did you seriously just call me safe?” He looked up at her, unbothered. “Yeah, but like... in the way that you always have Band-Aids and backup snacks in your purse. You’re comfort-core.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Chan.” He gave a small shrug, then straightened up slowly, closing the distance between them by half. His voice dropped just a bit, enough to shift the tone.

“Okay. Fine. You’re the kind of safe that ruins men.” She blinked. He kept going. Steady. Sure. “The kind they meet thinking they’re fine, and then suddenly they’re reorganizing their entire lives around a woman who alphabetizes her spice rack and remembers how they take their coffee without asking.”

Her mouth opened. Then closed again. It shut her up, and he knew it. Smug bastard.

Before she could fire back, Bella—the owner, nosy and beaming—popped out from behind the counter, her apron dusted with rhinestone glitter. “You two picking out an engagement ring?” she asked, clasping her hands like she’d just stepped into a Hallmark movie.

Y/N opened her mouth, brain scrambling to assemble a plausible excuse, but Chan beat her to it.

“Yep,” he said smoothly, reaching for the ring she’d pointed out. “She said yes last night.”

Bella gasped like she’d won something. “Oh, honey! That’s wonderful! How’d he do it?”

Y/N turned to Chan, giving him the your move look. He held the ring up between his fingers and grinned. “Tell her, baby.” Oh, we’re doing this, she thought. Her pulse jumped. Without missing a beat, she looked Bella square in the eyes. “He wrote ‘marry me’ on a Post-It and stuck it on my fridge. Very on brand.”

Chan chuckled. “She’s lying. I spelled it out in candles on the beach. Nearly set myself on fire.” Bella clutched her heart like she was watching a proposal at Disneyland. “Young love,” she sighed. Y/N rolled her eyes, but when Chan slid the ring onto her finger, something in her chest skipped—hard. It was just for show. Just a prop.

But it fit. Perfectly. Of course it did.

Because nothing about this was supposed to feel real. But it did. Too real. Too easy. Too dangerous. Chan didn’t let go of her hand right away. And the scary part was—neither did she. And that specific feeling, of her hand in his, let her mind wander to a certain summer night almost ten years ago...

FLASHBACK — SUMMER, SENIOR YEAR

The heat that summer didn’t come from stolen glances or fake promises. It came from sunburned skin and sticky night air, from sand stuck between toes and sweat pooling at the base of her spine. It came from the restless pulse of being eighteen and wanting something you couldn’t name—only feel.

They were in the back of Chan’s dad’s pickup, parked behind the old boat shed near Breaker’s Cove. Hidden, mostly. The kind of place only locals from Summerdale knew about, where the dunes curved like secrets and the sea whispered too low for anyone to hear.

The truck bed creaked beneath them as they shifted—bodies tangled, skin flushed, nerves raw in the salt-heavy air. The blanket underneath them was faded, scratchy, smelled like garage dust and beach bonfires. It didn’t matter.

Nothing about that night had been planned. Not the way his hand found hers when she laughed too hard. Not the way he’d looked at her like she was something rare. And definitely not this—her fingers curled in his shirt, breath catching, hearts pounding.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the ocean. Chan leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. “We don’t have to.” She held onto him tighter. “I want to.”

The words settled between them, anchoring something that had always been drifting just out of reach.

It wasn’t perfect. It was awkward—fumbling and unsure, the way firsts always are. A knee bumped the wheel well. Someone laughed, half-nervous. Her hair got caught on a snap in his jeans. But when it was quiet again, when it was just skin against skin and breath syncing up like waves, it didn’t feel wrong.

It felt true.

Afterward, they lay side by side in the truck bed, bare shoulders touching. The stars above them were bright and wild, scattered across the sky like someone had spilled salt. The sea murmured in the distance. The smell of driftwood and seaweed clung to the air.

She looked up and said nothing. Neither did he. Because anything said out loud might’ve made it real. Might’ve forced them to admit that this was more than curiosity or timing or heat.

And maybe they weren’t ready for real.

The next morning, she saw him at the Seaside diner. Her hair was still damp from a quick shower. His shirt was wrinkled. Their friends were loud, laughing, oblivious. They didn’t touch. Didn’t mention the truck or the stars or the way he’d held her after, like he didn’t want to let go.

They pretended it never happened. But later, when she reached for the syrup, his hand brushed hers. Just for a second. And it felt like remembering a secret no one else knew.

Back in the pawn shop, Chan finally let go of her hand. His fingers slipped away slowly, like they didn’t want to, like they hadn’t gotten the memo that this was all pretend. “It looks good on you,” he said.

His voice was unreadable—smooth, casual—but something in it tugged. Like he was trying too hard not to sound like anything at all. Y/N stared down at the ring. The stone caught the overhead light and threw it back at her in a hundred fractured angles.

“Let’s just hope your mom doesn’t recognize it from Bellas when we show up,” she muttered, trying to sound dry, detached, whatever the opposite of spiraling was. Chan chuckled, low and easy. “She won’t. But she’s definitely gonna ask how I proposed, so... we should get our story straight.”

Y/N nodded, forcing a smile. “Right. Proposal logistics. Just part of the illusion.” But her fingers were still tingling where he’d touched her.

This was fake. This was for show. This was supposed to be simple.

A weekend of make-believe. A ring. A few photos. One big lie tied in a bow.

And yet—

The weight of the band on her finger felt real. Heavy, like it meant something. Worse was the way Chan was looking at her—calm, careful, unreadable in all the ways that used to mean he was thinking too much. Or not enough. She tore her eyes away before she could start imagining things that weren’t there. But some part of her knew: she'd remember this. Not just the ring. Not just the shop.

Him. Letting go. Too slowly. Like maybe he didn’t want to.

The thing no one tells you about pretending to be engaged to your best friend? Everyone suddenly thinks your relationship is public property. They touch your hand, grab your arm, ask inappropriate questions with glossy-eyed sincerity and zero boundaries.

Y/N learned this twenty minutes after arriving at The Marigold House—a coastal bed-and-breakfast straight out of a Pinterest fever dream. Whitewashed clapboard, blue shutters, ivy curling up the trellises, and that faint, inescapable smell of vanilla potpourri and multigenerational secrets. It was charming in a “please don’t haunt me” kind of way.

They barely made it through the front gate before a cousin—Tiffany? Brittany? Something ending in -ny and wearing coral satin—latched onto her like they’d been close since preschool.

“Oh my God, look at that ring!” she squealed, catching Y/N’s left hand in both of hers. “You are so lucky. And you,” she said, pointing an acrylic-nailed finger at Chan, “locked him down? Seriously? You always gave off commitment-phobe energy.”

Chan didn’t even blink. Just smiled, that casual, unreadable smile he wore when he was lying with ease. “Guess I found the exception.”

Y/N didn’t miss the way his hand tightened around hers—subtle, firm. Like punctuation. Like backup. They navigated the social minefield of the lobby—the cousins, the vaguely familiar faces from high school, the girl who once threw up on her shoes at prom—and finally reached the front desk, where a too-cheerful concierge in floral pastels slid them a key with a wink. She made a mental note in her head to give Seungmin later a lecture on who-and-who-dont you invite to your wedding.

“One queen bed,” she said brightly. “Super cozy. Perfect for newlyweds.” Y/N opened her mouth. Absolutely not— Chan beat her to it. “Perfect,” he said smoothly. “We love cozy.” The key was already in his hand.

Once the door clicked shut behind them, the performance cracked like cheap veneer. “One bed?” Y/N said, tossing her bag down like it had betrayed her. “Are you kidding me?” Chan shrugged out of his hoodie, already at ease. “You RSVP’d with a fiancé, babe. Couples sleep together. It’s kind of the whole point.”

“You could take the floor.”

“You could stop pretending you mind.” She shot him a glare. That smug, maddening, not-wrong face.

She turned away, crossing to the window to hide the flush creeping up her neck. Her hand still tingled where he’d held it. The ring still felt heavier than it should have. And her body—traitorous, inconvenient—was already very aware of the fact that she’d be sharing a room, and a bed, with someone she once knew naked under a sky full of stars.

That smug, unbothered tone. That stupidly correct face. That fucking handsome face.

She didn’t answer. Just turned away, crossing to the window to hide the heat rising in her cheeks. Her fingers still tingled where he’d held them. The ring on her left hand was just cheap metal and cubic zirconia, but it felt heavier than gold.

She had convinced herself she could handle this. Keep it light. Laugh it off. But then Chan hoisted her suitcase onto the luggage rack like he’d done it a hundred times. And maybe he had. That was the problem.

It felt too easy. Too familiar. Too them.

“Remember crashing at my grandma’s lake cabin?” he asked, flopping onto the edge of the bed. “We used to fight over who got the couch.”

“Yeah,” she said, still staring out the window.

He hesitated. “Except that last time.”

Y/N went still. Because she did remember. Just not the way he said it.

“Wrong place,” she murmured, not turning around. “What?” “It wasn’t the cabin. It was your dad’s truck,” she said quietly. “Breaker’s Cove. The summer before college.”

The air shifted. The teasing fell away. Chan sat up. “Right.”

She finally looked at him. “How could you forget that night?” He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her, carefully. Like he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Or maybe like he didn’t want to say the right one.

“I didn’t forget,” he said. “I’ve tried to.” Y/N let out a breath. Not a laugh. Not quite.

“That night—” she started, then stopped. “We never talked about it.”

“You never brought it up either,” he said gently. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“Me either.” They were quiet for a beat.

The memory was so clear. The two of them in the bed of the pickup truck, parked just above the cove where the tide rolled in steady and slow. Salt on their skin. The blanket beneath them rough with sand and wind. Her hands tangled in his shirt, his mouth on her shoulder. His voice, low: We don’t have to. Her answer, barely a whisper: I want to.

After, they had stared at the stars like they were afraid to look at each other. And the next morning, they’d pretended it never happened. Chan leaned forward now, elbows on his knees. “If we’d talked about it back then,” he said, “I don’t think I could’ve kept pretending we were just friends.”

Her chest tightened. Because that? That wasn’t fake. Neither was the look in his eyes. And maybe it never had been.

Chan’s gaze was heavy—locked on hers like it cost him something to look, but more to look away. His voice dropped again, barely above a whisper. “If we’d talked about it,” he said, “I wouldn’t have been able to pretend.”

The weight of it sat between them, thick and electric. Something real. Something breakable. She didn’t realize she was leaning in until she felt his breath hit her lips—warm, steady, laced with mint and a hint of cinnamon from dessert. The space between them had vanished. Gone was the careful choreography of fake smiles and half-lies. Now it was just them. Bare. Unspoken. Burning.

“Chan,” she breathed, the name catching in her throat. She wasn’t even sure what she was asking. Permission? Apology? A kiss?

His eyes flicked down to her mouth like a reflex. “Yeah?”

It was right there—the moment. Teetering on the edge. Her hand twitched toward his chest, fingers aching to curl into his shirt and drag him closer. And then—

Knock knock knock. The door jolted in its frame. A muffled voice chirped through the crack, way too cheerful for what had almost just happened.

“The engagement dinner starts in ten! We’re doing a seating chart scramble, so don’t be late unless you want to sit with the kids’ table!”

The spell shattered.

Y/N blinked. The air between them popped like a soap bubble—leaving only cold, awkward space.

Chan let out a sharp breath and leaned back, dragging a hand down his face. “Perfect timing.” She stood too fast. Her knees felt wrong. Wobbly. Her pulse thundered against the base of her throat. “Yeah,” she said, clutching for something to hold onto. “Great.”

The dining room at The Marigold House was over-decorated, over-catered, and overwhelmed with tension.

Long tables glowed with golden taper candles and florals that looked like they'd cost someone a paycheck. There were name cards, clinking glasses, a four-tier cake that no one dared cut, and a band softly playing something jazzy that clashed with the heavy energy in the room.

Seungmin sat at the head table beside F/N L/N, his fiance and soon to be wife.

Y/N kept sneaking glances at them between bites of lemon risotto and lies.

Seungmin looked... still. Too still. Like someone bracing for impact. His suit jacket was perfect, pressed, charcoal-gray. But his fingers tapped restlessly under the tablecloth. His jaw worked in silence every time someone toasted him.

F/N, meanwhile, was radiant. Smiling politely. Laughing in the right places. Her hand rested lightly on Seungmin’s arm like they were just another happy almost-married couple making it through a long weekend.

But Y/N saw the way they didn’t look at each other. Or worse—the way they did when they thought no one was watching.

And it wasn't nothing.

“Earth to fake fiancée,” Chan whispered beside her, nudging her knee under the table.

She blinked. “Sorry. Zoned out.”

“Yeah, I saw. You were watching them like they owed you money.”

She smiled faintly, but her stomach twisted. “Doesn’t it feel weird? Like, shouldnt you be happier on your wedding day.”

Chan shrugged. “It’s their celebration. I think they know what theyre doing", She didn’t answer. Just watched as F/N turned to Seungmin and quietly whispered something into his ear. His expression didn’t change, but he nodded once, jaw clenched tight.

The rest of the dinner was a blur.

Cousins. Compliments. Fake laughter with a dull ache behind it. Someone asked how they met and Chan said, “college bar fight,” just to mess with them. She’d kicked him under the table, but her heart wasn’t in it.

Someone else asked when the wedding was. Someone else asked if they’d picked a honeymoon spot. Recommending the best Honeymoon Hotels in Kauai or Maui.

Chan had rested a hand on the small of her back under the table. Gentle. Anchoring. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. But her skin burned where he touched her.

When they got back to the room, the silence hit hard.

Chan closed the door behind them with a quiet click, then flipped the lock. She stood near the bed, staring at her shoes like they were fascinating.

For a long, long moment—neither of them moved. The weight of what almost happened earlier still sat in the space between them. Pressing in. Buzzing like an exposed wire. Then she turned to him. Slowly. Controlled. But her heart was not calm “You were gonna kiss me.” Not a question. Not really. Chan didn’t even blink. His voice was low and rough and too honest. “I was kissing you.”

Her breath caught. Her hands curled into fists at her sides to stop the tremble. “You didn’t,” she said, voice hoarse. His gaze dropped to her lips again.

“I’m about to,” he said, stepping forward, “unless someone knocks again.”

The room shrank.

Two feet of space between them. Then one. Then half.

She didn’t step back. His hand came up, slow and sure, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Fingertips trailing her skin like a secret. His thumb grazed the hinge of her jaw, and she tilted toward him without meaning to.

“This is a bad idea,” she whispered, breath shivering. “Terrible,” he murmured. “Disastrous.” His other hand came to rest on her waist.

“You’re still wearing the ring,” he said softly, like it meant something. Maybe it did. “You’re still my fake fiancé,” she whispered. “Still want me to act like it?” Her lips parted. That look in his eyes—hungry and aching and afraid—it gutted her. “Yeah,” she said. “Just… don’t be too good at it.” He smiled. That same slow, devastating smile that ruined her back when they were kids. “No promises.”

And then he kissed her. And there was nothing fake about it.

Not the way his hands gripped her jaw like she was something fragile and vital, like he wasn’t sure if he was holding her together or holding himself back. Not the way her fingers fisted in his shirt—hard—pulling him closer like she was drowning and he was air.

Not the way his breath hitched when her mouth opened for him, soft and hungry, and he groaned into the kiss like it hurt. Like he’d wanted this for too long.

At first, it was slow. Careful. Like they were testing the edges of something they couldn’t name yet. A tease. A taste. But it didn’t stay that way.

It broke. Unraveled.

Turned into teeth and tongue and fingers digging into fabric. Her back hit the wall with a muffled thud, and he pressed into her, crowding her space, stealing every breath she had left. His hands slid down—one splayed at her waist, the other curling around her hip, pulling her against him so there was no space left to lie.

She gasped, and he kissed her like he owned that sound. Like he’d been waiting years to claim it.

Their mouths moved in sync—messy, frantic, starving. Every drag of his lips against hers felt like a confession. Every sweep of his tongue was a reminder of that summer night and all the words they’d never said after.

Her nails scraped along the back of his neck. He growled low in his throat and pressed harder, hips brushing hers, dangerous, deliberate. It lit her up like a struck match. Her body arched, met him halfway.

She felt it—him—all of him. Solid and hard and so ready to stop pretending. “Fuck,” he breathed against her lips. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

She kissed him again in answer—deeper, dirtier, teeth dragging over his bottom lip—and his grip tightened on her waist like he was two seconds from losing control.

She didn’t care. She wanted him unhinged. Unraveled. Real. She wanted his mouth everywhere, his hands on skin, his voice wrecked and begging.

And if he didn’t stop soon—if he kept kissing her like that—she was going to forget all the reasons they were pretending in the first place.

Suddenly, her back hit the wall with a soft thud, and for the split second his lips left hers, chan licked them before crashing into her again. Hot, rough, open. His hands gripped her hips, hauling her up like she weighed nothing. She gasped as her legs wrapped around his waist, dress riding up, heat blooming everywhere.

“You have no idea,” he growled against her lips, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.” “Show me,” she whispered.

He didn’t hesitate. He carried her across the room and dropped her onto the bed, gently, but with intent. Like he was done playing games. Like he was about to ruin her in the best way.

His mouth followed, on her neck, her collarbone, teeth dragging just enough to make her squirm.

Her hands yanked at his shirt, and he let her pull it off, revealing that body she remembered too well. Broad shoulders. Sculpted chest. That little dip between his pecs she used to fantasize about when she shouldn’t have. “God, Chan,” she breathed. He smirked. “What, baby? You want something?” She glared. “You’re not allowed to be cocky and good at this.” His voice dropped as he knelt between her thighs. “Wanna bet?” He tugged her dress up, then paused.

“Take it off,” he said. Low. Firm.

The way he said it, not asking, made her stomach flip.

She peeled the dress over her head slowly, teasing, baring herself inch by inch until she was in nothing but a lacy bra and panties that were already soaked.

Chan’s eyes darkened. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

He kissed down her stomach, slow, wet, worshipful, while his hands spread her thighs wide. “Keep your hands above your head,” he murmured. “Don’t move.”

She obeyed. Because the way he said it made her want to.

His mouth dipped lower. Tongue soft, then firm. His fingers joined—one, then two—curling just right, dragging moans from her throat that didn’t sound like her. Her hips arched off the bed, but he held her down with a strong arm. “Be good,” he said against her, voice muffled. “Or I’ll make you beg.” “Maybe I want to beg,” she gasped.

That made him grin. And go harder. By the time he pulled back, she was shaking. Desperate. He crawled up her body, lips crashing into hers again, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

“You want me to fuck you like we’re still pretending,” he murmured, forehead pressed to hers. “Or like I’ve been in love with you since that night in the truck?”

Her nails raked down his back. “Both.” He groaned. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is wearing that stupid ring and pretending I don’t want you inside me every second.” That undid him.

He grabbed a condom from his wallet, classic, infuriating Chan, and pushed his boxers down with a hiss. He lined up, dragging the head of his cock through her wetness slowly, just to hear her whimper.

“You’re so soaked,” he said. “So soeaked for me” “For years.”

Then he finally pushed in. And it was everything.

Rough. Deep. Perfect. Her legs locked around his waist, and his thrusts grew faster, harder, each one dragging a broken moan from her lips. He pinned her hands above her head again, breathing hard, teeth gritted.

“You take me so fucking well,” he grunted. “You were made for this. For me.”

He gave her more. His name spilled from her mouth like a prayer, and when he felt her tighten around him, he swore, loud, filthy, before grabbing her face and kissing her hard through it.

She came shaking. Gasping. Eyes locked with his. He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow. Not until he was right there with her. thrusts erratic, mouth on her neck, biting down as he spilled inside her. The room was silent except for their breathing.

When he finally collapsed beside her, pulling her against his chest, he whispered: “Still want to pretend this is fake?”

She didn’t answer. She just curled into him and held on like she never wanted to let go.

It had been three days. Three days since the last toast clinked against borrowed glass. Three days since the band played its last love song, the last boutonniere wilted, and the champagne flutes were cleared like none of it had ever happened.

Three days since Chan had kissed her like he was starving—and touched her like he might never get to again. Three days. And not. a. word.

Not about the kiss. Not about the way they fell into bed like gravity had finally stopped being polite. Not about the things he said against her skin or the way her name had broken in his mouth when she came undone in his arms.

They hadn’t talked. Not once.

They were back now. Back in Summerdale. Back in their own apartments with walls between them. Back in their routines—coffee shops, work, texts about nothing—but none of it landed the way it used to.

The rhythm was off. Everything was too quiet. Until the knock.

It was soft. Hesitant. Like someone afraid of what came next. She opened the door without thinking. And there he was.

Chan stood in the hallway like the world had chewed him up and spit him out. Hair a mess. Hoodie half-zipped. Hands shoved deep into his pockets like they were the only things holding him together.

No smile. No greeting.

Just: “I can’t do this.” Y/N’s heart stopped. Her breath caught in her throat.

“…Can’t do what?” He looked up at her with eyes that had stopped pretending hours ago. “This,” he said. “All of this. The pretending.”

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. He stepped closer, just one step, but it was enough. Enough to make the hallway feel smaller. Enough to feel him again—his presence, his weight, his ache.

“I told myself it was just a favor,” he said. “That it didn’t mean anything. That I could go to the wedding, wear the ring, play the part, and walk away clean.”

His voice cracked. “But I’m not clean, Y/N. I’m wrecked.”

He laughed, bitter and broken. “I’ve been wrecked since that night in my dad’s truck. Since you looked at me and said you wanted to. Since you didn’t say anything after, and I didn’t either, and we both pretended we could live with that.”

Her chest ached. Her fingers curled at her sides. He kept going, his voice raw and urgent now, as if stopping would undo him.

“I love you,” he said, the words cracking out of him like they hurt. “I love you, and I’ve loved you since you kicked me under the diner table in eighth grade for saying ‘moist.’ Since we kissed under the pier and swore it didn’t count. Since you handed me that RSVP card and asked me to lie for you.”

He swallowed hard. “I tried to lie. I really tried.”

He stepped into her space, close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off his body. “But then I kissed you. And touched you. And watched you fall apart in my arms like you were made to be there. And now—now I don’t know how to be near you and not want everything.”

Y/N didn’t say anything. She just looked at him. Looked at his trembling hands and wrecked expression and the impossible weight of the words he’d finally said.

And then—quietly, without drama—she stepped forward. She reached out.

Gripped the front of his hoodie with both hands. Pulled him closer.

“You love me?” she asked, voice barely a whisper. He let out a breath like it had been buried in his lungs for years. “Yeah,” he said. “Completely. Stupidly. Always.”

And she kissed him. Not desperate. Not rushed. But slow. Like a key turning in a long-locked door.

He kissed her back the same way—hands on her hips, then sliding up her back, like relearning something he’d never truly forgotten. She pulled him inside, kicked the door shut behind them.

The hoodie came off. Then her shirt. Then his breath was warm against her ear, voice low and wrecked and dangerous. “You’re sure?” he asked. “Oh I’m sure.”

He didn’t hesitate this time. He lifted her like she weighed nothing and set her on the edge of the counter. His mouth was on her neck, her collarbone, down to the place that made her curse his name.

And when he touched her just right—exactly right—she gasped.

“Chan—where the hell did you learn that?” He pulled back just enough to smirk, voice smug and ragged. “YouTube. Trial and error. A wildly successful imagination.”

She laughed, but it choked into a moan as he did it again. Slower. More pressure. More heat. She gripped his hair, breath wrecked, legs wrapped around his waist like this was always how it was meant to be. And when he finally pushed into her, slow and deep and perfect, she couldn’t hold anything back.

Not the cry. Not the kiss. Not the truth.

Because nothing about this was pretend anymore. This was them. Unwritten. Unfiltered. Unstoppable.

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balrogballs · 7 months ago

Text

I have never had a normal thought since I realised Aragorn/Estel would have been around 10 years old — more like 7/8 considering his heritage — when Thorin's Company passes through Rivendell, so here are some brainrot headcanons (continued under the cut):

Estel is obsessed with Thorin. Just completely obsessed. Follows him around everywhere like a cat, begs him to play with him, offers to run errands for him. Literally every elf in Rivendell is completely stunned at the behaviour because Estel is, normally, a card-carrying ankle-biter.

The Dwarves, on the other hand, are shocked by the fact that by a few days into the visit, Thorin seems to like Estel too. Gloin would have sworn that he expected Thorin to throw the child off the banisters the minute he made him hold his pet python. Thorin didn't just hold said snake, but played with him, let him do little odd jobs, even letting him sit up with him at the dining halls. On two evenings, he even takes Estel out with a wooden sword, to show him how to "fight like a Dwarf lord". All the Dwarves are just as shook as the elves, minus Kili and Fili, who knew Thorin as Uncle Thorin and are completely unsurprised that he is so wonderful with little Estel.

Lindir and Elrond find a content python snoozing in Elrond's study. Lindir and Elrond are both utterly and irrationally terrified of snakes. After much screaming and climbing on sofas, every member of staff swears Estel had been in his mother's quarters all day. Nobody thinks to mention that they saw Bilbo and Thorin hanging about outside the study, because what relevance could that possibly have?

When the company left Rivendell, Estel was understandably quite unhappy because he'd miss them, also they were going to see a dragon, and he begged to go with them. Thorin does what most parents do before going on a trip, and promises to bring him a present from the dragon's lair when they returned.

Bilbo returns without Thorin, but with the promised present for Estel. He visits the boy in his quarters and they hold each other and share their grief. Bilbo then shows him the present. He explains how Thorin wanted to give him something more substantial than a golden cup scraped off the floor of a dragon's lair — he had told Bilbo, the night before the battle, to give the boy Thorin's own solid gold wristband.

On the same return trip, Elrond expressed his condolences over Thorin's death, and enquired if there were other casualties. When he finds out that Kili and Fili had also died in the battle, a strange, terrible expression twisted across his face and he said, almost reflexively, both? both together? good. that's good. The remaining Dwarves and Bilbo were all stunned, thinking it was Elvish apathy at best, and deliberate disrespect at worst. After all, they had no reason to know that Elrond, like his immortal brethren, found it somewhat difficult to gauge the ages of mortal beings — and had thought the two late brothers were twins.

Decades later on the night before the Fellowship were set to depart, the elderly Bilbo Baggins found it hard to sleep from worry, and wandered onto the balcony, and saw a lone man practicing sword moves in the courtyard. He realises both man and combat style seem faintly familiar, like the heavy striding and swinging and slashing are the steps to an old dance he once used to know, which now lives in a deep, forgotten place within him, under layers of unravelling memories. He can't quite put his finger on it. But there is a strange comfort in the sight, so soothing Bilbo's eyes start to close, falling asleep curled up right there on the balcony. He slips off into a wonderful old dream, lulled by the rhythm of fallen leaves crunching in the courtyard — where Aragorn "fights like a dwarf", solid gold wristband twinkling under the light of the stars.

#I'm so sorry...#lord of the rings #the hobbit #bagginshield #thorin oakenshield #elrond peredhel #Aragorn #Lotr #Lotr headcanons

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lotuswish · 4 months ago

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˗ˏˋ what they gift you for valentine’s day 𐙚 .ᐟ

synopsis: valentine’s day means something different to each of them—some treat it like a grand romantic event, others act like it’s just another friday, and a few are probably panicking last-minute. but whatever they give you, one thing’s for sure: it’s undeniably them, for better or worse.

featured character(s): lilia vanrouge, malleus draconia, silver, sebek zigvolt, leona kingscholar, ruggie bucchi, jack howl, vil schoenheit, rook hunt, epel felmier, jamil viper, kalim al-asim, riddle rosehearts, cater diamond, trey clover, ace trappola, deuce spade, azul ashengrotto, jade leech, floyd leech, idia shroud, no ortho shroud

content warning(s): none!

a/n: happy valentine’s day! ❤️

link(s): (masterlist)

an overly extravagant display of affection

why settle for one gift when he could give everything? a sea of roses flooding your dorm, an entire box—no, several boxes—of gold-wrapped chocolates, or even fireworks painting your name across the night sky. to him, valentine’s day isn’t just about romance—it’s a stage, a perfect excuse to turn his feelings into something grand. love, in his eyes, should be seen, felt, and impossible to ignore. he doesn’t believe in halfway gestures; if he adores you, the world will know it.

⤷ kalim, malleus, rook

a single, meaningful item that shows they know you

this isn’t just a generic valentine’s day gift—it’s something that proves he listens. something small you once mentioned in passing, something he went out of his way to track down, something that perfectly aligns with your tastes in a way that leaves you wondering just how long he’s been paying attention. maybe it’s a first-edition book from your favorite author, a piece of jewelry that fits your aesthetic so well it feels like he had to have spent time picking it out, or a limited-edition item from a brand you once mentioned offhandedly. it’s not about extravagance—it’s about thoughtfulness, about making sure you know he sees you.

⤷ idia, jade, jamil, leona, ruggie, vil

a carefully crafted, handwritten letter

it's more than just a few words hastily jotted down onto a card—this is a letter, deliberate and meticulously composed. every word is chosen with purpose, every stroke of ink placed with careful intent, as if he agonized over each line, rewriting certain sentences more times than he’d ever admit. it feels less like a simple valentine's note and more like a confession woven into ink, every phrase carrying the weight of emotions he might struggle to voice aloud. this gift is more than a simple gesture—it’s a glimpse into the feelings he’s likely held onto far longer than he ever intended.

⤷ malleus, riddle, rook

a bouquet, but with intention

it’s not just about flowers—it’s about what they mean. this isn’t some store-bought, last-minute bouquet; every bloom has been deliberately chosen, each one carrying a message. roses for love, lilacs for first emotions, camellias for admiration—there’s no need for him to say anything outright because the meaning is woven into every petal. whether he expects you to recognize the symbolism or not, the sentiment is there, tucked between soft petals and carefully arranged stems. and if you do look up the meanings? you’ll see everything he couldn’t quite put into words.

⤷ cater, epel, trey,

jewelry, meant to be worn always

it’s not flashy or excessive, but it’s meant to last. a necklace, a bracelet, a ring—something simple but chosen with care, something that feels right for you. the weight of it is subtle but constant, a quiet reminder of him no matter where you are. he won’t say it outright, but the thought of you wearing something from him every day pleases him. and if anyone asks where you got it? well, he wouldn’t mind hearing you say his name in response.

⤷ floyd, jamil, leona, lilia, ruggie, sebek

a luxurious experience rather than an object

he sees no reason to limit valentine’s day to just a material gift—not when he could give you a memory. a private dinner under candlelight, an exclusive event, a perfect evening where every little thing has been arranged so you don’t have to lift a finger. it’s not just about extravagance (well, maybe partially); it’s about making sure you feel special, about ensuring this night is one you won’t forget. to him, valentine’s day isn’t about what you receive—it’s about how he can make you feel.

⤷ azul, jade, kalim, malleus, rook, vil

handmade, because it means more that way

he could have just bought something, but that wouldn’t have meant enough. instead, he put in the time and effort himself. maybe it’s a home-cooked meal, carefully prepared with your favorite flavors in mind, or a bouquet he arranged by hand rather than picking something up from a florist. maybe it’s a small carved trinket, a handcrafted piece of jewelry, or even a carefully stitched charm meant to bring you luck. perfection isn’t the goal—it’s the sincerity, the intention behind giving you something that holds a part of him.

⤷ deuce, epel, jack, jamil, silver, trey

something playful, because love should be fun

who says valentine’s day has to be serious? he doesn’t just want to give you a gift—he wants to make you laugh. maybe it’s a ridiculously oversized plushie, one so big you practically have to wrestle it through your door. maybe it’s a scavenger hunt, little notes leading you to the actual gift just to watch you figure it out. maybe it’s a box of chocolates with one secretly filled with something spicy, just to see your reaction. love doesn’t always have to be grand or serious—sometimes, it’s just about enjoying each other’s company.

⤷ ace, cater, epel, floyd, lilia, ruggie

something simple, but given with genuine care

he doesn’t make a big deal out of valentine’s day, and he doesn’t see the point in overcomplicating things. what matters is that he thought of you. a warm cup of your favorite drink waiting for you in the morning, a carefully wrapped box of chocolates, a small charm for luck. he won’t make a scene about it, but there’s something undeniably sweet about how naturally he makes sure you’re taken care of.

⤷ deuce, idia, jack, jamil, sebek, silver

congrats on making it to the end! if you enjoyed this, likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated—they help motivate me to keep creating and sharing!

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rebelfell · 5 months ago

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reindeer games┃(for your viewing pleasure-verse)

pornstar!eddie x director!reader

we’re gonna call this a belated holiday blurb 🎄

cw: no smut, but there’s allusions to mutual masturbation and an over abundance of filthy flirting b/c these two simply can’t help themselves. the concept for eddie’s shoot is inspired by this (nsfw) incredible freaking art by @safk-art.

18+, MDNI┃2.2k

You’ve never been a fan of these calendar shoots.

It takes practically the entire day and the studio is packed full because they bring in just about every performer under contract to participate.

It’s loud and chaotic, lots of PAs running back and forth with the most random assortment of props you’ve ever seen. And it’s stifling hot with all the bustling bodies, equipment and lightboxes, flash bulbs going off every five seconds.

Right now there’s a few girls in Victoria’s Secret-esque getups with feathery angel wings being cupids for February, while two more covered in glittery body paint are getting ready to pose in a cauldron to be a “pot of gold” for March. After them, it’ll be girls in big yellow rain boots with matching caps and nothing else spraying one another with a hose for April.

The remaining months are still in the process of being set up, backdrops being changed out and lighting adjusted. On the furthest wall, there’s a big board with everyone’s assignments and the various call times as well as mock-ups of each concept and who will participate in the photo.

You’ve already visited the board and deduced your first stop will be the wardrobe department so you can get your costume. You’ve also noted that a certain someone will likely be finishing up his turn at the make-up mirror right around the same time you’re done being fitted.

When you emerge from behind the curtained off area set up for people to change, yours eyes meet Eddie’s across all the chaos and he’s immediately getting up from his chair, striding towards you.

Your body can’t help but react to his presence, despite your best efforts to keep your face neutral and squash the urge to run directly into his arms.

You might’ve thought it had been days or weeks since you saw him, rather than mere hours. You might’ve thought you woke up that morning on opposite coasts rather than with your naked limbs entwined and tangled up in your bedsheets. You might’ve thought he was some kind of long lost lover whose face was fading from memory the way your heart leapt just from seeing him.

Still, you know you can’t greet him the way you want to. Not with all these people around.

Word has yet to get around about you two, and you intend to keep it that way. The current theory is that what happened at the awards was just a fluke—a random, drunken, one-night thing.

(A one-night thing that’s led to the best weeks of your life, but that’s neither here nor there.)

You’re meant to be playing it cool, keeping things professional, still holding all your cards decidedly close to your vests, at least for the time being.

But Eddie's not exactly making it easy.

He lets his dressing gown slip open slightly as he walks over, showing off a little more of the top of his chest and his thick, muscular neck where it meets his pronounced collarbones.

Slut, you think with the utmost affection.

The boy certainly makes for a cute Rudolph.

He’s snagged the coveted December slot, and the creative director has chosen a bondage theme—hence the body harness they’ve got him in under his thin robe, as well as a collar with jingling gold bells and a pair of antlers on top of his mop of unruly curls. For the picture, he’s also going to be tied up with Christmas lights, struggling against the illuminated ties while you and the rest of the ‘reindeer’ stand around him laughing and teasing him mercilessly for his bright red ‘nose.’

You imagine that’s what he was in the chair for, getting the head of his dick painted with deep scarlet rouge so it’ll look like it’s shining.

It’s all seems like a bit much, but even you have to admit you’re excited to see the end result.

He scans up and down with those mischievous eyes, all the while having to resist the urge to slip his hands around your waist and pull you into him, showing you just how redundant you’ve made the Viagra he popped earlier. He should have known he wouldn’t even need it once you were on set.

He snaps his fingers and points, a sly grin tugging at his lips. “Let me guess…Vixen?”

The bells on the collar around your neck jingle as you smile and shake your head.

“More like Dancer,” you replied lowly, dropping to a breathy whisper when he got close enough to hear. “Or did you forget last night already?”

“Not forgetting that anytime soon,” he promised in a husky whisper of his own.

You shiver at his words as they trickle down your back, and you can almost feel his hands on you exactly as they were the night before—fingers splayed wide to hold onto as much of you as possible when he reached out for your ass.

The dance had started out innocently enough, as a brainstorming session for your next project, only for it to devolve as it often did these days into you attacking one another once one or both of you could no longer restrain yourselves. The pretense of you as a stripper giving your security guard a lap dance as thanks for chasing away a handsy creep fell away, along with your clothes.

This newfound aspect of your relationship was certainly inspiring a lot of ideas, but it had proved to be more of a hindrance to your work ethic than anything else. Still, you couldn’t be too broken up about it. Not when you’re having the best sex of your personal and professional life combined.

“Not forgetting this anytime soon, either,” Eddie adds, still staring raptly at your costume.

You and the other girls are dressed pretty simply in matching brown teddies and antlers of your own, plus collars similar to Eddie’s. They’re also going to paint your faces to look more like deer, with cute little noses and tiny white freckles and extra-long lashes. And yeah, it’s a little silly. But the way a certain pair of bright brown eyes are pouring over you right now…it’s well worth it.

“Hey…think you get to keep this?” he asks quietly, carefully fingering the marabou trim.

“Unlikely,” you frown and then eye him coyly. “But Tina might let me borrow it…assuming it’ll be returned to her in pristine condition.”

Eddie hisses softly through his teeth and his head quickly shakes back and forth.

“Yeeeeah, I can’t guarantee that,” he chuckles.

You deliver a light swat to his chest. Not too flirty, but not strictly platonic either. Though, it’s times like these that make you wonder why you bother.

Anyone looking on could probably see straight through your paltry attempt to act disinterested, and you’ve already started getting third degrees from some of your friends in the industry who have seen the massage tape.

Almost as soon as it was came out, you were being bombarded. People were quick to praise the chemistry between you and your co-star, but they were even quicker to drop their voices to a hushed and conspiring whisper as they asked what was ‘going on’ between you two.

And when you tried to say it was nothing or that you were just friends…it didn’t exactly go over.

You’re joking, right? Nah, no one is that good an actor, babe. The man is fully obsessed with you. Just look at his face when he—

So, yeah, okay, word was likely going to get out. But it wasn’t going to be today.

Right now, you just had to focus on taking this photo and getting through the rest of the day so you could spend the rest of your night with the adorable creature standing before you.

“I’m headed for make-up,” you offer. And in a lightning-quick move, you reach out to squeeze his arm, then swipe at it gently like you were just brushing off a piece of lint for him.

Very discreet. So covert.

Eddie tucks his chin to his chest as he nods, his eyes still roving over you and your skin he can see through the sheer material. You move to walk past him, letting your hip graze decidedly against his.

“Smile pretty,” you whisper under your breath.

It’s not too much longer before they’re calling people over for your shot and instructing Eddie to get in position first. He drops his gown and sinks to his knees in the center of the frame, hard and freshly pumped cock bobbing between his thighs. The fake polyester snow on the floor provides at least a little cushioning, and the red on his head looks extra bright against the sparkly white.

The effect is…extremely distracting.

Even knowing it’s just make-up, as is the fake cum dribbling from his tip, your mind swirls with recent memories of his cock looking just like this in real life—his own fist wrapped tight around it, sliding up and down in long, even strokes; your dresser rattling as he leans on it for support while you lay with your legs splayed wide in your bed, rubbing slow, deliberate circles on your clit.

His eyes meet yours briefly and from the way they flash, you’re certain he’s remembering it too.

Once the photographer is happy with Eddie’s placement, the PAs come to tie his hands behind his back. They wind the strands of lights around his arms and torso up to his shoulders, draping them across his chest and then crossing them behind his back. Two of the girls are given the ends to hold so he looks like he’s hog-tied.

The light bounces prettily off his pale skin that glows a rosy pink, and you make a mental note to shoot him in similar lighting. Soon.

Maybe you’ll do something like this, but with just the Christmas lights. Him in your bed, his delicate wrists tied to your headboard, those soft rainbow lights the only color in the darkened room aside from that of a deep, cool blue winter night…

Okay, seriously. You’ve got to stop.

You’re at work, don’t forget.

Luckily, they’re placing the rest of you now and you’re brought into the foreground to stand next to Eddie. The two of you exchange another look as they fine tune the lighting, and you shoot him the subtlest wink you can manage. It’s short, so quick he nearly misses it, but it’s all he needs to be absolutely certain his dick will stay hard for the remainder of the shoot. Maybe the whole day.

He’s only vaguely aware of the girls standing behind him, or all the people crowded in behind the camera. Once they start shooting, his vision tunnels until all that’s left in focus is you.

The only thing he knows is it’s probably a good thing his hands are tied. Because the way you’re looking, he could not be held responsible for where his hands would wander if they were free.

Eddie gives himself over to the character he’s meant to be playing, and it’s really not all that hard acting pathetic and desperate for you. The lights he’s all tangled up in tighten as the girls holding either end pull them taut, and the room fills with their giggling as they laugh at him.

But honestly, Eddie doesn’t have any idea what the rest of the reindeer are doing. All he can focus any of his attention on is you in that damn teddy, pinching his chin between your thumb and index finger to make him look at you, smirking like he’s a piece of dirt you wouldn’t let lick your kneecap, let alone anything more erogenous, no matter how hard he begged you for it.

Yet somehow, he’s only more eager to try.

He knows they have the shot they want almost immediately, but they go through a few more poses just to have options. In one, they have you stand with one of your heels planted on Eddie’s chest and if you stay like that much longer, the fake cum on his tip is gonna have company.

Finally, they’re satisfied and there’s a great deal of droning chatter that sort of fades into static as they start to move on to the next shoot.

The rest of the girls wander off, but you kneel and start to unwrap the strands of Christmas lights for him. And they weren’t that tight, but you still massage his wrists once they’re freed and lean in close to his ear so you can whisper how well he did. His cock kicks up all over again at your gentle doting and he wonders if you’ll keep this up tonight at hom—your place.

Once he’s freed, you start to wind up the lights in your hand and glance around for the PAs who are nowhere to be found. You then push the coil into Eddie’s hands and give him a level look.

“See if you can sneak those out,” you instruct him with a smirk. “I’ve got plans for them later.”

ty for reading, merry late whatever-you-celebrate! ❄️💋

#eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie stranger things #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things eddie #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fic #stranger things au

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mggslover · 6 months ago

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How the Unsub Stole Christmas ❆

A Holiday to Remember: part 2

In which the BAU's holiday getaway takes a dark turn when a family is found murdered on Christmas, forcing the team to investigate while reader struggles with painful memories of her past and her growing, unspoken feelings for Spencer Reid.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!bau!reader Genre: crime, angst, smut (18+), fluff, found family Content warnings: graphic cm case descriptions!!, mentions of shitty childhood, reader getting in some unsub trouble, oral (f receiving), p in v sex. Word count: 9k 🫣 i swear it reads really fast A/n: read part 1 first! writing this story genuinely brought me so much joy, and i hope you will experience the same while reading this. this will be my last fic for the year 2024, so thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the support, i can't wait to see what the new year will bring for this blog. don't forget to interact with this post if you've enjoyed! 🎄🤍 dividers by @issysh3ll

It shouldn’t have surprised you that you’d be called out for another case. Still, the disappointment lingered thick in the air.

“It was fun while it lasted,” Garcia murmured softly, her tone sad. JJ wrapped an arm around her, bringing her in for a side hug. “Don’t worry,” she reassured gently. “The trip isn’t over yet.”

Penelope seemed satisfied enough with that answer, but then spoke up again. “I don’t want to stay here on my own. It’s spooky knowing someone got murdered just miles away.”

“You can come with us to the station. Rossi, Morgan, Prentiss and Y/L/N, you’ll head to the crime scene. A deputy will be waiting for you there.” Hotch instructed.

You exhaled softly and gave a brief nod. Spencer glanced over at you, his eyes filled with that quiet empathy you’d come to recognize over the years.

“Good luck,” he said, his voice low but sincere.

“Thanks,” you replied, your words equally soft. “You too.”

Half an hour later, you arrived at the crime scene. The neighborhood was so small it hardly felt like one—just a handful of houses scattered across large, snow-dusted plots of land. It looked peaceful, almost idyllic, as if nothing could ever disturb the calm. The street was adorned with Christmas lights and festive decorations. The only thing slightly out of place was a crack in the bench beside one of the houses. Otherwise, the neighborhood looked like it had stepped right out of a holiday card.

As you stepped out of the car, you noticed the few neighbors who hadn’t yet been driven inside by the cold. They stood in clusters in front of their homes, bundled up in scarves and coats, watching the scene unfold with cautious curiosity.

You looked over at Prentiss. “We should start doing some interviews—maybe send a few of them over to the station.”

She nodded, her expression focused. “Got it.” Without another word, she made her way toward them.

You followed Rossi and Derek toward the red wooden house, where the Deputy awaited by the front door. He looked young—probably around your age.

Rossi introduced you to Deputy Wilson. Wilson gave a sheepish smile, “Sorry it’s just me. Almost the whole department is unavailable because of the holidays.”

“Convenient timing for a murder,” you mused.

“The scene’s been left as it was when we found it,” Wilson continued. “The back door’s been forced open, and you can see boot prints in the snow leading to the backyard.”

Morgan immediately stepped forward. “I’ll get a shot of those prints for Garcia,” he said, already heading toward the backyard.

Wilson looked at you and Rossi. “You want to take a look inside?”

You paused before heading in, shaking the snow from your boots and making sure not to use the doormat—the one engraved with the names of the family members. It felt wrong, almost disrespectful, to dirty the only thing that might be left of them.

You took in a sharp breath as you entered the house. Your gaze was first taken by the large Christmas tree standing in the corner of the living room, decorated in red and gold. But then you noticed the bloody mess underneath it. Four bodies—two adults and two children—lay scattered on the floor, broken Christmas ornaments surrounding them, as though the killer had dropped them carelessly after his violent act. The mother and father were draped over each other, their throats slit cleanly. The teenage daughter, too, had her throat cut, but her body was twisted in a way that didn’t seem accidental. The small boy—no older than ten—was slumped between them, his face frozen in an expression of terror, a look that would haunt you for days.

The scene before you was a sickening parody of a perfect Christmas. Each of the bodies wore a smile, painted over their lips in blood. It was a mockery of joy, an image of happiness forced onto the dead.

You felt a wave of nausea rise in your throat and turned away, needing a moment to breathe. It was then that you noticed the walls, once filled with family photos, now smeared with blood. Shattered frames lay scattered on the floor, as if the killer had intentionally destroyed everything that was dear to them.

Rossi spoke first. “The unsub who stole Christmas,” he mused, his tone almost playful despite the grim reality.

You gave a sharp exhale, a brief scoff escaping your lips. “Yeah, you could say that.”

You put on your gloves and picked up a shattered picture frame from the floor. You handed it to Rossi without a word. He took it, studying it for a moment before speaking again. “One thing’s for sure—this wasn’t just a murder. This is deeply personal.”

You nodded, scanning the room. The starkness of the crime scene was still sinking in, but your mind was already running through the facts. “The execution was meticulous,” you murmured, your gaze flickering over the room, “but the aftermath... messy. The unsub rushed out of here—didn’t even bother closing the back door behind him, and those footprints? Almost like he didn’t care at all about leaving evidence. We might even get lucky and find DNA on the bodies.”

Rossi considered it. “It could be that he was in a hurry. In a small neighborhood like this, people will notice anything out of the ordinary. He probably knew he had to move fast.”

You hummed in return. “It still doesn’t add up. You can’t plan a murder with this much detail and then completely overlook how to cover your tracks afterward.”

You took another slow turn around the room, examining the details. Every piece seemed to add to the strange puzzle, but none of it fit together. As you passed the fireplace, something caught your eye: a piece of paper tucked into one of the stockings. You reached for it carefully, your fingers brushing the corner stained with blood.

You unfolded it with precision, revealing the scrawled words in black ink. The sentence was short and written in Latin, a language you hadn’t encountered in years. You stared at it, furrowing your brow as you tried to make sense of it.

“You wouldn’t happen to know Latin, would you?” You asked Rossi, half-joking, though the seriousness in your voice remained.

Rossi looked up, his expression a mix of confusion and dry humor. “Does it look like I know Latin?”

You smiled, already pulling your phone out of your pocket and speed dialing Spencer. As the phone rang, you turned your attention back to the paper, the blood spatter still making your stomach turn.

“Hey,” you breathed out as he picked up the phone after the second ring.

“Hey,” Spencer replied. “Are you okay?” His voice was soft with concern, your single syllable being enough for him to decipher how you feel.

You glanced over your shoulder at the murdered family, swallowing hard before turning away. “I will be,” you responded. Once that fucker is behind bars.

You straightened, pushing the thoughts away, and focused on the task at hand. “I’ve just found a piece of paper at the crime scene. It’s a text written in Latin. I figured it’d be quicker to ask you than wait for Garcia to look it up.”

Spencer hummed in acknowledgment. “Good call. What does it say?”

You glanced at the paper again, stumbling slightly over the unfamiliar words. “Nunc sciunt te perfectum non esse.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line before Spencer spoke, his voice calm but precise. “Nunc sciunt te perfectum non esse. ‘Now they know you’re not perfect.’” His perfect Latin pronunciation made you wince at how poorly you’d read it.

“What’s that supposed to mean? A taunt?”

Spencer’s voice was thoughtful. “Sounds like he’s trying to prove something. It’s definitely personal.”

You exchanged a look with Rossi, who was standing nearby, holding the broken picture frame. “Yeah, that’s what we’ve been thinking. Whoever this unsub is, he knows the Reynolds family intimately.”

“Garcia’s already digging into the family’s background,” Spencer replied without missing a beat, already a step ahead.

“Good,” you muttered, relief washing over you for a moment. “How are things going over there?”

“JJ’s been trying to reach family, but they don’t live nearby,” Spencer answered. “A snowstorm hit. I’ve been tracking the meteorological data, and the chances of them making it are close to zero.”

You nodded, a dull ache settling in your chest. “Well, I’m going to keep looking around here. The bodies will be picked up soon to go to the lab, and then I’ll be heading over to the station.”

“Alright,” Spencer replied, his tone warmer now. “I’ll see you there. Be careful.”

“Always am,” you said, offering a small smile even though he couldn’t see it.

The words on the note kept drifting through your mind. Maybe it was the sentiment that came with Christmas—or maybe it was the fact that, up until now, you were having a perfect holiday, something you never thought you’d get to experience—that made the scene remind you of your childhood. How everything looked so joyous from the outside, especially during the holidays. But if you looked closely, you’d see the cracks. The ornaments on the tree, hastily glued together, their edges jagged and uneven. The hole in the wall, cleverly concealed behind your stocking.

You were probably overthinking it. After all, it wasn’t the family that was broken like yours was—it was the unsub who had shattered their picture-perfect life.

Rossi’s voice broke through your thoughts. “You okay, kid?”

You blinked, pulling yourself out of the past and into the present. “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s get out of here.”

You and Rossi walked into the secluded room the Sheriff had arranged for the team, exchanging your findings with Morgan and Prentiss along the way. You’d made a quick stop at a Chinese takeaway to grab food for everyone, knowing the team needed fuel for the long hours ahead.

The rest of the team was already seated around the table, and Reid was in the middle of showing Hotch something on the map of the neighborhood.

“Oh, you guys are the best!” Penelope sighed, her voice full of appreciation as she caught sight of the plastic bags you were carrying.

“We couldn’t leave you to go hungry,” Emily responded with a grin.

You took a seat closest to where Spencer was standing, and he naturally slid into the chair beside you. You reached into the bag and pulled out the only plastic fork, knowing he’d struggle with chopsticks. He flashed you a grateful, closed-lip smile as he took it from you.

Once everyone had filled their plates, the conversation turned back to the case.

“Garcia dug up some useful info,” JJ began. “Stephen Reynolds owned a construction company that’s on the verge of going bankrupt. It’s possible the unsub was an employee who got fired—or was cut loose because the company couldn’t afford him anymore.”

“It seems like the whole family was targeted,” you added, leaning forward. “The note was left in one of the children’s stockings. It doesn’t feel like the murder was just directed at Stephen.”

“That’s why we need to find out more about the Reynolds family outside of their neighborhood,” Hotch said. “The employees at the construction company could have insight. It’s clear the neighbors aren’t going to give us much.”

Rossi’s eyes narrowed, a skeptical look on his face. “Did they really not give you anything? The neighbors, I mean.”

Prentiss shook her head. “Nothing useful. They kept insisting that the Reynolds’s were a perfect family. They even seemed offended when I pressed for more.”

“That doesn’t sit right. The note specifically mentioned how the Reynolds’s are not perfect.” Rossi replied.

“I gotta give it to them, though,” Garcia chimed in. “The Reynolds’s are model citizens. The parents were both heavily involved in charity, and the kids have won multiple prizes in spelling bees and other competitions.”

“Has anything bad ever happened in that neighborhood?” Morgan asked, clearly skeptical about the idea of perfection.

Penelope clicked away on her laptop. “Well, there was a fire in one of the houses about ten years ago, because of damaged Christmas lights.” She made a sad face as she continued searching. “Oh, and a cat got stuck in a tree once… didn’t make it.”

“What happened to the family in the house?” Spencer asked.

Penelope’s fingers paused over the keys. “Uh, let me see… The Eriksens died from smoke inhalation. Oh… this is sad. They left a child, Christopher Eriksen. He was put into foster care when he was just eight.”

“Did the Reynolds’s live there when that happened?” JJ asked.

“Yeah, they did. Actually, they organized a fundraiser to build a bench with the parents’ names engraved on it, in their memory.”

You felt your pulse quicken at the mention of the bench. Something about it seemed strangely familiar, but you couldn’t trust your mind right now—not with everything still scattered from the case, and the ghosts of your past tugging at the edges of your thoughts.

You could feel Spencer’s gaze on you, but you decided to ignore it, keeping your focus on Hotch as he spoke up.

“It’s best if we head back to the cabin to rest up,” he said. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day, and the station’s closing tonight so everyone can spend time with their families.”

Everyone nodded in agreement, the relief of getting some rest evident on their faces. But as the team began gathering their things, you couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had settled in your chest. You hated the idea of putting the case on hold, even if it was just for the night. The face of that little boy kept haunting your thoughts, his wide eyes silently pleading for answers, for peace. You couldn’t help but feel like you were letting him down.

Spencer’s hand snakes up on your shoulder, his warm hold holding you in place. His lips barely moved as he mouthed, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you whispered, shaking your head.

The entire car ride had been silent. Spencer’s gaze would occasionally flicker over to you in the backseat, but you kept your eyes fixated on the road, watching the scenery blur past.

The silence stretched on as you said your goodnights to the rest of the team and walked toward your shared room with Spencer. As you both got ready for bed, there was an unspoken tension hanging in the air. Now, lying in the king-sized bed, you both stared up at the ceiling, the quiet stillness between you thick with unspoken words.

“When are we finally going to talk about what’s wrong?” Spencer’s voice broke the silence, careful but insistent.

You stayed quiet for a moment, trying to gather your thoughts. “Nothing’s wrong,” you replied, your words coming out a little too quickly.

“There’s obviously something wrong,” he pressed gently. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

“I know,” you answered honestly. Usually, Spencer never had to push. There was something about him—something warm and patient—that made it easy to open up, to share your thoughts without fear of judgment. But this time, it felt different. It wasn’t just the case. It felt personal, something you couldn’t fully explain.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” you said, thinking aloud. “It’s just… something’s off. And I don’t know if it’s just me.”

“What do you feel?”

You hesitated. “It sounds stupid,” you muttered, brushing it off.

“Nothing you could say would sound stupid to me.” His words were soft and sincere, making your chest tighten with warmth. You turned your head to face him, noticing the proximity.

“You thought it was stupid that I shower at 115 degrees,” you said with a playful smile.

Spencer let out a soft chuckle, the tension easing just a little. “I don’t think it’s stupid that you like it,” he said, his voice gentle. “I just think it’s stupid that you’d risk hurting yourself over it.”

His eyes warmly looked at you. One hand rested underneath his pillow as he lay on his side. You turned toward him, mirroring his position.

"I’m really struggling with this case," you softly admitted, trying to keep eye contact, though your gaze flickered down, betraying the weight of your words.

“Was it hard seeing the crime scene?”

"Yeah," you choked out, your throat tight. You blinked quickly to try to stop the tears that threatened to spill. “It was... it was horrible.”

His hand reached out to gently rub your bare arm under the blanket. "It’s completely normal to feel affected by what you saw," he began, his voice steady but laced with the kind of empathy that only someone like him could offer. "Witnessing something as violent and horrific as the bodies of two children—it’s traumatic. It’s a lot for the brain to process, especially when it involves young victims. According to studies in neuropsychology, traumatic experiences, particularly those involving children, can cause the brain to release a surge of stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline. It’s not strange that it leads to emotional responses, like anxiety and flashbacks.”

“I’ve been experiencing flashbacks,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. You met his gaze, looking for reassurance, and he gave you the space to speak, waiting patiently. “It actually started earlier today, when we arrived at the cabin. I’ve never experienced a Christmas like this, you know, the kind that feels warm and joyful. I- I don’t know if I’m making connections that aren’t there, but the feeling I had in that house was the same feeling I used to get when I was growing up.”

He tilted his head. "What feeling?"

“...Jealousy.”

His eyebrows knitted. “Jealousy?”

You nodded, swallowing hard, gathering your thoughts. “You could feel so much rage in there. Everything that made the home feel homey—that warmth, that love—was completely shattered. The way the unsub positioned the family members under the Christmas tree, the way the note was tucked into the stocking… There’s a reason for it. Christmas represents this idealized view of perfection. I don’t think the message was to prove that the company going bankrupt is some sort of imperfection in the family’s picture-perfect life. No, it feels like the unsub was jealous of their happiness. Of the fact that they had a family who seemed perfect—something he never had. He wanted to destroy it. To ruin their happiness. He could never have it, so he shattered the illusion of perfection entirely.”

Spencer was quiet for a moment, processing your words. “So you think the Reynolds’s were targeted as surrogates?”

“I guess so. But you don’t just stumble across a neighborhood as desolate as theirs.” you responded.

“It could still be one of the employees of the construction company. If Stephen bragged about his perfect family to the wrong person, it could have triggered something.”

You hummed in agreement, but Spencer could see there was more on your mind. He raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"

“As I got older, I learned that blaming others wasn’t going to make me feel any better about my situation. It’s like the unsub hasn’t realized that yet. The way he executed this crime—it’s almost like a child throwing a tantrum. He was so meticulous in setting everything up, and then once he got what he wanted, he just… walked away. There was no care for the aftermath, no consideration of what would happen afterward.”

“Do you think the unsub could still be a child?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Your mind clicked, and for the first time, the puzzle pieces seemed to fit together. “How old was the kid when he was put into foster care?" You asked, already knowing the answer.

“Eight. Why?” Spencer's confusion was evident.

“It’s been ten years since that house caught fire. That would make him eighteen now, and—"

Spencer’s eyes widened as realization struck. “And that he just got out of foster care.”

"Exactly," you said, rolling out of bed and storming downstairs.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Spencer called after you, quickly grabbing his cardigan from the chair in the corner of the room before hurrying to catch up.

“Be quiet, I don’t want to wake anyone.” You instructed, feeling Spencer’s presence behind you as you moved toward the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” he hissed in a whisper as you opened Garcia’s laptop on the table. You didn’t respond, your fingers already flying over the keys as you settled into a chair.

Spencer huffed, knowing full well there was no stopping you once your mind was set. He hovered behind you, draping the cardigan over your shoulders. “I’m not covering for you if Garcia finds out,” he warned, glancing over your shoulder at the screen.

“That’s fine. I know exactly what to say to win her over,” you said nonchalantly, clicking away. In your mind, the image of Spencer in the shower was still vivid—a story you could easily use to distract Penelope if it came to that.

You paused, your heart skipping a beat as you found the file. “Here it is,” you muttered, eyes scanning the information on Christopher Eriksen. You clicked to open it fully, Spencer already reading ahead of you.

“They found bruises all over his body when he was put into foster care,” he read aloud, his voice tense as the words sank in.

You leaned forward, your breath catching. “This is it,” you murmured. “His parents— they must’ve bought into that ‘perfect family’ image of the neighborhood, but behind closed doors, they were hiding this. Can you imagine what it must’ve been like for him? Everyone thinking his parents were saints, while they were hurting him? All the while, they’re the ones who get a memorial bench, their lives celebrated while they tortured him.”

“It was on Christmas that he was put into foster care. Now, it’s the first Christmas since he’s been out. It makes sense to go back to the place where it all started,” Spencer concluded.

“I need to go there,” you said urgently, slamming the laptop shut.

“Have you lost your mind?!” Spencer asked, bewildered. He immediately followed you as you rushed to the door, still in your pajamas. “You’re not seriously planning on going out like that?”

“It’s just a quick peek. I need to see if I was right about the bench,” you said, almost to yourself, already focused on the task ahead. You didn’t even glance behind you as you pulled on your shoes and yanked open the front door, wrapping Spencer’s cardigan tighter around yourself to ward off the cold.

In moments like these, Spencer knew exactly who had trained you. You were unmistakably like Gideon—determined, single-minded, and often impulsive once your mind was set. And that, in turn, always left Spencer in a state of mild panic.

“You can’t drive at night,” he said, his voice rising with concern as he followed you into the snow-covered yard. “You have nyctalopia!”

You didn’t stop, your focus unwavering. “You should take night-blindness seriously, it takes forever for your pupils to dilate, and by that time, you’ve already missed the stop sign or, I don’t know, hit a pothole or something. Your contrast sensitivity goes down, so objects blend into the background, and—did I mention the glare from headlights? Because that’s a huge problem, and it makes it worse! You’re already having trouble seeing, and now the glare from every car that passes is just blinding you. It's like trying to navigate in a fog, but it’s just light fog, which—okay, that’s a really bad analogy, but you get the point!”

His words fell into the background as you continued walking, your mind fully occupied with proving your theory. The case had been driving you mad. If you could just confirm that the bench was broken—that Christopher was the one who’d done it in a moment of anger—everything would click. The case would be solved. You’d give the Reynolds family peace. And, selfishly, you’d give yourself peace.

“Please,” Spencer begged, now standing in front of the car door, blocking your path. “If you’re going, at least let me drive.”

His comment made you halt in front of the car. “You hate driving,” you pointed out.

“I’d rather be uncomfortable for a few minutes than risk something happening to you,” he admitted.

You stared at him, feeling a surge of gratitude for how much he cared, how he believed your theory and was willing to go along with you.

You reached out and took his hands. It was a gesture he rarely tolerated from anyone, but you’d learned over the years that Spencer appreciated it when it came from you. You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. “Thanks, Spence,” your words were simple but your voice was full of appreciation.

He swallowed, his eyes softening as he nodded. “We’ll just take a quick look, right?”

“I swear,” you promised. “Just a quick look.”

He sighed, still clearly uneasy but unwilling to argue. You handed him the car keys and moved to the passenger side, sliding into the seat.

—————

Spencer slowed the car as you neared the familiar area, the headlights casting long shadows over the snowy driveway.

"Let’s stop the car here," you suggested. The thought crossed your mind just in time—it would be very inappropriate to drive into a quiet neighborhood with an unknown car at this hour, especially after a murder had taken place.

You and Spencer stepped out of the car, the cold biting at your skin as you walked side by side. You stayed close to him, partly to keep warm, partly to follow his tracks through the snow, the dark pressing in around you. The Christmas lights that had lit up the neighborhood earlier were now off, leaving everything shrouded in an eerie quiet.

You made your way to the bench. Your hand skimmed over the smooth wood, lingering on the top right corner where you felt a distinct break—something sharp and jagged where a piece had clearly been broken off. You exhaled in relief. You were right.

Spencer’s hand shot out to gently grab your wrist, his fingers warm against the cold night air. "Careful," he warned. "You don’t want splinters. Stay here, I’ll grab a flashlight from the car."

You nodded, watching as his footsteps faded into the distance, his figure disappearing into the darkness.

You scanned the area. Everything was silent, beside the occasional crunch of snow beneath your feet. Your eyes were drawn to a dim light flickering from inside the rebuilt house where the Eriksens used to live, just past the bench. Before you could second-guess yourself, your feet were already moving toward the light.

You crept closer to the window, standing on your toes to peak inside. The house was barely furnished, still very much in the process of being worked on before it could be sold. You pressed your hands against the cold glass, forming makeshift goggles with your fingers, your face just inches away from the window as you tried to get a better look.

A sudden pressure on your stomach snapped you out of your thoughts. Before you could react, an arm tightened around your waist, yanking you away from the glass. For a brief moment you thought Spencer was playing some kind of prank, trying to startle you—but the movement was so fast and forceful, you knew Spencer would never grab you that aggressively.

Your gasp caught in your throat, immediately silenced as a cold, rough hand clamped over your mouth. Panic surged, but your body went stiff when the sharp edge of a knife pressed to your throat. You didn’t need any further confirmation that this was the unsub.

"I don’t know who you are," the voice rasped, his breath hot and heavy against your ear. "But you shouldn’t have shown up here."

You could feel his rage, his plan ruined by your unexpected presence. Every instinct screamed at you to fight back, but you remained frozen, knowing that one wrong move could end it all.

“I didn’t plan on killing anyone innocent, but you’ve put yourself in this situation,” he spat, his grip tightening on the knife.

In that fleeting moment, you made a decision. Taking a leap of faith, you sank your teeth into the soft flesh of his palm. The sudden bite startled him, and by sheer luck, he loosened his grip on the weapon.

“Christopher!” You shouted, the name ringing out with urgency.

It was enough to catch him off guard. In that instant, you turned, quickly positioning yourself with a better angle. He was taller than you—still, just a boy, consumed by something far beyond his control. His pain was evident, lurking beneath the fury in his eyes. You knew this wasn’t what he wanted.

“Who are you?” His voice was strained, the words gripping with suspicion and confusion.

“I’m here to help you,” you said sincerely, keeping your voice steady.

“No, you’re not,” he denied.

“I swear I am. I know what happened to you. I know what your parents did to you.”

Without warning, he shoved you hard against the house. Your head slammed into the window, a sharp pain exploding in your skull. “You don’t know anything!” he screamed.

“I do, Christopher. I do!” The words came from a place of desperation, your breath ragged. “I understand. I know how much this eats at you, how alone you feel because you’re the only one who knows the truth. But it doesn’t have to be like this. You don’t have to hurt anyone else. The truth will come out. People will know what your parents did, what really happened here. You’ll get what you want, the world will see that they’re not perfect.”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes—something soft, vulnerable.

“They all knew what happened!” He said in anger, pointing at the houses surrounding you. “They all knew and no one said anything!” He shook his head, “I’ll never get what I want. It’s too late for that.” he muttered bitterly.

Despite his words, you felt a flicker of hope. He was talking. He was listening. That had to count for something.

“It’s not too late, Christopher,” you firmly spoke. “I thought the same thing once. But family… family isn’t just the people you’re born to. You can build your own, one that will love you despite everything. I’ve got that family now.”

He swallowed hard, his face momentarily flickering with doubt. “I wish I could believe you,” he said, his voice tinged with regret.

And then, in a flash, his arm shot out. Instinctively, you braced yourself, squeezing your eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable strike.

As the seconds stretched on, a flood of memories flashed before your eyes, a cruel reminder of everything you had to lose.

But then, a loud thud echoed in the night. Christopher crumpled to the ground, his body going limp. You whipped your head up, heart in throat, and saw Spencer standing behind him, the butt of his gun covered in blood, the impact of the blow knocking Christopher out cold.

A shaky breath escaped you, half a sob, half a gasp of relief. You stumbled toward Spencer, your legs nearly giving out as you threw yourself into his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” you cried into his chest, voice cracking. “I was so stupid. I shouldn’t have—”

He shushed, brushing a hand through your hair as he held you close. “It’s okay. You’re safe now,” he murmured soothingly. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Twenty minutes later, the team and the police arrived. Spencer had called Hotch the second you’d calmed down enough, and by the time they got there, Christopher was still passed out. The officers dragged him into the back of their car, while JJ and Prentiss took it upon themselves to reassure the neighbors that they had someone in custody.

You knew exactly what was coming when Hotch finally made his way over to you and Spencer, but your head was pounding too much to care.

Hotch scanned the two of you with a sharp, disapproving look. “Really? You went to catch an unsub in your pajamas?”

“The whole ‘catching the unsub’ thing wasn’t exactly part of the plan,” you muttered, wincing slightly as the headache flared.

Hotch exhaled sharply, then turned to Spencer, his gaze a little more pointed. “I could’ve expected this from her, but I expected better from you, Reid.”

Spencer shifted uncomfortably, knowing there was no defense. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Hotch gave a sigh in response, his expression softening just a fraction. “I’m too tired to deal with the two of you right now. I expect to see both of you in my office in the morning.”

“Actually, I checked all the rooms in the cabin, and there’s no office. Which is surprising, considering—”

“Spence,” you interrupted him with a nudge of your elbow.

He shot you a tight-lipped look, turning back to Hotch. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

—————

The second you closed the car door behind you and buckled your seatbelt, you passed out. You’d always slept best during car rides, and especially now, with your mind much quieter now that Christopher Eriksen wasn’t your problem anymore.

When you finally arrived back at the cabin, you were still sound asleep. Derek told Spencer to wake you, but he didn’t have it in him. Instead, he carefully made his way to your side of the car, unbuckling your seatbelt. He lifted you into his arms, trying not to huff too loudly as he carried you through the thick snow. He made his way up the stairs quickly, hoping Penelope wouldn’t notice the wet tracks from his boots inside the house—he couldn’t take them off while holding you.

He was glad you were in your pajamas as he gently laid you on the bed. He walked over to the closet, grabbing some extra blankets and draping them over you, hoping it would help you regain some warmth.

Then, he crawled into bed beside you. Closer than he would’ve dared if you were awake, not quite touching, but close enough to share body heat. His gaze lingered on you, watching how peaceful you looked. The night had been a lot to handle, but he knew he’d do it all again if it meant keeping you safe.

The bright light reflected off the snow outside, filtering into the room. Groaning, you rubbed your eyes, the movement only making your headache worse. You huffed and carefully opened your eyes, being met with the sight of Spencer. His hair was a curly mess, and a small, warm smile painted his face.

“Hey, how’s your head?” he asked softly.

The events of last night rushed back to you, and you groaned again. “So, all of that really happened?”

“It did,” Spencer confirmed.

“I really hoped I just got drunk on too much Glühwein,” you sighed, wincing at the thought.

“You can still do that tonight,” he teased.

“No,” you muttered in disgust. “I need to recover from this first.”

You glanced over at him again, seeing the concern still shining in his eyes.

“I’m sorry for putting you in that situation last night,” you said quietly. “Everything about it was just... stupid.”

“If you hadn’t insisted on going, who knows who else he could’ve hurt,” Spencer pointed out.

“I guess that’s true.” You thought about it for a second, the weight lifting slightly. “Still, I shouldn’t have dragged you into it.”

“I’m glad I went with you,” Spencer said, his voice softening. “If I hadn’t... I don’t want to think about what could’ve happened to you. I would never forgive myself if I wouldn’t have been there in time.”

You gave a heavy sigh, turning your gaze to the ceiling. “That’s why it’s probably best we stay friends,” you mumbled, more to yourself than to him. Despite Emily’s pep talk, this was proof that it wouldn’t be wise to start something serious with Spencer.

“Friends instead of what?” Spencer asked, his voice higher, as if eager to hear the answer.

“Instead of us dating,” you said, almost offhandedly, not realizing you were speaking aloud about something you’d never discussed before, even though the topic would come up eventually.

Spencer froze, his eyes wide, hope flickering in them as he looked at you. “You would date me?”

Your heart skipped a beat. You froze too, catching up with the fact that you had said that out loud. Your cheeks warmed, and you immediately turned your gaze to the ceiling, not daring to look at his expression.

“Uh—hypothetically,” you stammered, scrambling to cover your tracks.

“You would hypothetically date me?”

You swallowed, still too flustered to look at him. “Yes. If... you would, I mean. If you wanted that, too...?”

Spencer was silent for a beat, his gaze never leaving you. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes,” you answered, your voice steady despite the racing thoughts in your head.

He slowly moved closer to you, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. You flinched back instinctively, and he immediately withdrew his hand, his expression apologetic.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your heart beating faster.

“You said you’d want to date me,” he murmured, his voice unsure.

“Yes, but—” you stopped yourself as the realization hit that he was planning to kiss you. “Oh.”

Tentatively, you reached out and placed your hand on his cheek. You leaned in a little, but this time it was him who pulled back.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice breathless.

“Kissing you.”

“Oh,” he breathed out, his tongue darting over his lips. “Okay.”

You smiled softly, then closed the distance, your lips gently pressing to his.

Spencer hummed in satisfaction, both of you staying like that for a moment, neither of you wanting to pull away. You were the first to break the kiss, catching your breath. If it were up to Spencer, he’d keep his lips on yours forever.

Your eyes fluttered open, faces still inches apart. Spencer cupped your face and pulled you back in, placing several soft pecks on your lips before he leaned on his arm, slightly hovering over you as he deepened the kiss.

You tried to mirror his movements, but a sharp pain shot through your skull. “Ouch,” you hissed, pulling back.

“Just lay down, let me take care of you,” Spencer assured, the warmth of his words making your heart flutter. You slowly lower yourself onto your back, the soft sheets crinkling beneath you, and Spencer moves above you, the blankets still covering both of you.

His lips found yours again. He kept them slightly parted, giving you the chance to slide your tongue against his. The world outside seemed to disappear as you melted into each other, lips moving in sync.

The kisses become more heated, each one a little deeper than the last. His hand moved to cup your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek, the other hand resting on your side, his touch sending little sparks of warmth wherever it brushed.

You could feel the heat between you growing. “I’m so warm…” you mumbled against his lips.

His eyes darkened slightly. “Yeah?” His voice was rough as his fingers lightly trailed over the buttons of your pyjama shirt. “Do you want me to take this off?”

You nodded, and he slowly started undoing each button with purposeful care. His gaze flickering between your eyes and the exposed skin. He let out a moan when your shirt finally fell open, his eyes taking you in.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed out in awe, before pressing his lips to yours again.

You responded eagerly, your hands fumbling between your bodies to undo his shirt in the same way. You slid the fabric off his shoulders, letting your hands run over the muscles of his back, feeling the heat of his skin.

He gently pressed his body weight down on you, and you shuddered at the feeling of your nipples pressing against his bare chest.

His lips delicately kissed your face, until he reached your ear. He nipped at your lobe, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. “Do you like that?” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

You answered in a soft moan, your body arching into him. He didn’t need to ask again; he could tell you were enjoying this as much as he was.

His lips slid lower, kissing and sucking on your neck, while his hand slid down to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, teasing circles.

His mouth moved to your collarbone, and then he teasingly dipped lower.

“God, Spence,” you softly moaned as he placed a wet kiss on your lower stomach. “That feels so good.”

His hand, which has been resting on your breast, trails down until it reaches the waistband of your pyjama pants.

“More, please,” you whimpered, lifting your hips instinctively. His fingers slide around the band as he slowly pulls them down, his eyes drinking in the sight of you.

He lowers himself onto his stomach on the mattress. With a tender touch, he lifts your legs over his shoulders.

“Is this okay?”

For a moment, you’ve lost yourself in his gaze—those warm brown eyes looking up at you, his pink lips swollen from his kisses…

“Y-yeah,” you manage to respond, nodding.

You moaned as his mouth made contact with your inner thighs, his tongue warm and wet against your skin. He took his time, kissing his way to the sensitive spot where you needed him most.

“Spencer…” you breathed, your voice shaky with need.

The anticipation was unbearable as his hot breath tickled you, but you didn’t have to wait much longer. Slowly, his tongue flicked over your pussy, and you gasped, your body trembling at the touch.

He moaned in response, as if he couldn’t get enough of the taste of you, his tongue swirling in soft, teasing motions that had your hips lifting off the bed in search of more.

“So fucking sweet,” he muttered against you, before repeating the motion, licking you again and again, while he grinded himself against the matress.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, urging him closer, deeper, your body quivering as he continued. He alternated between sucking and licking your clit, his finger moving up and down your pussy until it entered you gently, then slowly adding another, the stretch an overwhelming pleasure.

You gasped his name, your body writhing beneath him as the pressure built with every move. “Spencer… please, don’t stop…” you begged, voice thick with need.

His fingers curled inside you, pressing just the right spot as his tongue continued swirling around you. Your legs started trembling as you reached the edge.

“I’m—“ you gasped, but the words dissolved into a string of moans as the wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your legs were shaking as you came undone, clenching around his fingers, your hips bucking against his mouth.

Spencer didn’t stop, though. He kept going at a gentle pace, letting you ride out the intensity of your orgasm. Then, he slowly pulled away, his lips glistening as he looked up at you, eyes wide and full of wonder.

“Was that good?” he asked softly, licking his lips.

You laughed breathlessly as you nodded, your chest still rising and falling rapidly. “Come here,” you whispered seductively, pulling him in by the back of his neck to kiss him. You could taste yourself on his lips, which only added to your arousal.

Spencer’s eyes darkened with desire, his forehead pressed to yours. “I need you. I need to be inside of you.”

You nodded, moving your hand down his body, feeling the hardness of him against your palm. He helped you pull his pants down, and you stroked him gently, feeling him twitch in your hand before guiding him toward your entrance. He let out a low groan, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pushed into you.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he moaned, his hips stuttering as he filled you completely. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as his thrusts grew deeper, more urgent.

You could feel every inch of him, every movement as his cock repeatedly hit those places inside that made your head spin. The room was filled with the sound of skin against skin, your moans mixing with his ragged breaths.

“You’re so warm,” Spencer whimpered. “So perfect for me.”

Your hands gripped his back, nails digging into his skin as you urged him on, your body moving with his. His pace quickened, and you couldn’t hold back the desperate cries that escaped you.

“Spencer… I’m so close,” you gasped.

“Me too,” he moaned, his hips slamming into yours. “Let me come with you. Please, let me come with you.”

You nodded, your body trembling. “Now, Spencer…” you begged in a breathless plea.

His breath hitched, his body tensing as he gave one last deep thrust, and then, with a loud, guttural moan, he came inside you. You followed a moment later, your body clenching around him as you fell apart.

The room was filled with nothing but your ragged breaths, the sound of two bodies, tangled in a quiet, shared moment of bliss. Spencer collapsed beside you, his chest rising and falling as he took your hand in his, pressing a soft kiss to the back of it.

“That was… perfect,” he whispered, his voice full of awe.

You smiled softly as you placed your head on his chest, fingers lazily tracing his stomach. “Yeah,” you said in a breath, your heart full of him. “It really was.”

You let out a soft groan as Spencer stood up, and you instinctively reached for his hand, pulling him back toward you. “Don’t go yet,” you pouted.

Spencer smiled, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and affection. “I’ve got something for you,” he said, wrapping a blanket around his waist before walking to the corner of the room. He rummaged through his bag, his back turned to you for a moment as you blatantly checked him out.

“I miss you,” you murmured, leaning back into the pillows.

He chuckled softly, glancing over his shoulder. “I’m not even five feet away from you.”

You shrugged, your voice a little teasing. “Still feels like you're miles away.”

With a smile, he walked back toward you, sitting down on the edge of the bed, his hands behind his back. “Which hand?” he playfully asked.

“Left,” you replied without hesitation.

He swiftly shifted the small box he’d been holding from his right hand to his left, then grinned, revealing the gift. “Here you go.”

You blinked in surprise. “That was your present?” you asked, your voice filled with wonder as you recognized the familiar wrapping Garcia had handed you the day before.

Spencer nodded, watching you closely. “Yeah. Open it.”

Your hands trembled slightly as you unwrapped the gift, your heart racing with excitement. Beneath the paper was a velvet black jewelry box. You glanced up at Spencer, your eyes searching his for affirmation. He gave a soft nod, accompanied by an encouraging smile.

With a gentle flick of your fingers, you opened the box—inside was the most stunning heart-shaped locket you’d ever seen.

“Oh my God, Spencer,” you breathed out, feeling a mixture of awe and disbelief. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”

A shy smile tugged at Spencer’s lips as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it behind his ear. “It used to be my mom’s,” he explained. “She doesn’t wear jewelry much anymore, but she wanted me to keep it... to give it to someone special one day.”

Your heart melted at the thought, and you looked at him with newfound tenderness, the weight of his gesture sinking in.

“She was happy when I told her I wanted to give it to you,” he added.

Your eyes widened slightly. “Your mom knows about me?”

Spencer nodded, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “I tell her pretty much everything. She likes hearing about you most.”

“Why?” You curiously asked.

Spencer's smile deepened, and he looked down at his lap for a moment, as though gathering courage. When he looked up at you again, his eyes were full of love.

“Because you make me happy.”

After your intimate moment with Spencer, the inevitable conversation with Hotch had to happen. Just before the talk, Hotch received a call from the lab confirming the DNA found on the Reynolds matched Christopher Eriksen’s—meaning the bittersweet news of Christopher going to prison.

“I still don’t get how the two smartest people on the team act like half a brain when they’re together,” Hotch had said with a half-smile, glancing at you and Spencer. “But… you did good work.”

—————

Later that morning, Emily spotted you, her eyes immediately drawn to the locket around your neck. “Fancy,” she commented, her smirk growing as she cocked an eyebrow. “Where did that come from?”

You felt your cheeks heat up as you absently played with the necklace, a soft smile on your lips. “It’s Spencer’s. He gave it to me.”

Emily’s smirk turned into a knowing smile, and you could see the proud glint in her eyes. “You two are something else.”

—————

Throughout the day you and Spencer did your own thing, trying to act casual in front of the team—yet every time his hand brushed your back or he leaned in for a quick kiss in the empty hallway, your heart fluttered. You couldn’t help but sneak glances at him as he played chess with Rossi, your eyes catching his in those fleeting moments.

You felt Spencer’s presence behind you like a familiar warmth as you stood in the kitchen. He slipped his arms around your waist and buried his face in the crook of your neck, placing soft kisses.

“Who would’ve thought you’d be such a romantic?” you mused, running your fingers through his hair, the feeling of him against you enough to make your heart race.

His lips hummed against your skin. “It’s your fault,” he stated, his voice thick with affection. “You drive me crazy.”

You tugged him up the stairs to your shared room, pushing him playfully onto the bed. You stood between his legs as you began to slowly peel away your clothes, revealing the red laced lingerie set Derek had gifted you during Secret Santa.

“Never thought I’d be thanking Derek for gifting you this,” Spencer mused, his hands sliding up and down your legs, a smirk displayed on his lips.

You smiled, tracing his jaw with your thumb, the heat between you growing. “What do you think of checking out the hot tub?” you purred.

He swallowed nervously, his eyes flicking down to his lap. You rolled your eyes as you responded in a sigh, “You can choose the temperature.”

Before you could say another word, he scooped you up, lifting you over his shoulder with a playful slap to your ass. You yelped, giggling as he carried you off toward the bathroom.

—————

The cabin was large, but unfortunately not big enough to avoid Garcia, so you knew what was coming when you heard the familiar sound of her heels clicking against the hallway floor. She was heading straight toward you, her finger pointing accusingly at you.

“I slept with Spencer.” you hurriedly spilled out before she could say something.

She stopped in her tracks. Her face went through a thousand different expressions in the blink of an eye—confusion, disbelief, excitement—before she finally let out a high-pitched squeal. “You... you slept with Spencer?”

“Twice,” you giddily answered, the smile creeping across your face before you could stop it.

Garcia’s expression finally broke into a huge grin, and without missing a beat, she grabbed your hands and started bouncing on the spot. “Derek is gonna lose his mind!”

You barely had time to protest before she was already up the stairs.

As the end of the day drew near, the group gathered around the fire pit in the backyard, cocoa mugs in hand, the warmth of the flames casting flickering shadows on everyone’s faces.

“Are you sure your phone is on silent?” Garcia asked Hotch, eyeing him with suspicion.

“I’m sure, Garcia,” Hotch replied with a small smile.

She was satisfied, her focus shifting to Rossi. “The honor is yours. You may present the last Secret Santa gift.”

Rossi cleared his throat, glancing around awkwardly. “Now, this might sound like a cheap excuse for forgetting to buy a present…” Laughter rippled through the group, and Garcia shot him an offended look. “But... I think I can speak for all of us when I say the best gift is us being together in this beautiful location.”

He turned to Hotch, his voice genuine. “Aaron, you’ve built a good team here. A good family. You should be proud.”

Hotch’s smile softened, his eyes briefly glancing over the group, the weight of the moment settling on him. “I am. Thank you, David.”

And for the first time, you didn’t question whether you deserved a place in this loving, dysfunctional family—you knew you belonged.

592 notes · View notes

demie90s · 5 days ago

Text

2 Sexy

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: Diana agrees to one night out with her friends at an upscale strip club—just to shut them up. Her friends pool their cash and convince the club’s owner to book his favorite girl for a private dance.

Genre: Sensual tension · Slow-burn obsession · One night changes everything

Warnings: Smut. Explicit sexual tension, pole dancing, lap dance, implied dom/sub dynamics, reader is a stripper (by choice), Diana is cocky but gagged, eye contact, mild language, mutual obsession brewing

Word Count ~ 6.1k

She didn’t want to go. That was the first thing.

Diana hated shit like this—loud music, overpriced drinks, people pretending to be something they’re not. The club scene had always felt… exhausting. She was thirty-something now. Legacy locked in. Her name rang bells in rooms she’d never stepped foot in. She’d earned the right to disappear after practice, drink something brown, and sleep for ten hours. That was peace.

But tonight?

“Come on, D, one night.”

“It’s not even trashy,” Penny said, sipping from a glass of something clear. “It’s… exclusive.”

“I don’t need ass in my face to feel alive,” Diana muttered.

“You need something in your face,” Megan shot back, laughing. “You been dry since the bubble.”

She rolled her eyes, flipping them off as the car pulled into a discreet valet entrance. Blacked-out SUVs lined the curb. No signs. No bright lights. Just a dark brass plaque on the side of the marble building—FLEUR NOIRE—scripted in cursive, like it was a perfume instead of a private strip club.

The bouncer didn’t ask for IDs. Just looked once, recognized who she was, and nodded.

Inside smelled like cash and perfume. Not the cheap kind either—the expensive, oil-based kind that clung to skin and memory. The floors were velvet black, the walls mirrored in a way that made everything look like it cost too much. It was dim, moody, low-lit like the club was trying to flirt with you before you even sat down.

It was nothing like the places from their twenties. No wrinkled bills. No sticky poles. No “Buy one, get one” Tuesday specials.

This wasn’t for broke men. This was for them.

Every woman on the floor moved like she wasn’t trying to make money—she was letting it come to her. Rich men laughed too loud in corner booths, throwing down cards that didn’t have limits. Athletes, actors, politicians, and the kind of corporate guys who paid six figures to not be touched.

“Is it bougie that I’m impressed?” Penny asked.

“No,” Megan said, grinning. “It’s bougie ‘cause you’re thinking of getting bottle service.”

Diana scanned the room slowly. Dark leather booths with gold accents. Thick curtains. Spotlights that made women glow like walking sin. There were maybe twenty people in the whole place, but every inch of it was occupied with presence. Intent. Lust.

A woman walked by in red—latex, not fabric—her body glistening under the low heat lamps, her walk slow enough to hush a whole section. Men shifted in their seats. One even adjusted himself. Diana sipped her drink.

Still not impressed. That’s what she told herself.

They took a booth, tucked away, close enough to see the main stage but with a view of the private hallway. Every few minutes, a man disappeared behind those thick black curtains. Some returned looking wrecked. Others didn’t return at all.

A man in a navy suit came over. He was handsome but not flashy—salt and pepper hair, smooth voice, and the kind of stillness that meant he wasn’t just management. He ran this place.

“You three good?” he asked. “Drinks okay?”

“They’re great,” Megan said. “We were thinking of getting a private dance for our friend here.”

Diana raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Penny smirked. “It’s tradition. You’re new. You get a dance.”

She waved them off. “No thanks.”

“Come on,” Megan whined. “It’s a strip club! Live a little.”

“She said no,” the man said, then tilted his head thoughtfully. “But maybe she just hasn’t met the right dancer yet.”

Diana scoffed. “Y’all think I’m that easy?”

The man smiled. “Not at all. That’s why I know exactly who to send.”

He didn’t even look at a roster. Just turned toward the back, waved over a girl in black lingerie, and leaned in. Quiet instructions. A nod. The girl disappeared behind a back door, whispering the message to someone unseen.

Penny blinked. “He didn’t even ask what you like.”

“He didn’t have to,” the man replied, smirking. “I know exactly who to send for someone like her.”

Diana raised an eyebrow. “Someone like me?”

He just smiled.

Diana felt her lips curl just a little. Fine. One dance. One private room. One night out of her element.

What could possibly go wrong?

I’m 23 now. Legal. Paid. And at the top of my game. This isn’t something I had to do—it’s something I chose. And baby, I do it well.

I move like I own every man who walks in here. Most of them don’t know what to do with me. They think they’ve seen this before, but they haven’t seen me. My sets run like clockwork. Pole. Floor. Lap. Repeat. And I never break rhythm, never break character. They can look, they can beg, they can breathe heavy through a thousand-dollar suit—but they can’t touch.

Unless they’re a woman. That’s my only rule. But tonight…tonights different.

Because Papi—that’s what we all call him, even though his real name’s Mateo—comes out the back hyped. He’s calm 90% of the time, but when he gets like this? Something’s up.

“I need you in the back,” he says, smile crooked, arms crossed. “Don’t ask questions. Just know she’s famous and she’s gonna try and act like she’s not impressed.”

I cock my head. “That’s new.”

He chuckles. “You still got it?”

I grin. “Always.”

He turns to head back toward the velvet hallway, pausing just long enough to shoot a look toward one of the servers.

“…she still has to pay, right?” the server teases. “Or does she get it free ‘cause you love her?”

Papi doesn’t even blink. “You know damn well she paying. Especially for you.”

That makes me hum.

I head to the dressing area, grab the heels that bite the hardest, and adjust the outfit I specifically save for high rollers. Tiny. Sheer in places that make people clench their jaw. Straps so thin they could snap if I move wrong. And I move very wrong. On purpose.

The back room is candlelit—luxury hotel vibes. There’s a pole in the center, a curved leather couch, another chair draped in silk. No cameras. Soundproof walls. Just me and them.

I’ve done this more times than I can count. Usually men. The kind that flash money and hide their wedding rings. They talk too much. They think I’m theirs for ten minutes. They leave a little emptier than they came.

But the women? They sit back and watch. Quiet. Curious. Sharp. They don’t touch unless invited.

And she’s invited.

When I walk in, she’s already there—Diana Taurasi, in the flesh, sitting like she owns air. Head slightly tilted, arms draped loose over the couch. Her legs are long, crossed, and casual. She’s got that posture that says this is beneath me.

And I eat that shit up.

I walk to her like I walk to everyone. Controlled. Slow. No smile. Just a look that hooks you without needing words. When I reach her, I tilt my head. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just gives me that stubborn, amused smirk like she’s waiting for me to crack.

I hold out my hand.

“…come on… don’t tell me you’re scared, mamba.”

That makes her laugh. Low and rough. It’s not polite either.

“You really using my nickname?” she says, eyes narrowing like she’s sizing me up.

“I could call you something else,” I murmur, stepping in just close enough that my knee brushes hers. “But I like mamba. It’s Silent. Sexy.”

Her gaze flicks up my body like a warning. Like I’m supposed to back down. I don’t. I just smirk.

“You gonna sit there all night looking cute, or you want your money’s worth?” That gets her.

She leans back—lazy, like she’s got time—and spreads her legs just enough to let me step in. Not much. Just an inch. A challenge.

So I step between them. Game on. She doesn’t move. Not even a twitch. Just sits there all regal and relaxed like she’s the one doing the hiring. Like I’m the show but she’s the main event.

Cute.

So I drop my hand. No big deal. I’m used to that little ego. Used to women like her thinking they can’t be touched—mentally, physically, emotionally. She’s the type that likes to be in control. Which is why I lean in slow, press my palms right on the arms of the chair, and cage her in.

One breath apart. My skin damn near brushing hers. Her eyes track me, sharp, unreadable—but she doesn’t lean away. Doesn’t blink.

“…you prefer your dance here?” I ask, voice low, sweet with a little edge.

My head tilts just enough to let my lips ghost near her jaw.

“I can work with that.”

I keep my eyes on hers, smirking like I already know what’s underneath all that fake calm. She ain’t slick. She’s breathing just a little deeper now. Hands still on her thighs like they’re glued there. Shoulders tensed but mouth stubborn. Like she’s deciding how long she can hold out before she folds.

I drag a single finger up the armrest, close to hers. Not touching. Not yet.

“Tell me when you’re ready to stop pretending,” I murmur. “’Cause I don’t do half-dances, mama. You want the real thing… you gotta act like it.”

And then I push off slow, straightening up, walking toward the pole in the center of the room like I didn’t just read her soul with a whisper. She wants to play cool? Let’s see how long that lasts.

The song starts, and I don’t perform. I exist. That’s the difference. I don’t get on stage to prove anything. I don’t need to. The moment I step into the light, the room just… shifts.

People sit up straighter. Voices drop. Every dumbass with money suddenly remembers how to shut up and stare.

“Like you, like you… like you, ooh-oh…”

Streets by Doja. Mateo ain’t shit for this. He knows what the hell he doing. That man been running this club longer than some of these men been faithful, and right now. He just orchestrated a funeral—for everybody’s self-control.

Because the way I move, the pole don’t stand a chance.

It’s about me. The air thickens. Time drips slower. I make space bend without even touching the pole. I walk the edge of that stage like I’m choosing who gets to breathe tonight.

The men in the front. Losing it. One’s gripping his glass too tight. The other already digging for bills, like that’s gonna do anything for him. I like it. Not because I want them—God no—but because I love the power. The silence. The hunger. I like when men tell me how good I look knowing damn well they couldn’t even survive touching me.

‘Cause the thing is—they know they’ll never touch me.

They know this body ain’t theirs to want.

But I’ll take their comments. Their yes ma’ams. Their desperate little dollar-stained praises. I’ll take their cash and give ‘em a memory so vivid it’ll haunt their wives. I’ll take their minds and leave them with nothing but a ruined standard.

Her friends are losing their shit. Penny smacked Megan’s arm and muttered, “Oh, hell no—not that,” like they just witnessed God descend in stripper heels. They ain’t expect this. Didn’t expect me.

Loud. Laughing. Whispering shit and elbowing her like they can’t believe what they’re seeing. They expected someone cute. Maybe hot. Harmless.

Not the woman who walks out and owns the room without blinking. Not the one who doesn’t crack a smile because she already knows how bad you want it. And I love that.

Then there’s her.

Sitting back like she’s above it all. Arms crossed. Legs spread casual. Like the heat in her chest ain’t rising. Like I don’t already have her attention in a chokehold.

My eyes meet hers. I hold them. I let her sit in it. Feel it. And I swear to God—for a half-second—she leans in. Just a little. Almost like her body moved before she told it not to.

That’s all I need. Because now It’s over. She don’t know it yet, but she’s already mine.

After I finish, I don’t linger. I don’t wave or collect bills or blow kisses like the newer girls do. I just walk off—shoulders relaxed, head high, like I didn’t just ruin the atmosphere for every other dancer scheduled tonight.

Backstage, I wipe down. Fix my lip gloss. Adjust a single strap. It’s routine. I’ve done it a hundred times, but tonight’s different. Feels different. Because I already know what’s waiting.

And when I step out, she’s exactly where I thought she’d be—still in that same booth, pretending like she’s not waiting. That stiff posture, that leg bounce, the fake calm expression? All of it screams she doesn’t know how to feel. Which is perfect.

I lean against the doorway, arms folded, amused. Watching her. Letting her sit in it.

Then I raise one finger. Curl it once. Real slow.

A smirk spreads across my lips, because her reaction isn’t immediate—but it happens. She hesitates just long enough for her friends to jump in, bumping her shoulder and egging her on.

“You better go get that.”

“Dee, please. For the culture.”

“What culture?”

“Just go!”

She rolls her eyes but stands. And that’s all I needed.

I don’t say a word—I just walk backward, heels clicking against the dark wood floor like a countdown. She follows. Of course she does. Diana Taurasi may not chase—but she follows. That’s how I know I already got her.

We step through the velvet curtain, and she enters the private room like it’s foreign ground. Like she doesn’t usually give up control. The lights are dim, low and sultry, music humming through hidden speakers. No stage here. No crowd. Just me, her, and a space that bends to my rhythm.

She looks like she’s trying to play it cool, but her hands are shoved in her pockets, and her jaw is tight. So I push her into the seat, palms soft on her chest. Not hard. Not aggressive. Just enough pressure to remind her—you’re not in charge anymore.

I circle her slowly, letting my fingers trail across the chair, behind her neck, down the opposite armrest. She doesn’t look back, but I feel her track me with every step. Like her body’s on alert. Like she doesn’t know what to expect and hates that she’s into it.

“Why so tense, mamba…” I murmur, voice barely above the music. “You can relax.”

I step in front of her, close enough to press my knees against hers. Then I take her hands—slowly, gently, like I’m not in a rush—and guide them to my hips. She doesn’t move them. Just lets them rest there. Still stiff.

“Come on,” I whisper. “You can touch me. That’s the rule.”

Her brows twitch like she’s weighing the cost. She’s trying to act like this doesn’t faze her, like I’m just some girl dancing in a private room.

But she doesn’t pull away. The music keeps playing, low and dark and full of bass, and I sway into it, letting my hips roll into her hands as if they belong there. And maybe they do. Just for tonight.

“If you think you’ll win this…” I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, “…you’re wrong, baby.”

I press one palm against her chest, then slowly glide it down until I’m gripping her thigh. My other hand parts her knees with the same ease as someone opening a door.

She doesn’t stop me. I sink down between her legs—not in a rush, not to shock her. Just low enough that I can look up from the floor and see the shift in her eyes when she realizes this isn’t about performance anymore.

I drag both hands up the inside of her thighs, slow and deliberate, pausing just below her hips. My thumbs press into the fabric of her pants like I’m memorizing the shape of her. Then I move higher, palms smoothing up her stomach, across the line of her abs, just until I’m hovering again—half-kneeling, half-crouched, face tilted like I’m trying to figure out exactly how she’s holding it together.

Spoiler: she’s not.

“You’re breathing different,” I say softly. “You trying not to react?”

She doesn’t answer. Her jaw clenches.

“You think I haven’t seen that look before? That stiff, don’t-break composure?” I smile. “It’s cute. But it never lasts.”

I press higher, fingers trailing the bottom edge of her shirt now, just enough to make her nerves jump. And all the while, I keep looking at her. Only her.

“I’ll break you.”

I say it like a promise. Like a quiet storm. Like it’s already happening.

And then I stand. Smooth. Tall. Confident. My hands slide back to her shoulders, pressing her back into the chair as I climb up, knees bracing each side of her thighs, hips hovering just above her lap. My face inches from hers.

Still no rush. Just presence. Just heat. And she’s frozen—somewhere between fight and surrender. Exactly where I want her.

She’s loosening up now.

Breathing easier. Shoulders down. Hands not clenched in her lap like she’s scared to move. I can feel it in the way her knees shift, just slightly wider. The way her eyes follow my hands instead of the floor.

So I smile, soft and amused. “See… not so hard.”

Her voice is low. “What’s your rule?”

I don’t even turn around. I just hum.

“…You already know.”

I take a step back, let the distance stretch for half a second before I soften it with a teasing little whine—playful, cocky, like I’m daring her to miss me already. My body rolls with it. Smooth, fluid. That’s my best weapon—being sensual without effort. Being a problem without ever raising my voice.

I lean back into her, slow like molasses, turning so my back presses to her chest. My hand finds her knee—she’s already sitting wide, practically begging—and I lower myself down into her lap, full weight, deliberate.

It’s not rushed. It’s intimate. Claustrophobic in the best way.

I let my head tilt back, just enough that my hair brushes her collarbone. My thighs fit between hers, one hand resting on her knee like I’m claiming the territory she forgot was hers to give. She doesn’t stop me.

Her breath warms my ear. Slow. Hesitant. So I guide her.

I take one of her hands, soft at first, and lay it flat on my stomach. She tenses. Holds it there. But when I don’t stop her? When I don’t pull away?

She squeezes. Not rough. Not horny. Curious. Like she’s trying to learn something she thought she already knew.

And when I still don’t stop her—don’t even flinch—she does it again. This time letting her hand slide lower, to my thigh, dragging her fingers lightly like she’s trying to memorize texture. Her other hand follows, finding the opposite leg, gripping it. Palming it. Like she’s testing if I’ll let her.

I do.

I arch just enough to deepen the contact, then roll my hips slow—not grinding, not yet. Just a suggestion. My hands glide down her arms, fingertips brushing hers. And then I feel her move.

Her hands come up, hesitant but bold, sliding along my waist until she’s cupping my breasts through the thin fabric of my top. She pauses—like she can’t believe she’s doing it. Like she’s expecting me to flinch or scold.

But I chuckle. Low. Sweet. A little cruel.

“See?” I whisper, turning my head just enough for her to hear it in her ear.

“I don’t bite… mamba.”

She exhales. Real slow.

I can feel her jaw shift against my cheek, the tension melting into something else. Something needier. Hungrier. Her thumbs move, brushing over me gently, more confident now. She still doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to. Her hands say enough.

I just smile. Because now she’s here.

I settle fully in her lap. No space left between us. No more teasing like I might stand up again. I’m here, soft and heavy and deliberate. Her hands are everywhere—waist, hips, ribs, thighs. Wandering. Not greedy, but steady. Like she can’t decide where she wants to keep them because she wants all of it.

My head tilts back slightly, brushing her shoulder as I look up at her. Her face is right there. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to bite. But I don’t—not yet. I just let her feel the weight of me. Let her feel what it’s like to be the one touched and touched back.

I grind against her slow, barely-there pressure, just enough to remind her what I’ve got. My hips roll once, lazy and calculated, the seam of my body angled exactly where I want it. Right where her center’s pressed between my thighs. I lean forward a bit, just enough that her grip shifts, slides to hold my hips again.

I know what I’m doing. I love women. I’ve studied every twitch, every breath, every slip of control. This is a language I speak fluently—and she’s starting to understand it.

“Too much?” I ask, voice soft, lips close to her jaw. A little pout on purpose. Just for the contrast.

“…not enough.” She doesn’t hesitate.

That answer hits low. Deep. Like a crack in the foundation. My smile sharpens, slow and wicked, and I roll my hips again—this time a little deeper, a little heavier. Let her feel it. My body dragging slow friction right over the spot she didn’t mean to tense for.

Her fingers flex at my hips. Hold tighter. She doesn’t pull me closer—but she doesn’t stop me either. She doesn’t have to. She’s giving it away.

“Mmm,” I hum, low in my throat, still moving. “You sure? I could stop.”

She exhales through her nose. Sharp. Annoyed. A silent don’t play with me. So I lean in again—this time my mouth barely an inch from her ear.

“Good,” I whisper. “Because I haven’t even started.”

Her hands grip my hips now—not tentative anymore, but firm. Like she’s giving in. Letting me move, letting me guide the rhythm, but needing to feel it. Needing to hold something while she falls apart slowly.

I smile to myself, eyes half-lidded, the corner of my mouth curling like I already know what’s coming. Her jaw’s tight. Clenched. Like her whole body’s working overtime just to keep from reacting too fast.

And I love it.

I keep grinding slow, just enough friction to keep her focused. Just enough pressure to make her forget where the line is. My hips roll steady into her lap, warm and soft and controlled—like sin wrapped in velvet.

She lets out a groan. Low. Right against my ear. The kind that escapes before she can trap it. Her breath is hot, and her grip on my waist tightens again, anchoring herself like she’s seconds from slipping.

I chuckle softly—breathy and smug. Not cruel. Just knowing.

One of her hands leaves my hip. Slides up my body, confident now. Over my side, across my ribs. It finds my breast again, fitting her palm there like she finally figured out what she wants to do with it. She squeezes, slow and careful, thumb brushing across me through the fabric.

My breath catches just slightly—not because I’m surprised, but because I like it. Because now I know for sure: she’s gone. I’ve got her. And she’s holding on like she needs to.

Her other hand never left my hip, though. She grips it tighter, using it to guide my rhythm, like her body’s responding before her mind can catch up. Her legs are wide under me, her thighs flexing every time I roll just right over her.

“You good?” I murmur, glancing over my shoulder, voice lazy and teasing like I’m not sitting directly on top of everything she’s trying to control.

She exhales hard. Doesn’t answer. Just keeps touching me.

So I smirk again and roll slower, deeper, my body fitting into her like we’ve done this a hundred times.

But we haven’t. She just wants it that bad.

I push off her lap and stand, slow and smug, watching the way her body reaches for me without meaning to. Her breath stutters, and if I blinked, I’d miss it—but there it is.

A little pout. Not dramatic. Just a flicker of disappointment. Hunger.

“Awww, what’s wrong, baby?” I coo, tilting my head with mock concern. “Thought you’d win something?”

I drag my finger across her shoulder as I walk around her, circling slow, eyes locked on the way her legs still won’t close. She’s hot. Bothered. Chest rising and falling just a little too fast. Trying to hold composure that doesn’t belong to her anymore.

And just as I drop low again, just as I let the silence stretch between us, her hands find my waist—bold now—and pull me right back onto her lap.

I let it happen. Let my knees slide wide, thighs snug around hers. Straddling her again, this time with her chest pressing up into mine, her hands gripping the curve of my hips like she owns them.

“Mmm… touchy now, huh?” I murmur, smiling.

“Shut up.”

“Oh?” I laugh softly, settling in. “Or what?”

She glares, jaw tight—but her grip doesn’t ease up. She ain’t got a comeback this time. No smartass reply. Just those hands flexing on my body like she’s trying to get a grip on her sanity.

Too late.

I tilt my head slowly, daring her. Then I reach up and grip her jaw—not rough, not sweet either. Just firm. Steady. I tilt her face up, force her to look at me.

This… this is new.

I don’t kiss clients. I don’t touch like this. Not for real. I dance. I tease. I push them to the edge and leave them there. Get them wet and wrecked and begging, then disappear. That’s the job. That’s the art.

She make me want to.

So I smile. Real slow. Her hands slide down to my ass, full and sure, like she’s not asking permission anymore. Just taking what I’ve already given.

I lean in, slow enough to make her wait, and kiss the corner of her mouth. Just that. Soft. Just enough heat to sting.

“…That allowed?” She’s whispers.

“You care?” I smirk.

“…Do it again.”

So I do. I kiss her again—this time lower. Her jaw. Her neck. I trail heat down to that spot right below her ear, where her pulse jumps, where her hands grip me harder and her thighs tense beneath mine.

She starts moving me. Hands on my hips again. Rocking me slow against her like she can’t help it. Like if I stop, she’ll fall apart. Her shoulders shift. I can feel the strength in her arms as she rolls my body into hers like she’s trying to memorize it.

I pull back just enough to look down at her, my hand still under her jaw, lifting her chin like she belongs there.

“Mamba…” I say with a slow, wicked smile. “You gave in.”

I lean in close, nose brushing hers. “Look at you…”

And she does. Eyes dark, lips parted, throat tight

Her hands move up my back—no hesitation now, no testing. Firm. Hot. Possessive. She pulls me closer like she needs me there. Like not having my body against hers is suddenly a problem.

Her breath brushes the shell of my ear, and I can feel it—tight, ragged, uneven. She’s holding on by threads. So I lean in, real low, lips brushing her skin but not kissing.

“Gonna beg me?” I whisper. She stiffens.

“No.”

I smirk. That denial came too fast. Too tight. That’s the pride talking—not the heat pooling in her stomach, not the grip on my waist, not the way she’s practically rocking against me now.

“Ohh come on…” I purr, sliding my hips forward, slow and deep, letting the friction hit just right between us. “You’re Diana Taurasi… you’ve worked for shit before, right?”

I let that hang in the air for a beat—just long enough to let her feel it. Then I shift like I’m about to leave. Start to push off her lap, slow, smooth, nonchalant. Like I could go.

Like I would. And that’s when she panics.

She grabs my waist. Strong. Too strong. Damn near slams me back down into her lap. My eyes widen slightly—not out of fear, just amusement.

Instant ocean. I raise an eyebrow, watching her jaw flex like she’s choking on the one thing she’s never had to say out loud.

“…Please.”

Soft. Rough. The kind of whisper you say through gritted teeth when you hate how bad you mean it. My smile spreads.

“Mm,” I hum, dragging my nails lightly up her arms. “I’ve heard better, mamba.” I rock once. Deep. Slow.

“Say it like you mean it… or I’ll walk out of here so wet for you it’ll haunt you for the rest of the season.”

And her fingers dig in like she knows I mean it.

Her grip tightens like her life depends on it. Like letting me go now would mean bleeding out. And I can feel it—the tension in her thighs, the ache in her fingertips, the shallow drag of her breath like it’s scraping up from somewhere deep.

But she still hesitates. Still clings to that last sliver of control like it matters.

I roll my hips once more, slower this time—sinking right down into her lap, giving her every inch of that friction she didn’t earn. My hands cradle the sides of her face, thumb dragging across her cheek like I’m comforting her. Like I care.

“I said say it like you mean it,” I murmur. My voice is silk, but the command in it? Cold steel.

She swallows hard. I don’t move. I just wait. Still. Straddled over her. Breathing steady while hers stutters. Then finally—finally—she looks at me.

Eyes glassy. Dark. Almost angry at herself. Like her pride is choking her on the way out. And then she says it.

“Please.”

But this time it’s real. Quiet. Raw. Like she hates how much she means it. And baby… it breaks her. My smirk softens into something else. Not pity. Not victory. Something deeper. Almost dangerous.

“There she is,” I whisper.

I lean in slow. Let my lips brush hers, not quite a kiss—just a burn. A warning. Then I drag my mouth down the line of her jaw, across the curve of her neck, until I find that spot pulsing under her ear. I kiss her there. Once. Slow. Then again. Open-mouthed.

She groans.

Her hands slide from my waist to my ass, gripping like she needs to anchor herself to survive this. Her legs flex underneath me. She starts moving me again—guiding my hips with a rhythm that’s messier now. Needier. She’s not in control anymore, she’s chasing.

I pull back, just enough to look her in the eye. My breath fans her lips.

“Look at you,” I murmur, sweet and sinful. “Begging.”

And then I kiss her. Really kiss her. Full mouth. Full pressure. Like she’s mine already and always has been. The way she kisses back. Baby—she’s gone.

She’s not asking anymore. She’s begging. And it’s not just once—it’s spilling. Low, hoarse, under her breath like it’s involuntary. Like every second she doesn’t feel me move is a punishment.

“Please…”

“Don’t stop…”

“Fuck—please…”

Each one softer, wetter, more pathetic than the last. And I just sit in her lap like a throne, hips rolling in slow, exact circles. Feeding her just enough pressure to keep her throbbing, just enough friction to feel it everywhere.

I ain’t rushing it. Why would I? She’s already mine.

I lean in, lips at her ear, letting my breath tease every time she tries to speak. Every time her voice cracks or her nails press harder into my thighs.

“You like that, mamba?” I whisper, teasing her as I grind. “You like beggin’ for it?”

She groans, hips bucking up helplessly. Her hands are all over now—gripping my ass, my waist, my back like she can’t decide what to hold onto. Like her body’s short-circuiting.

“I’ll do anything,” she mutters. That makes me smile.

I slow your hips. Real slow. Just enough to make her whine. Then I grip her jaw again, tilt her head back like before, but this time there’s no warning.

I kiss her like a reward. Full, deep, tongue in her mouth while she moans into it like she’s gone stupid. Her legs are shaking under you. She’s grinding up like her life depends on it. Like she’s so close she could fall apart right there, with just me riding her lap and whispering filth in her ear.

“That wallet real nice,” I murmur between kisses. “Might keep you just for that.”

I feel her grip tighten like she liked that too much.

“And you?” I add, lips brushing hers. “You real fine.”

She whimpers. Literally. Head falls back. Eyes fluttering. She’s chasing something. Maybe a nut. Maybe just me. Either way—she’s fuckin’ desperate.

I lean back slightly, watching her crumble, my hands on her shoulders to pin her just enough.

“Damn, mamba… you ‘bout to cum from this?”

I grind deeper once—perfectly—and she chokes on a breath.

“God—yes. Please, please, I’m—”

I hush her with your mouth. Biting her lip just enough to shut her up. Then grinding again, eyes locked on her as her back arches and her hands tighten, trying to make it last, trying not to embarrass herself—

But it’s too late. She’s trembling under me. All while I’m still fully dressed. Calm. Smiling.

Mission. Accomplished.

Her chest is rising like she just finished running suicides, lips parted, flushed all the way up to her ears.

I lean in, slow and smooth, letting her catch your scent again—your lip gloss, your heat, the faint sweat at your collarbone.

I kiss her. One more time. But it’s not needy. Not even sweet. It’s final. Soft, full, and dangerous. A kiss that says “You did good.” A kiss that says “But don’t think it meant more to me.”

I pull back, one hand grazing her cheek, eyes unreadable. I stand. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just step off her lap, adjust my top, and walk toward the curtain like I didn’t just bring one of the most dangerous players in the game to her fuckin’ knees. I didn’t look back.

Can’t let her see that I enjoyed that more than she did. It takes a minute, but eventually she walks out too. Her friends light up, all of ’em ready to clown.

“So? How was it?”

“Dee, tell me she didn’t ruin you—”

“You good??”

But Diana was dead silent.

Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just walks straight past them—jacket in hand, head down, face unreadable—and straight out the door like nothing happened. Like that wasn’t the best thing that’s happened to her in years. Like she didn’t almost come in a fuckin’ chair.

Back inside, Mateo comes stomping up to me, waving a receipt like it’s the winning lottery ticket.

“Yo,” he says, wide-eyed, grinning like a madman. “Yo.”

I raise a brow, unbothered.

“She left a tip so fat I thought it was a fuckin’ typo. Cash. Like cash cash.”

I smirk, biting your lip.

Mateo shakes his head, half-laughing, half-hyped. “I love basketball. God bless America. You? You just made the hall of fame, baby.”

You wink. “Told you I never miss.”

He throws his hands up and walks off still muttering, “I gotta get that jersey signed or somethin’.”

I just sit back in my seat, relaxed, untouched, legs crossed like nothing happened.

That’s enough for tonight. Until next time, mamba.

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan

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sunni-stuff · 7 months ago

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Adira and Mama have always celebrated valentines together. And now we have Simon, who in addition to wanting to create a connection with Adira, he also wants to recreate that "love" with Mom. So, this Valentine's Day, Simon and Adira team up to give Mom a wonderful gift!

Valentine’s Day.

The holiday where people got all sappy, handed out cards, and smothered their significant others with roses and kisses. The streets would be painted in shades of red and pink, filled with the bustling energy of couples trying to outdo each other with grand romantic gestures.

But for you, Valentine’s Day had always been about something else. Since Adira was born, it became a tradition to celebrate the love of your life in your own way. You didn’t need a partner to make the day meaningful; you had her. Every year, you’d gift her a small box of her favorite chocolates—indulgent, sweet pieces she’d greedily munch on, leaving her cheeks smeared with chocolate and her gummy grin brighter than the sun.

You couldn’t help but remember the memory of how Adira’s love affair with that brand of chocolate started. Godiva Gold Collection—an unnecessarily expensive, fancy brand that had somehow become her favorite. You still had the box that started it all, tucked away in the closet of keepsakes, its shiny gold lid a time capsule of an unexpected moment from your early days at the daycare.

It was your first Valentine’s Day as an assistant, back before you had your own class. You’d been trying to keep a low profile, just another cog in the machine, but one of the dads had made that impossible. For weeks, he’d been flirting with you, persistent in a way that made you roll your eyes more than blush. Day in and day out, he’d linger a little too long during drop-offs or pick-ups, throwing out compliments like confetti. It was harmless enough, but you never entertained it beyond polite smiles.

That Valentine’s Day, though, he decided to up the ante. Strolling in with his daughter on one arm and an elaborate, glittering box of chocolates in the other, he sauntered over to you with the confidence of a man who thought he’d already won.

“I thought you might like these,” he said, handing you the Godiva box with a grin that was probably meant to be charming but mostly came off smug. “Figured you deserved a little something for always being so amazing.”

You took the box graciously, murmuring a polite thank-you. And that’s when the moment turned unexpectedly sweet.

Before you could even process the interaction, a tiny figure toddled into the room—Adira, barely one year old, her chubby legs carrying her as fast as they could toward you. Her little hand stretched up, fingers opening and closing in that unmistakable signal: I want.

You smiled at her, heart melting as it always did. “Of course, little fox,” you murmured, placing the box carefully in her hands. She hugged it to her chest with the kind of pure joy that only a child could muster, her little fingers already fumbling with the lid.

The dad’s confident grin faltered as he watched the scene unfold. His brow furrowed in confusion. “Wait… You give chocolate to all the kids here? Isn’t that, uh, bad for them?” He gestured awkwardly toward Adira, who had now plopped herself onto the floor, fully engrossed in her mission to open the box.

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you stood back up. “No, I don’t give chocolate to all the kids,” you said, your tone gentle but firm. “Adira’s mine.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and you watched as the realization dawned on him. His eyes widened, darting between you and Adira as if trying to piece together a puzzle he hadn’t even realized was in front of him.

“She’s… yours?” he asked, incredulous.

You nodded, glancing down at Adira, who had successfully pried the box open and was now holding a truffle in her tiny hands like it was a treasure. “Yep. My daughter,” you said, pride evident in your voice. “She’s the reason I started working here, actually. Thought it’d be a good way to balance work and being there for her.”

The man’s face turned an odd shade of red, and you couldn’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction. He had assumed, just like so many others, that you were childless and ready to play along with his flirtations. But you weren’t. And that, in some small way, felt like a victory.

“Oh. Wow. I didn’t realize,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I, uh, thought you were single. And… you know, childless.”

“Nope,” you said with a small laugh. “Very much a mom.”

He began backing toward the door with an apologetic smile. “Right, well… I should get going. My daughter’s probably waiting for me. Happy Valentine’s Day!” And just like that, he was gone.

Wasn't he holding his daughter?

His swift retreat had you chuckling even as you turned your attention back to Adira, who was now blissfully munching on her stolen treasure. She looked up at you, her grin wide and sticky, chocolate clinging to her growing pearly whites.

“Yum!” she declared, holding up another piece as if offering it to you.

Now, every Valentine’s Day, when you handed her a new box, she’d squeal with glee, just like she did when she was a baby. And every time, it reminded you why you didn’t need flowers, cards, or romantic gestures to make the day special.

Adira was your Valentine. She always had been, and she always would be.

Valentine’s Day had arrived once again, painting the streets with an abundance of roses, teddy bears, and couples hand in hand. The air was charged with the energy of love—or at least, that’s how the advertisements made it seem.

For you, it was a different story. As a single parent, Valentine's Day didn’t come with the same excitement. Instead, it was a quiet reminder of the love you shared with Adira—the kind of love that didn't need gifts or fancy dinners. You had your own little celebration planned with her at home, but first, there was work.

The daycare was closing early that day, giving most of the staff the chance to spend time with their partners. But for the rest of you—those without a special someone—it was business as usual. The meeting, something about the upcoming budgets for the year, was mandatory.

As you wrapped up your workday, you felt a twinge of guilt. Adira wouldn’t have the patience to wait while you sat through the meeting. She never did, and today wasn’t going to be any different. So, in a bit of a spur-of-the-moment decision, you called Simon. He was more than happy to help, even though the idea of being with Adira all afternoon seemed like a challenge. Still, he was eager to do what he could, giving you time to get through the meeting without worrying.

Unbeknownst to you, your apartment was currently in a state of complete disarray.

It all started when Simon, while rummaging through the pantry for snacks, stumbled upon a familiar gold box tucked in the corner. He didn’t know why the sight of the Godiva box stirred something in him, but it did. For a split second, his mind conjured up the idea that you had someone special—someone who’d given you the overpriced chocolate. His stomach twisted at the thought.

Why did that bother him? It wasn’t like he had any claim over you. You were just co-parenting. But still, the idea of some other guy swooping in and winning you over with fancy chocolates rubbed him the wrong way.

The thought simmered in the back of his mind until he turned to Adira, who was running around, triumphantly waving around her Barbie head like a trophy . An idea formed, one that made the edges of his frown soften into something more determined.

“How about we make your mom something special?” he proposed, crouching down to her level.

Adira’s eyes lit up, her face brightening with an enthusiastic grin. “Yeah! Special for Mommy!” She bounced to her feet, already brimming with elation.

“Alright, lass,” he said, ruffling her hair. “We’ll need a plan. Let’s get to work.”

By the time thirty minutes had passed, your apartment was barely recognizable. Flour dusted nearly every surface, glitter and scraps of colorful paper were strewn across the living room, and the faint smell of something slightly burnt wafted from the kitchen. Simon was in over his head.

He had underestimated two things: the sheer mess a three-year-old could create when left unchecked and the complexity of trying to bake cookies with said three-year-old as his assistant.

His phone laid on the counter, a lifeline to Gaz, who had graciously agreed to walk him through baking cookies. "Alright, I’ve got the dough… I think. What’s next?” he asked, glancing at the slightly lumpy mixture in the bowl.

On the other end of the line, Gaz chuckled. “Mate, it shouldn’t look like that. Did you actually measure the ingredients, or did you just eyeball it?”

Simon huffed, frustration bubbling as he wiped a streak of flour off his cheek. “I followed the recipe! Mostly. Adira added her own… interpretations.”

As if on cue, Adira, perched on a stool beside him, giggled mischievously, her tiny hands gripping the now-empty container of sprinkles. She enthusiastically dumped half of it into the bowl, sending a white puff into the air. She giggled uncontrollably as flour settled into her hair, making her look like a tiny ghost.

“Looks funny!” she declared, wiping her flour-dusted hands on his sleeve.

Simon groaned, but he couldn’t suppress the chuckle that followed. “Yeah, you look like you’ve been rolling around in snow.” Glancing at the concoction they were making, pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering to himself, “This is a disaster.”

“Oi, it’s not a disaster,” Gaz chimed in, his voice crackling slightly through the speaker. “You’ve just got… a creative helper. Roll with it. Kids love messy projects.”

As they moved on to rolling out the dough, Adira decided to take charge of the cookie cutters. She pressed them into the dough with all the strength her tiny hands could muster, creating wobbly fox shapes that were more abstract than symmetrical. “For Mommy!” she declared with each press, her little voice full of pride.

Simon’s heart softened at her excitement. Despite the chaos, she was having the time of her life, and he couldn’t deny that it was… fun, in a strange, messy sort of way.

“Alright, Gaz,” Simon said, propping the phone closer to his ear as he picked up a cookie sheet. “What temperature do I need to set the oven at?”

“Preheat it to 350. And keep an eye on those cookies—you don’t want them to burn.”

“Got it,” Simon replied, sliding the tray into the oven.

While the cookies were “baking” (a generous term for the mess he’d shoved into the oven), Simon pulled out some paper, markers, and glitter he’d found in your supply cabinet. Adira jumped in eagerly, grabbing a red marker to scribble a heart on a piece of paper.

“Mommy likes red,” she informed him with absolute certainty, her tongue poking out in concentration as she drew wobbly shapes.

“Aye, red it is,” Simon agreed, his own hands now dusted with glitter as he helped her glue a few sparkly hearts onto the card. “We’ll make it the prettiest card she’s ever seen.”

By the time the cookies were done, the kitchen was a disaster zone, glitter was everywhere, and Simon had flour smeared across his cheek. Adira was thrilled, though, holding up her homemade card with pride.

Simon pulled the cookies out of the oven, sighing in relief when they actually looked halfway decent. Adira gasped in delight, clapping her flour-dusted hands together.

“They’re perfect,” she declared, though one cookie was clearly missing a chunk where she’d snuck a bite of the dough earlier.

Simon chuckled, ruffling her hair. “You’re right, they’re perfect.”

By the time you got home, the chaos was still evident—scraps of paper littered the floor, flour smudged on the counters, and a sticky trail of frosting led to the living room. But in the middle of it all were Simon and Adira, sitting at the table with the slightly wonky cookies and a handmade card, waiting for you with proud grins on their faces.

"Happy Valentine’s Day, Mommy!” Adira exclaimed, jumping up to present you with her card.

Your heart melted at the sight, the mess fading into the background as you took in the scene before you. This wasn’t what you’d expected, but it was perfect.

Your voice caught in your throat as you held up the card Adira had made. The inside was adorned with little foxes, and the words scribbled across the page were a mix of Simon’s careful handwriting and Adira’s wobbly, childlike scrawl. The sentence read: “Call me Swiper because I’ve stolen your heart.”

You couldn’t help but smile, your chest tightening at the sight of it. The card was so simple, yet so heartfelt. It was a moment of pure, unfiltered love from the two people who had, in their own way, quietly wormed their way into your heart.

"You guys did all this…?" Your voice a little shaky, as you looked from the card to Simon and Adira, who were both sitting proudly at the table. Simon had flour on his cheek, and Adira’s face was a picture of joy, her hands covered in frosting and sprinkles. It was clear they’d both put their all into this little surprise.

Simon rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin on his face as he shrugged. “Well, Adira here had the idea. I just... tried not to burn the cookies.”

Adira giggled, holding up one of the cookies as if it were a trophy. It was slightly misshapen, with sprinkles all over it, but it didn’t matter. It was perfect in its imperfection. “Mommy, for you!” she exclaimed, her voice full of pride.

Your eyes softened, your heart swelling with love and something else you couldn’t quite place—appreciation, gratitude, maybe even a little awe. The moment was small, yet so significant.

“Thank you, Adira,” you whispered softly, your heart swelling as you knelt down to scoop her up into a hug. She squirmed in your arms, giggling as she wrapped her tiny arms around your neck, her little fingers gripping your hair with an uncoordinated but tender affection.

Simon stood back, watching the two of you with a quiet smile. He didn’t say anything, but the look on his face was enough. He was content, knowing he’d been part of this moment.

“This is the best Valentine’s Day gift ever,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple as she squished her cheek against yours, still grinning ear to ear.

Simon hesitated for a moment, a twinge of uncertainty crossing his face as he stood there watching the tender scene. He knew he wasn’t quite there yet, not in the way you and Adira had been all this time. He was a part of this moment, but he still wasn’t sure exactly where he fit in. His eyes flickered between you, your outstretched arms, and the small bundle of joy that was his daughter, so full of love and happiness—it made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t ignore.

But then, your words cut through the haze of his hesitation. "Why are you just standing there?"

You were smiling, the playful hint of a challenge in your eyes, but there was something more in your voice too—an invitation. You didn’t have to say anything else; it was in the way you held out your arms, in the way you pulled him in with your gaze.

Simon took a slow, steadying breath, his heart beating a little faster. He moved forward, tentative at first, before lowering himself to kneel beside you both. Adira giggled as he wrapped his arms around the two of you, her laughter echoing in the warm air of the apartment. He wasn’t just trying to fit into a place anymore. He carved one out for himself—right there, with you and Adira. And that, more than anything, felt like home.

It wasn’t the romantic, picture-perfect Valentine’s Day you’d imagined in the past, but it was better. It was real. It was messy, sweet, and full of love. The kind of love that came in small, beautiful moments like these.

And for the first time in a long while, you realized that maybe this was exactly how it was supposed to be.

A/N: I just wanna say rq, I appreciate the love AND to the anon who sent this, your brain needs to be kissed. I said I wasn't gonna do long fics as often but this was too juicy to pass up. Thank you!

ALSO, pls yall don't have to send me asks to be on the taglist! If you comment I'll add u!

TAGLIST: @pipedream411 @ficcharsimp009 @frogofrg @loonagabs @lunamoonbby @vixenshiftsvrs @devoetee @shorty-tolentino @aethelwyneleigh27 @ayesha-eroticax3 @julesjuminos @tacticalgirlboss @teenagellamaangel @gifted-aurora @awildewit @emilia527 @danielle143 @maniacalbooper @t3a-bag @sockertop @arrozyfrijoles23 @azaleapeachberry @terry2227 @rip-cod-brainrot @montenegroisr @sweetheartturtle2007 @hepprine @kodokunarisu-blog

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty #cod x reader #simon riley #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #singlemom!reader #we meet again #sunshine sunni

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amywritesthings · 8 months ago

Text

sylus. / day 05: ring.

fandom: love and deepspace pairing: sylus x mc warnings: radiant brilliance memory card spoilers

for @thedrabblecollective 's challenge / dividers by @saradika-graphics

Although the ring is too large for your finger, you can't help but wiggle your hand with fondness. In the dim warm light, its shiny gold gleams.

"I can hear you thinking, kitten."

Your back rumbles from baritone as you lay between his legs.

"It's just…"

"Too big?" Sylus finishes, humming low. "I've heard that before."

When you turn with a glare, dark amusement flickers in his eyes.

"You can't get mad at your own words. Besides--"

He lowers his chin to kiss your forehead.

"--now I know gold looks perfect on you for when I find the real deal."

#lads sylus #love and deepspace #sylus x you #sylus x mc #sylus x reader #lads fanfic #lads fanfiction #love and deepspace fic #lads x reader #drabbles #drabble #drabblechallenge2024

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maugustiee · 2 days ago

Text

Smokestack twins x Spy black!reader

Synopsis: reader from a rival gang sent to seduce the twins to gain intel on their dealings by a rival gang but she’s not slick enough.

You walk into their club, It’s low-lit and full of smoke. You’re dressed to distract, but underneath all the gloss and silk is a wire in your bra, a small recorder tucked in your purse.

Your job is simple: seduce one of the infamous twins Elijah “Smoke” or Elias “Stack” and find out what they’re planning next.

You didn’t expect both of them to be here.

Smoke is at the top balcony, looking overhead of the club, all slow-burning silence and control. Stack is upfront, glass in hand, gold grill flashing when he smiles.

“You must ge lost.,” Stack calls, voice seductive and thick.

You tilt your head, play your role. “Maybe I like getting lost.”

Smoke’s eyes cut to you sharp and assessing. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t have to.

You slide into their booth, sit beside Stack, but you make sure to meet Smoke’s gaze when you cross your legs.

They let you play. For a while.

⸻

You spend two weeks getting close. Flirting, lingering, laughing at Stack’s jokes. But You take a softer approach with Smoke, brushing your fingers over his tattooed hand during card games, ask about his silver rings the decorated his fingers.

They never let you out of their sight, and you chalk it up to paranoia.

What you don’t know is: they clocked you the second you walked in.

⸻

It unravels on a Tuesday.

You’re in Smoke’s apartment, sitting on the low couch with a drink you didn’t finish. He’s watching you, slow and still. You’re wearing red. They like you in red.

“So,” he says finally. “What’s your real name?”

You freeze.

You laugh like it’s a joke.

“I told you. It’s—”

“You told me a lie,” he cuts in, quiet but lethal. “Been lettin’ you run your mouth. Thought maybe you’d come clean.”

You go for your purse, pure instinct and then you feel it.

Stack behind you. His body close, heat at your back, one hand sliding into your bag without asking. He pulls out the recorder. Still warm from earlier.

“Cute,” Stack murmurs.

Your stomach drops. You’re standing before you know it, but you’ve got nowhere to go, not with Smoke in front and Stack behind.

“You gonna tell us what they got on you?” Stack asks, tossing the recorder to the couch. “Or you just loyal for free?”

“I was doing my job,” you retort.

Smoke stands. Walks over slow. You brace — a slap, a shove, maybe worse.

He holds your chin in one hand.

“You don’t gotta go back,” he says, low. “Ain’t nothin’ waitin’ for you over there but death, anyway.”

You shake your head. “You gonna kill me?”

Stack steps closer. His voice hums behind your ear. “If we wanted you dead we wouldn’t have never let you leave the club.”

“You’re lucky, though,” he drawls. “We liked you. Real sweet. Almost forgot you was tryna play us.”

His hands roam not rough, not cruel. Just possessive.

“You don’t gotta be scared,” Stack murmurs. “We ain’t mad just disappointed.”

Smoke steps in close now. His eyes hold yours like chains. “You think we ain’t noticed how you played us off each other? How you waited ‘til I left the room to lean up on him? Then did the same when he stepped out?”

“We ain’t dumb,” Stack whispers. “Just patient.”

You try to back away, but Stack’s already got his arms around your waist. Smoke lifts your chin again. “You ours now. You understand that?”

“Ok,” you say, nodding.

Stack Smoke smile, completely mirroring eachother while looking at you.

⸻

They move you into one of their safehouses. Not for your safety. More like a prison if anyone asked.

Your old gang thinks you’re dead or flipped. Either way, you’re gone.

And the twins? They treat you like a treasure,and make sure no one else ever gets a piece.

Stack keeps you laughing, with a hand on your thigh and gold teeth flashing.

Smoke watches you cook in the morning, presses a kiss behind your ear like muscle memory.

They don’t ask for loyalty. They take it.

And you give it.

Because in the end, you stopped being afraid.

You just became theirs.

And they make sure you feel it.

Stack gets there first, always the faster one. His hands are on your hips, pulling you down onto his lap like you weigh nothing. His gold grill flashes as he speaks low against your throat, tongue flicking over the skin.

“You love us don’t you?” he asks, rolling his hips up beneath you.

You can’t answer. Not with his mouth dragging over your chest, his fingers under your skirt, working you like he already knows the map of your body. Like he made it.

“You like belongin’ to us now, don’t you?” Stack mutters, voice hot and full of grit. “Ain’t gotta fake nothin’ no more.”

Your reply is cut off by Smoke’s hand curling in your hair , pullingyour head back toward him. His mouth finds yours deep. Possessive. He kisses like a promise.

Then he speaks, voice dark as the space between stars.

“She don’t talk unless we tell her to.”

Stack chuckles, low and rough. “Damn right.”

They move you together,rough, “and with the sure kind of control that comes from knowing you’re not leaving. Smoke lifts you from Stack’s lap and carries you like you’re weightless, setting you down on y’all’s shared bed. One hand stays at your throat, not choking, just reminding you whose you are.

He takes his time pulling your clothes off. Makes you feel every inch of his gaze, like your body ain’t yours no more.

“You gave it to us the second you walked in that club,” he whispers, dragging his fingers slow between your thighs. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

And Stack?

He’s behind you before you can beg for more. You hear the rustle of his chains, feel his breath on your shoulder.

“Let her feel both of us,” he murmurs to Smoke, hand sliding over your hip. “Let her know what it means to be owned.”

Owned.

You should hate the way it makes your stomach twist and flutter. But you don’t.

You arch into them, moaning, begging, desperate until it’s not clear whose hands are where, or whose mouth is at your neck, your chest, your thighs. There’s no room for thought.

Just heat. Command. And Devotion.

When they finish with you, with your legs shaking and your voice wrecked from screaming both their names, Smoke brushes a kiss to your temple and mutters, “Ain’t nobody else gonna touch you again.”

Stack leans in from behind, lips pressed to your ear. “You ours now, baby. For real. For good.”

You don’t fight it.

Not anymore.

Because the truth is, you stopped spying the moment they touched you like that.

And now?

Now, you’re not going back.

Even if you could.

Credits to @cursed-carmine for divider

Tag list: @chrisevansmentee @queenofklonnie22 @christinabae @secretlifeofpreshap @thefutureemmywinner @monstaxmomma0 @cocooned-butterfly

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starsinthesky5 · 26 days ago

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What’re our favs joe and songbird up to during Memorial Day weekend?

a/n: this is longer than intended LMAO

wc: 4k

warnings: SMUT, mdni, fluff, lots of down-badness

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

it’s late afternoon and the sun’s still strong, glinting off the water as they laze around in the backyard of a friend’s lake house—the kind of place tucked away in the trees, all bright umbrellas and glass pitchers of pomegranate margs on teakwood tables, music floating low from a speaker tucked in the corner. the scent of grilled burgers and sunscreen hangs in the air. red, white, and blue towels drape across every chair, paper lanterns dangle overhead, and someone’s dog keeps shaking water onto whoever’s closest.

the group’s sprawled across every surface, a mix of couples, teammates, and old friends, laughing over card games, tossing a frisbee barefoot across the lawn, or passing beers down the line. there’s a girl braiding hair on the dock, one of joe’s buddies setting up a cornhole tournament like it’s the olympics, and another trying to climb onto a unicorn float too small for him while everyone cheers him on.

joe’s at the edge of the pool, legs in the water, cartier glasses low on his nose. he’s got a drink in one hand and a lazy smile tugging at his lips, eyes locked on her as she floats by on an inflatable lounger—orange bikini-clad and glowing, skin kissed gold from the sun and glittering with droplets. she’s wearing one of his old LSU caps backward to keep the sun out of her eyes, the same one she stole weeks ago and refuses to give back—and he swears nothing has ever looked sexier. not the bikini, not the way her legs dangle off the float, not even the smirk she gives him when she catches him staring. just the hat. his girl, in his hat.

someone lobs a beach ball across the pool, and it bounces off her float with a soft thump, making her laugh as she bats it away toward one of the guys, trevor, probably, who nearly topples off his own float trying to catch it. she glides over to joe and splashes him with a lazy kick, laughing when he groans and flops a hand dramatically over his face.

“you’re a menace,” he says, but his smile’s soft and lovesick.

they snack on watermelon and pineapple chunks between dips in the water. she tries to feed him a piece of mango and misses, getting sticky juice on his chest, which turns into her licking it off with a sly grin. he nearly falls off the lounger trying to drag her into the pool after that, all laughter and gasping and legs wrapped around his waist as they sink under, surfacing with matching smiles and breathless little kisses.

there’s a moment later when they’re wading waist-deep, arms around each other, and quinn swims by and says, “jesus christ, get a room,” to which she just flips him off without even looking. joe grins against her temple. “we do plan to,” he thinks.

he can’t keep his hands off her. his fingers trace slow, delicate patterns along the curve of her ribs, palms settling possessively on her hips, the heat of his touch grounding her every time she tries to swim away, pulling her back with gentle but insistent tugs. she finds herself constantly reaching for his curls—slick, damp, and tangled from the pool—twisting the strands between her fingers like a secret comfort, flicking droplets of water at him whenever he pouts in mock offense, making him grin wide and teasing her right back.

the day stretches out before them in honeyed slowness, each moment melting into the next, endless, warm, and perfect. the sun hangs lazily in the sky, casting golden light that shimmers on the water’s surface, while the air is thick with laughter and the faint scent of sunscreen and summer blooms. when the sun dips lower and the light softens to a peachy glow, they finally break from the pool. she wraps herself in a soft, oversized towel, the fabric still warm from the sun, and settles with her legs draped across his lap as they sink into a cushioned chair near the water’s edge. joe nurses a cold high noon, the ice clinking softly in the glass, his sunglasses sliding back onto his nose as he relaxes into the moment. she’s tucked comfortably under his arm, a bowl of frozen grapes resting in her lap—sweet, cold bites melting on her tongue.

someone brings out a speaker, and summery pop hits start spilling through the yard, the upbeat melodies mixing with the hum of conversation. she hums softly along, head resting on joe’s shoulder, feeling the slow, lazy rhythm of his fingers tracing random, soothing shapes into her thigh—circles, lines, little hearts—each stroke a gentle reminder of his presence and his care.

across the yard, max and his girlfriend are fumbling with sparklers, their excited chatter punctuated by groans when they nearly set the bag on fire with their premature attempts. someone starts clapping, a slow grin spreading through the group as the evening stretches on, warm and full of quiet joy.

she leans in slowly, lips barely grazing his, a teasing brush that sends a shiver straight down joe’s spine. the warmth of her breath mingles with the humid air as her teeth catch his bottom lip, tugging it gently, claiming it like she owns it, and in that moment, he thinks maybe she does. maybe she always has. his breath hitches, chest tightening with need as she deepens the kiss, tongue slipping inside to dance with his, swirling, teasing, demanding. the world shrinks until all he can feel is her; soft, wet, insistent, urgent.

his hand slides down her side, fingers spreading wide on the warm curve of her hip, pulling her impossibly closer, the heat of their bodies crashing like a wildfire no one can stop. the slick stickiness of sunscreen mixed with pool water makes every touch electric, skin sliding deliciously against skin. “if you keep lookin’ at me like that,” joe’s voice drops lowly, ragged with want, “i’m not gonna last till sunset,”.

her eyes flash with a wicked glint, that familiar teasing spark that always gets him undone. “then why don’t we just forget the sunset?”,

their bodies press tighter, the tension coiling in his chest, the ache between his legs growing unbearable. “come inside with me,” he murmurs, voice husky, lips grazing her ear. it’s not an order—it’s a promise, a need, a plea.

inside the lake house, the shift is immediate and electric. the bright, golden sunlight spilling through the windows softens into a gentle, muted glow as dusk begins to settle outside. the cozy scent of cedar wood mingles with the smoky remnants of grilled food, wrapping around them like a warm, familiar blanket. faint laughter floats in from the porch, slow and carefree, but inside the bathroom, everything tightens, the air thickens with something darker, more urgent, raw and alive between them.

the bathroom door clicks shut behind them, a small but decisive sound that seals off the outside world. her towel slips off her shoulders like water, sliding down her body and pooling silently at her feet, revealing smooth, glistening skin catching the soft overhead light. joe’s swim trunks follow next, falling free as his body presses close, sun-kissed and flushed, every muscle defined and gleaming. his chest, sticky with the sweet remnants of mango juice and the sharp tang of pool water, rises and falls with slow, steady breaths, heat radiating off him.

the shower roars to life, warm water cascading down in thick, hot sheets that turn their skin into slick, shining silk. she steps fully under the spray, water streaming over her like liquid fire, and joe’s hands find her back, pressing her firm against the cool tile. the sharp contrast between the heated water and the cold surface beneath her sends jolts through her body, heightening every nerve. his palms flatten over her breasts, thumbs circling and brushing the tight, swollen nipples that peak beneath the water’s touch. his fingers trail down the sides of her ribs, teasing the soft, sensitive skin, before slipping lower to grip the curve of her hips with possessive, demanding strength, anchoring her to him as if daring her to try and pull away.

his mouth follows the path his hands have traced with a deliberate, reverent hunger. first, soft, feather-light kisses trail from the curve of her neck down to the hollow just above her collarbone, each touch slow and worshipful. the skin there is warm and delicate, flushed from the sun and the heat of the shower. his lips part slightly as his tongue flicks out to tease, wet and slick, tracing tiny, tantalizing circles that send unpredictable shivers rippling through her body. then, his teeth nip—gentle but firm—at the tender skin just beneath her jaw, a sweet sting that makes her breath hitch and pulse quicken.

“you smell like sunscreen,” he murmurs against her skin, voice low and thick with need, “pool water…and me.” the words are a promise, rough and intimate, as if claiming her scent is as much his as hers.

she laughs—a breathy, shaky sound full of raw desire—as her fingers snake into the damp curls at the nape of his neck. her touch is possessive, pulling him closer until the heat of his body presses against hers. under her palm, she feels the rapid thud of his heartbeat, a fierce rhythm matching the heat pooling between them. “i want you, joe,” she whispers, voice soft but trembling with urgency, “right here. right now,”.

his fingers slide lower, slick with her wetness and the shower water, moving with slow, calculated precision. they explore her folds, tracing the swollen, sensitive skin with expert care, mapping out every curve and crease as if memorizing her. his thumb circles her clit lightly at first, teasing the delicate bundle until she gasps, arching into his touch. the wet slickness between them deepens, and his touch grows bolder, pressing and swirling just right to unravel her control.

she parts her legs a fraction more, inviting him deeper, breath catching in her throat as his thumb finds that sweet, aching spot beneath her folds. the sensation sends warmth flooding through her, a delicious fire spreading low in her belly. “look at you,” joe’s voice drops to a rough growl, heavy with lust and reverence, “so fucking wet. dripping just for me,”.

“yes,” she pants, words ragged, voice thick with want and surrender, “please don’t stop. don’t ever stop,”.

his fingers slip inside her, slow and teasing at first, curling and pressing just so against her walls, coaxing soft, desperate moans from her parted lips. each movement is careful but insistent, driving her higher. his thumb never falters, rubbing slow, languid circles over her clit, stoking a fire that burns hotter with every stroke. she trembles beneath his touch, hips rocking on their own, seeking more, needing more. “you gonna come for me, baby?” joe’s voice is rough, soaked with lust and promise, each word a spark igniting the air between them.

her body tightens involuntarily, legs shaking as waves of pleasure build with crushing force. “joe…i’m gonna—,”.

her hands clutch at his broad shoulders, nails digging into the taut muscle as a shudder rips through her. she gasps his name—raw, breathless—voice breaking into desperate, pleading sobs, the heat and release overwhelming her senses. joe cradles her firmly, steadying her with his strength as his lips trail a scorching path from her neck to her jawline, whispering filthy promises that make her skin burn and pulse with need.

with a low groan, he lifts her thigh high, fingers digging into her soft skin as he presses his hard, slick cock against her glistening folds. the friction is electric, sending delicious shocks through her body that make her gasp. then, slow and agonizingly intended, he slides deep inside her, filling her completely with every inch, stretching her in the most exquisite way. the fullness steals her breath, making her head fall back against the cold tile.

their bodies move together in a wild, desperate rhythm—raw and primal, perfectly matched. joe’s hands hold her tight, one wrapped possessively around her raised thigh, the other braced against the slippery tile wall as he thrusts with steady, urgent power. the slick slap of skin against wet tile echoes all around them, a hypnotic, frantic soundtrack to their lovemaking. the hot water sprays over them, mixing with their uneven breaths and wet, needy moans, washing away the world until only the two of them remain.

“fucking amazing, baby,” joe growls, voice thick with possessive hunger as he thrusts deeper, harder, each movement claiming her more fiercely. “this pussy’s fucking perfect. made for me,”.

she gasps, tightening around him instinctively, breath coming in wild, jagged gasps. “all for you. always yours, joey,”.

joe groans, lifting her even higher, pounding harder with every stroke. the pressure builds, driving her closer and closer to the edge until she’s crying out his name, thighs trembling and nails raking down his back, voice breaking into desperate, beautiful sobs of release.

and then joe follows, body shuddering violently as he spills deep inside her, every muscle clenching as he holds her close. his breath is heavy and ragged, chest rising and falling against hers as he carries her through the aftershocks. their skin glistens, slick with water and sweat, the heat of the shower wrapping around them like a cocoon.

they collapse together, tangled and trembling, hearts pounding in perfect sync, every nerve raw and alive. the moment stretches on, messy, breathless, achingly beautiful, and they stay there, wrapped in each other, lost in the warmth of the afterglow.

—

later that night, the house hums with a warm, lazy buzz. the lingering scent of cold beer and charred burgers still hanging thick in the air, mingling with the faint trace of citronella candles flickering softly on the porch outside. the night wraps around the lake like a velvet cloak, broken only by the distant crackle of fireworks. bursts of pink and silver flare across the sky, casting a shifting glow that dances on the water’s surface, painting everything in fleeting color.

the party’s winding down; friends are scattered like sleepy shadows between porch swings swaying gently in the warm breeze and the dock where the water laps quietly below. some of the girls are curled in hoodies and blankets, their laughter low and breathy, drifting through the night like a lullaby. someone passes around sparklers, the tiny flames sputtering and glowing bright. ryland waves his sparkler with exaggerated care, drawing hearts and squiggles in the air, while trevor films it all on his phone, narrating like some late-night documentary filmmaker.

from across the kitchen, where people are rifling through the fridge for leftover snacks, she catches joe’s eye. he lifts one eyebrow just the slightest bit, that familiar mischievous glint sparking in his gaze. she answers with a grin—a slow, confident smile that says more than words ever could. barely a nod, barely a glance, but it’s all he needs.

their hands find each other in the quiet chaos, fingers intertwining with a light, electric touch. they slip away together, sneaking down the hall like kids trying not to get caught, giggles muffled behind cupped hands, hearts racing with that delicious thrill of stolen moments. the guest bedroom door clicks shut softly behind them, the window cracked open just enough to invite in the cool summer air.

he pins her gently beneath him on the cool guest bed, lit only by moonlight and the wild flashes of fireworks through the window. the sheets rustle beneath them—crisp and cool, scented faintly with cedar and fresh detergent—grounding them in this private, perfect moment. her skin is still dewy from the shower, glowing with a soft, warm sheen, lips swollen and kiss-bitten. he presses his mouth to hers again, slower now, dragging his lips over hers like he’s savoring every second, every taste, every breath.

“god,” he murmurs against her lips, his voice low and thick, heavy with need. one hand slides down her thigh, fingers hooking around it to pull her closer, deeper against him. “can’t get enough of you. never could,”.

she shivers at the sound of his voice, the warmth of his palm trailing along the inside of her leg, fingers teasing the slick heat waiting just for him. “joey,” she breathes, voice soft and trembling, hips arching up greedily, desperate to feel him again. “need you to fuck me. again,”.

he groans deep in his chest, forehead dropping to rest against hers, breath hot and ragged. “i got you,” he promises, voice thick and reverent. “this time i’m gonna take my time. just for you,”.

and he does.

slow, steady strokes that make her body arch and stretch beneath him, arms tightening around his neck, nails dragging faint red trails down his broad back. he holds her like she’s fragile, like she’s the most precious thing in the world. his hands wander everywhere, stroking up the soft ribs, tracing the line of her jaw, brushing damp hair back from her forehead, thumbs pressing softly into the dimples at her hips as he sinks deeper and deeper into her, again and again.

his hand then rests low on her belly, warm and wide, splayed across the soft curve just below her navel. it lingers there, his thumb stroking gently over the skin already kissed pink from his touch and the sun from earlier. her breath stutters when he presses down just slightly—not hard, just enough to make her feel the way he fills her, deep and heavy and so achingly present.

“you..you feel that?” he whispers, voice slipping, like he’s barely holding it together. it’s not cocky—it’s heated. in awe. “feel how deep you let me in?”.

she nods, lips parting around a soundless gasp. his other arm curls beneath her back, holding her close while his hips rock slow and deep, letting her feel every inch, every unspoken word he can’t say with anything but his body. the imprint of him presses against her belly from the inside, and he watches with a kind of obsession as his hand flattens against the spot, in love with the way her body stretches around him, takes him so well, like she was made to.

“look at you,” he breathes, his forehead resting against hers. “you’re perfect like this. i’m so deep, baby—right here,” he murmurs, pressing just a little more firmly over that faint bulge. “i can feel myself inside you,”.

she whimpers at the pressure, overwhelmed by how full she is, how tender he’s being even as her whole body tightens around him. he kisses her then—slow, messy, tasting of worship and want—like he’s trying to memorize how it feels to be this deep, this close, this completely inside her heart.

her breath catches, a sharp gasp escaping as she nods, fingers digging into his arms, holding on tight. he grinds in deeper, rocking the bed gently against the wall with each slow, powerful thrust. outside, fireworks continue to pop and boom like heartbeats in the distance, their rhythm syncing perfectly with his motion. the shifting bursts of light paint his golden skin, sweat sparkling at his temples, eyelashes fluttering as he watches her with pure, worshipful devotion.

“so fucking beautiful,” he breathes, voice rough, catching as he picks up the pace just a notch. “this pussy’s mine, yeah?”.

“yours,” she pants, breathless, “just yours,”. his hand slips lower, sliding between them to press fingers gently to her swollen clit, circling in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. she clenches around him, moaning softly into his neck, and he pulls her tighter against his chest, whispering filthy praise right into her ear.

“you take me so good, baby,” he groans, “so tight around me. fuck, you’re perfect. never gonna get over how good you make me feel,”.

she spirals fast, heat and pleasure crashing through her, his name falling from her lips like a prayer, soft and desperate. he never breaks eye contact, never stops murmuring how good she is, how much he loves her, how wrecked she makes him feel. “cum for me, sweetheart,” he begs, hips stuttering as she tightens around him once more. “let me feel it,”.

she shatters beneath him, a trembling cry, clutching him close, thighs trembling as the waves of pleasure roll through her in unstoppable tides. he keeps moving, slower now, tender, coaxing her through it until he follows, guttural groan tearing from deep in his chest as he spills inside her, hips pressed hard, body shaking with the force of release.

they collapse together, his weight warm and steady draped over her, their chests rising and falling in perfect rhythm, breaths mingling in the quiet aftermath. the soft murmur of the lake and distant noises wrap around them like a gentle lullaby, the world outside fading into a hushed glow. the warmth of his body pressed against hers feels like an anchor, grounding her in the moment, making everything else slip away. before words can find their way, his lips brush hers again—slow, tender, grateful—each kiss carrying the weight of everything they feel but can’t say, exhaustion and devotion folding into one another.

“you okay?” he murmurs softly, pulling back just enough to search her eyes with his own—vulnerable, sincere. she smiles, sleepy and content, arms tightening around him as if to hold onto the moment forever. “perfect. you?”.

his grin is boyish, soft, the kind that makes her heart ache with how much he belongs to her. “i’m in heaven, sweetheart,”.

they lie tangled there for a while, the heat of their skin mingling, fingers tracing lazy patterns along shoulders and arms, small touches full of quiet love. his hand slips under her hair, fingers threading through the damp strands, brushing gently over her scalp as she lets out a soft sigh. she presses closer, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath her ear—a steady rhythm that makes her feel safe, loved.

“you’re still warm,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.

“only because you are,” he replies, voice raspy from his post-orgasmic state, but still tender for her. his thumb brushes over her cheek, careful and slow, memorizing the soft curve of her jaw. “i want to hold onto you like this forever, baby,”.

her lips twitch into a sleepy smile. “you’re such a cheeseball,” she teases, her fingers poking lightly at his ribs. he laughs, the sound rumbling against her chest, and she presses a kiss there, right over his heart. “only for you, i swear,”.

the fireworks continue their distant celebration, soft bursts of pink and gold painting the sky in slow, rhythmic waves. they lie side by side, the night air cool against their skin, the faint scent of summer lingering like a memory. the flickering light spills through the cracked window, casting dancing shadows that play across their bodies—highlighting the curve of his jaw, the delicate line of her collarbone, the soft rise and fall of their chests as they breathe in sync.

she wiggles her fingers teasingly against his chest, light and playful, tracing lazy patterns over his skin. her voice breaks the comfortable silence, quiet but full of mischief. “so…you think anyone heard us?”.

he shrugs casually, but there’s a sly curl to his lips that tells her he’s already enjoying this. leaning down, he presses a sluggish, tender kiss to her temple, the warmth of his lips sending a soft shiver down her spine. “let ‘em,” he says softly, “honestly, you sounded way too good to be quiet. everyone knows you have the voice of an angel…guess that applies to the bedroom, too,”.

she snorts, flicking a finger to poke him sharply in the ribs. he squints, mock offended, twisting away just enough to make her laugh. “you’re the worst,” she says with a grin, eyes sparkling with affection.

he grins back, all warmth and love wrapped in that mischievous expression. “and you’re mine. all mine,:.

her fingers keep drifting, tracing slow, idle circles on his chest—fingertips soft and searching like she’s soaking in every inch of him. her voice drops into a husky whisper, thick with teasing and something more tender. “so, what now, mr. heaven? gonna cuddle me until i fall asleep?”.

“only if you promise to keep stealing my hoodies and stealing my heart,”.

she smiles, eyes fluttering closed as she leans into him, but not before she steals one last kiss—lazy, soft, the kind that lingers just long enough to make her breath hitch. “you’re impossible,” she murmurs against his lips.

he chuckles quietly, tightening his arms around her as if he could never get enough. “and you’re worth every second of it,”.

outside, the night stretches on, fireworks blooming like wildflowers across the expansive sky. but inside this quiet room, beneath the gentle glow of moonlight and the lingering warmth of their bodies, the world feels still, perfect. wrapped up in each other, they drift slowly into dreams, hearts full and souls intertwined, safe in the quiet, tender afterglow of their love.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #yail asks #yail #joe burrow blurb #joe burrow smut #joe burrow fic #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fluff #joeburrow #nfl smut #nfl fan fic #nfl imagine #cincinnati bengals

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smellysluna · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter Two | Again, And Again, And You

Chapter Two: A Fresh Start

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo x Reader

Word Count: 5,5k

Summary:

You've lived through countless timelines—each one shaped by monsters, magic, and the unbearable weight of knowing too much. Until you wake up in a version of reality where none of that ever happened. No dungeons. No deaths. Just high school… and him. Sung Jinwoo—quiet, intense, and impossibly familiar—is here too, and maybe this time, it'll be you who changes his world.

Notes:

I— I think I went overboard with the length of this chapter I mean like— ... just enjoy

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The world felt different when you woke up.

Not in a way you could explain—everything was where it should be, everything looked the same. The sun rose like it always had, painting gold across the ceiling of your room.

And yet, your chest felt hollow. As if you'd just surfaced from drowning.

You sat up in bed, a sharp inhale cutting through your lungs. Your hands trembled slightly as you touched your face, half-expecting to see blood, ash, or time etched into your skin. But you were young.

You were… young.

You stumbled to the mirror and stared.

The person staring back at you was barely seventeen. No shadows under her eyes. No scars on her neck. No weight of a thousand lives hanging from her shoulders.

You blinked rapidly, as if to wake up again. But this was the dream. Or rather, the end of it.

The world had been reset.

He’d done it.

Sung Jinwoo had done it.

You didn’t cry—not right away. But your knees gave out slowly, and you sat there on the floor, heart pounding like a drum, repeating one truth over and over:

You’re free.

At first, you didn’t try to find him.

You told yourself he wouldn’t remember. That this life was his reward. That he deserved peace without the weight of old memories.

But still… a part of you wanted to see him. Just once. To confirm that he was okay. That he still existed. That it hadn’t all been a dream you made up in the space between lifetimes.

So, you enrolled in the same middle school.

Sliding into the role of a transfer student wasn’t new to you. A few forged documents, a timely uniform delivery, and voilà—new student, perfectly ordinary. You’d even knocked your age down to fifteen on paper. Technically, you were almost seventeen, but what were a couple of years between friends? It wasn’t like anyone was going to card you in homeroom.

Besides, you were already ancient compared to everyone else. Maybe not in body, but mentally? Please. After a few dozen lifetimes, you were basically the wise old sage in a room full of toddlers. If anyone asked, you just had an “old soul.” They didn’t need to know it came with the emotional baggage of a thousand respawns and a suspiciously encyclopedic knowledge of stock market crashes.

Enrolling in middle school felt like sitting through an onboarding presentation for a company you'd already secretly run twice. You knew the rhythm, the roles, the script—even if everyone else thought this was your first day on the job.

A crisp uniform, a clean transcript, and your real name on the roster—check, check, and check.

Sung Jinwoo had already sparked a school-wide glow-up rumor before you stepped foot in class.

He used to be awkward, they said. Kind of forgettable, quiet in a way that made people skim past him in the hallway. But something had shifted.

He came back after summer with cleaner hair, straighter posture.

Suddenly, people realized he was hot.

Like, surprise lead-role-in-a-drama hot.

His smile was easy now. His voice low and warm. Rolled-up sleeves. That thing guys do where they lean back in chairs just enough to look effortlessly cool without actually falling.

He helped teachers carry supplies. He saved a bee from a classroom once, apparently. People said he smelled like clean laundry and citrus and the sun.

Even the guys loved him.

“Bro, I’m not gonna lie,” one classmate had said loudly once, voice carrying across the lunch tables, “we thought you were just, like… a weird shut-in last year. We were so wrong. I’m sorry.”

Jinwoo had just laughed, easy and warm, and clapped him on the back like it really wasn’t a big deal.

It made him even more likable.

Because that was the thing—he didn’t act like someone who’d suddenly realized he was hot. He just was. And somehow, that made people fall even harder.

Girls confessed to him. Often.

Sometimes it was a letter slipped into his locker, folded with trembling care. Sometimes it was a bento left on his desk, wrapped in pastel cloth with a note tucked beneath. A few were bold enough to ask him face-to-face—he always looked surprised when they did. Not because he didn’t expect it, maybe, but because he genuinely didn’t know how to react.

He wasn’t cold. Just… unreadable. He’d thank them, bow slightly, offer a soft smile that somehow didn’t give anything away. And then he’d return to whatever he was doing—scribbling in the margins of his notebook, sipping his strawberry milk, or talking to the guys. Sometimes they’d walk away giggling. Sometimes in tears. It wasn’t clear if he was just oblivious or expertly polite, but either way, nothing stuck.

Until the day you walked in.

It was morning—barely past 9:00.

A math class in full swing, the room draped in fluorescent chill and the quiet scratch of pencils. The teacher’s voice filled the space in low, practiced rhythm, chalk tapping steadily against the board. Outside, the sunlight was pale and clear, leaking through the windows in sharp, angled beams.

And then the door clicked open.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t nervous.

Just… smooth. Deliberate. The kind of entrance that didn’t need permission. You stepped in with a quiet sort of confidence, your bag slung over one shoulder, uniform crisp, expression unreadable. Composed in a way teenagers rarely were.

You didn’t look around for approval.

You just scanned the room once, calm and quiet, the kind of quiet that made people straighten up without knowing why. You nodded when the teacher finally noticed you standing there—a slight tilt of the head, perfectly polite—and stepped aside like you hadn’t just walked into the middle of a math lesson, like this wasn’t two months too late for transfers.

The chalk stuttered on the board. The teacher cleared his throat. “Ah—yes.” A pause. “Everyone, please welcome our new student, (y/n).”

Chairs creaked. Neck cranes followed you. A ripple of whispers. Half-curious, half-nervous energy filled the air.

“Please find a seat.”

And across the room, Jinwoo—half-slouched in his seat, pen resting against his lower lip—looked up.

He blinked.

Like something inside him had missed a step.

For a second, just a second, something flickered across his face. Not surprise. Not interest. Just… confusion. That sharp, uncanny déjà vu with no image attached—only a feeling. A breath held in the dark.

He’d never seen you before.

And yet—something about you tugged at him.

A flicker. A scent of familiarity buried deep under layers of time and dust and forgotten things. He shoved the thought down immediately. It was impossible.

You walked past him—two rows back, your steps soft, unhurried.

He followed the sound without meaning to.

Jinwoo blinked again.

Then, very carefully, leaned back in his chair, tapped his pen twice against his notebook, and muttered under his breath:

“…No way.”

He caught himself a second later, eyes darting to check if anyone had heard.

Then—quick recovery.

He straightened slightly. Pushed his bangs back. Sat there like the embodiment of casual disinterest, the boy too cool to be caught off guard.

Too cool.

Like someone who’d practiced smoldering in the mirror but was now deeply unsure what to do with his hands.

You caught his eye, just briefly, as you scanned the room for a seat.

He looked away immediately. Not too fast. Just… mildly interested in the far wall, apparently.

But after that—

You felt it.

His gaze, brushing over you more than once. Lingering when you weren’t looking.

Not with curiosity.

With confusion.

Recognition.

Like a name that danced just out of reach.

Like a face he should know, but couldn't place—a phantom glimpse from the past. Every time his eyes lingered on you, that sensation crept back. Stronger. More insistent. Unsettling.

You didn’t expect to cause a stir.

At least, that was the plan.

But apparently, mastering the art of not trying was the secret to suddenly becoming the main character.

First, the grades.

Then, the moment you effortlessly corrected a teacher. Graceful. Polite. A tilt of the head, a glint in your eye that said, I’m right—and I’m not even trying to be smug about it.

It started off harmless enough.

Third-period history. The room hummed with the familiar buzz of the late morning sun spilling across desks. The air was warm, thick with the chatter of half-listening students and the teacher’s monotone lecture on post-war reforms.

You were taking notes quietly—head down, pen gliding smoothly—until he said it:

“And of course, women didn’t really play a role in those reforms. Most of them stayed at home. The important decisions were all made by men.”

The words hung in the air for a second. Just long enough.

You blinked. Looked up.

A soft click of your pen stopping. No drama. No raised voice. Just a slight shift in your posture as you lowered your hand and spoke up.

“Excuse me, sir,” you said, calm and even. Not rude. Just… precise. “I think that’s not entirely accurate.”

The room stilled.

Mr. Han blinked over his glasses, clearly surprised that anyone had spoken—especially the new girl.

You tilted your head, like you were still weighing how best to phrase it, before speaking with calm certainty:

“Several female activists were instrumental in shaping the educational reforms and labor policies during that time. Especially in Seoul and Busan. Kim Bok-dong, for example, continued her advocacy even post-war. Also, the Women’s Union had seats at the negotiating table in 1946.”

You didn’t smile exactly—but there was something in your expression. A light behind your eyes. Confident, without needing to flex it. Like this was just a fact, not a fight.

There was a pause.

A long one.

A pencil rolled off someone’s desk. A chair creaked. Somewhere in the back, a girl made a sound like she’d just witnessed a plot twist in a drama.

Mr. Han cleared his throat.

“Yes. That’s… a good point,” he said slowly, adjusting his collar. “I stand corrected.”

You nodded, jotting something else down in your notes like nothing had happened.

But something had.

Two rows ahead, Sung Jinwoo blinked slowly, the faint scratch of his pencil stopping mid-word.

He hadn’t been paying full attention—his gaze had been half out the window, half on the margin doodles in his notebook—but your voice had cut clean through the hum of classroom monotony. Calm. Precise. Just a little sharp at the edges, like the glint of a blade in sunlight.

New girl. Hair tucked behind one ear, eyes still focused on your notebook. As if none of it had mattered. As if a whole classroom hadn’t just silently re-evaluated you in real time. The girl next to you was staring. Someone two seats down had actually scooted closer.

But you? Unbothered.

Jinwoo’s gaze lingered.

There was… something.

Not familiarity exactly. But weight. Like gravity in reverse. The kind that pulls at memory, tugging on something buried under centuries of silence and blood and shadows.

The way you’d held the room just now—it reminded him of her.

The Founder.

The one who'd stood tall even when monarchs threatened war. The one who'd never bowed.

The one he’d never figured out.

But that was impossible.

She was gone. Had to be.

He was the only one cursed to remember.

He shook the thought from his head like mist from his shoulders, turning back to his notes.

It didn’t make sense.

Just another strange feeling in a life full of them.

Still…

His pen tapped against the margin once. Twice.

Then he scribbled something down that wasn’t related to history at all.

Your name.

He wasn’t even sure he’d meant to write it.

But there it was.

And the smallest crease formed between his brows.

What had started as a quiet correction soon spread like wildfire.

You hadn’t raised your voice. You hadn’t even looked smug.

But you’d dismantled a teacher’s outdated view with the elegance of someone flipping a chess piece onto a checkmate square. And you did it with a grace that made the girls around you swoon.

“I think I stopped breathing,” someone whispered to her friend outside the classroom. “She didn’t even flinch.”

From there, it snowballed.

People admired your calm. The way you carried yourself like you knew exactly who you were. Your quiet confidence, the way you listened—actually listened—and spoke like your words mattered. Like theirs did too.

Before long, you started noticing a shift. Girls who usually stuck to their own groups were suddenly finding excuses to hang around, like they were magnetically drawn to whatever vibe you were giving off. No one was trying too hard—they just wanted a bit of your coolness to rub off.

The whole thing still felt a little surreal. A few weeks ago, you’d just been the new girl—the one slipping into class unnoticed, blending into the background. Now, you had a group of girls who were, for lack of a better word, attached to you. They weren’t bad, though. In fact, they were kind of fun. They’d drag you along to lunch, chat about the latest drama, and occasionally ask for your opinion on the most important issues, like which lip gloss had the best scent or whether the cafeteria’s pizza was worth the risk of food poisoning.

Today, they were gathered around your desk, laughing about something one of them had said—some story about a teacher who accidentally wore mismatched socks to class. You found yourself grinning without even thinking about it. There was something so effortlessly easy about the way they included you, like you’d always belonged here.

“You know,” one of them said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “I don’t know how you do it. You’re so chill. I mean, way chill. It’s like you’re just, I dunno, above all the drama, you know?”

You laughed, half-embarrassed, half-flattered. “I wouldn’t say above it. Just… trying to survive it.”

“Survive? Girl, you’ve mastered it,” another chimed in, nudging you playfully. “I swear, you’ve got this whole ‘cool, collected vibe’ going on. It’s like you’re a movie star or something.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond. It had been a while since anyone said something like that to you, especially not with such earnestness. Was it really that obvious? You’d always figured you were just… trying not to screw things up. In some strange way, you were almost relieved. You were just so tired of being the outsider.

"I don't know," you said, glancing out the window for a second, a little too aware of how your words sounded. "I guess... I’m just happy I can finally be, I don’t know, normal for once."

They all stared at you for a second, as if the idea was so foreign that they didn’t know how to respond. And then they laughed. Not in a mean way, just a soft, understanding laugh.

"Girl, you’re like way past normal," one of them teased, and you swatted her arm lightly, laughing along.

But there was something warm about hearing it. Maybe you didn’t need to be anything extraordinary. Maybe, for the first time in a long time, you could just be yourself.

It wasn’t a bad way to be.

The bell rang for the end of lunch, a mix of relief and slight reluctance hanging in the air as everyone packed up their things. You, however, were still caught in a bubble of conversation, a few girls chatting animatedly around you as you all made your way to your next class.

For a moment, it felt almost like before—like you were part of the group but still slightly outside it. You could feel their eyes on you sometimes, the way they’d smile at you like you were a little secret they were all proud to keep. But there was something different about it now. You weren’t just the new girl anymore. You were... someone they all wanted to be near.

It wasn’t a bad thing.

And yet, as the laughter died down and the group started to disperse, you caught a glimpse of someone at the edge of the hallway, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Jinwoo. His presence, always so quiet, still seemed to draw attention.

He wasn’t quite looking at you, but you could feel it—a pull, like his gaze was hovering just on the edge of your peripheral. His eyes flicked to you briefly, but then he quickly turned away, scribbling something in his notebook as if it was the most important thing in the world.

You weren’t sure why it made your stomach tighten, or why your pulse seemed to quicken as you walked past him.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t seen him around before. He was the school’s “heartthrob,” after all. Everyone knew who he was. But this? The strange tension that seemed to hang between you and him whenever your paths crossed—this was new.

You stepped around him, almost brushing past him, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the hallway’s stale air.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The world continued on around you—students chatting, shoes scuffing against the linoleum—but it felt like everything slowed down.

He shifted, turning slightly, as if deciding whether or not to speak. And then, just as you were about to move on, you heard his voice.

“Hey,” he said, the single syllable low and almost hesitant.

You stopped, caught off guard by the sound of his voice. It was strange—almost like he'd been practicing saying it to you in his head, over and over, before actually letting the word slip out.

You turned, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Yeah?"

There was a beat of silence. Jinwoo seemed like he wanted to say more—something else was on the tip of his tongue—but instead, he just gave a small shrug. "Never mind," he muttered, and with that, he turned back toward the hallway, his shoulders tense as if he’d said something he wasn’t ready to say.

You stood there for a second, blinking in the sudden awkwardness of it all. His footsteps echoed as he walked away, and you couldn’t help but wonder what had almost spilled out.

But before you could dwell too long on the thought, you were pulled into another conversation by one of the girls from your group, and Jinwoo’s strange, brief interaction was lost in the noise of the crowd.

Because while Jinwoo had become the school’s heartthrob, you had become something else entirely—mysterious, magnetic, untouchable.

The girls didn’t leave you alone.

You were always surrounded. Walking anywhere alone required a strategy.

And Jinwoo?

He looked like he wanted to say something.

He’d lean forward, hesitate. Start to stand. Then pause as someone asked you a question or grabbed your sleeve to drag you to lunch.

He’d sit back like nothing happened. Scribble something in his notebook that wasn’t schoolwork. Bite the inside of his cheek like he was annoyed with himself.

Like he knew you.

Like he’d met you in a dream, once, and the memory had just now caught up.

And still… nothing happened.

Until one afternoon during break—

It wasn’t a dramatic escape. Just you, slipping away while the girls weren’t paying attention.

The school rooftop had always been… yours. Not officially, of course. Just in that quiet, unspoken way places become sacred. It was where the noise below couldn't reach. Where people weren’t buzzing around you with expectations or praise.

Where you could breathe.

You leaned against the railing, arms resting atop it, eyes cast over the schoolyard far below. The spring breeze was light, brushing against your skin with a gentle sway.

You let yourself just be.

No running. No fighting. No pretending.

You were starting to get used to the feeling.

Just the faint sound of distant laughter from the classrooms below, the wind rustling through the trees, the gentle hum of life continuing like the world hadn't ended again and again.

You closed your eyes for a second. Felt the sun warm your face.

This was something you never got to enjoy before. Not really. Not with everything you had to become.

Unknowing to you somewhere from the courtyard, he saw you.

He’d been laughing at some dumb joke Sungil cracked—something about the cafeteria milk again—and his eyes drifted lazily toward the sky.

And there you were.

On the rooftop.

At first, he didn’t think much of it.

You were always slipping away lately, weren’t you?

But there was something about the way you stood. The stillness in your shoulders. The calm. Like someone who’d earned it.

His mind flickered to that moment in class.

The way you spoke to the teacher—controlled, sharp, like you’d negotiated boardroom wars before.

The confidence. The dry wit.

Your name.

It had nagged him when he first heard it. Felt oddly familiar. But he’d brushed it off.

Coincidence, he’d told himself.

But now, watching you from below, everything clicked.

You weren’t a classmate he remembered having in high school.

He knew this place. Knew the names. Knew who lived and who died.

But you? You didn’t belong here.

And yet… you were here.

His chest tightened.

No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

He was supposed to be the only one. That was the price to pay.

But those eyes...

Those familiar knowing eyes. The ones that used to make him hesitate even when he was the strongest hunter alive. Like you were seeing something he hadn’t caught up to yet.

He stood so abruptly that the contents of his lunchbox went everywhere.

“I—uh, bathroom,” he said quickly, already turning.

“Again?” Sungil snorted. “You good, man?”

Jinwoo didn’t answer. He was halfway to the stairwell already.

He didn’t know how fast he was going—only that his legs carried him up two flights of stairs like muscle memory had kicked in from another life. The closer he got, the more erratic his heart pounded, not from the run, but from the what if.

What if it’s really her? What if I’m not the only one anymore?

His hand hit the door before he could slow down.

Your eyes flicked to the door before he could even burst through it.

He looked out of breath. Wild-eyed. Like he’d run from something—or toward something—he couldn’t quite believe.

And you just smiled.

The same calm smile you’d given him a lifetime ago, back when everything had been louder, heavier, soaked in shadows.

“I was starting to think you’d never notice,” you said softly.

Jinwoo froze.

His mouth opened like he was going to say something—but nothing came out. Just stunned silence. The kind where the world shifts under your feet.

There you were.

The queen of that former world.

The founder of the most powerful guild in Korea.

The girl who protected him in ways he didn’t understand during the war.

The woman who stayed when everyone else turned their backs.

Now here, in a school uniform and wind in your hair, looking at him like no time had passed at all.

He laughed—but it came out hollow, overwhelmed.

“How...?” he finally managed, voice rough.

“How are you—why do you—?”

But he couldn’t even finish the questions. Because how does anyone ask something like that?

How does he ask the past why it followed you here?

And how were you supposed to answer?

You exhaled, softly. Not as if you’d been holding your breath, but like your lungs didn’t quite know how to fill themselves properly. Like you were learning again. Like the weight in your chest was finally being seen by someone else.

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked past him, eyes settling somewhere in the distance—on the soft sprawl of the city below, or maybe a memory that lived just above the skyline.

“It’s hard to explain,” you said after a long moment. “And I’ve never... I’ve never said it out loud before.”

Jinwoo didn’t interrupt. Didn’t press.

He just waited, steady as stone, and softer than anyone else had ever been.

Your hands tightened on the railing, knuckles pale. “I don’t know about you. But to me… Time just… reset. Over and over again. I always woke up in my bedroom. Same ceiling. Same air. Same parents calling me down for breakfast like nothing had changed.”

You smiled, but it was hollow. It ghosted across your lips like something you didn’t believe in anymore.

“The first few times, I thought I was crazy. I mean, who wouldn't? One moment I’m dead, and then it’s morning again. The same morning. The same goddamn birds chirping outside my window.”

Jinwoo’s fingers curled into his palms.

You looked at him, something quiet flickering behind your eyes. “And it didn’t stop. No matter what I did. No matter how far I ran or who I saved or who I lost. Time just... snapped back. Like it was mocking me. Like I wasn’t enough.”

Your voice began to tremble at the edges, like a surface cracking.

“At first, I thought maybe I could fix it. That there was a point. That if I just made the right choices…”

You laughed—but it broke halfway out of you. Became something else. Something brittle and wet.

“But then… it just kept getting worse. The gates opened sooner. The monsters got stronger. And then—” You shook your head.

“And then Jeju happened,” you said softly, your words barely above a whisper.

Jinwoo felt his breath catch.

He remembered the insistence you had on him joining the force. “Just a hunch”, you had said.

“I don’t… I don’t really talk about it,” you murmured. “I haven’t. Not in any of my lives. Not once. I just—” You laughed a little, but it broke into a sharp inhale. “I thought maybe if I ignored it hard enough, it would stop existing.”

You leaned your weight forward against the railing, your shoulders trembling.

“I told myself it didn’t matter. That I’d moved past it. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

Jinwoo stepped forward, slowly—carefully. The rooftop wind moved around him like it knew not to interrupt.

You didn’t look at him.

��I remember the smell first. That’s always how it starts. Rot. Blood. Salt in the air. Like the sea was crying too.”

A pause.

“And then the screaming. I can’t forget the screaming. I still hear it when I sleep.”

His hands hovered near your back, unsure. Like he wanted to touch but didn’t want to break the moment.

“I wasn’t even on Jeju,” you whispered, turning slightly toward him now, eyes wide and far away. “I wasn’t one of the hunters. I was just… in a boardroom. Watching.”

Jinwoo’s throat tightened. He just stood there, arms stiff at his sides as the wind swept the rooftop.

“I saw it all. Every feed. Every scream. I watched the lines go dead. I watched people I knew blink out like they were nothing.”

Your eyes met his. Wet. Unflinching.

“And then they came for us.”

You tried to keep the tears back, but your shoulders betrayed you, trembling like a glass that had held too much for too long.

“They weren’t supposed to make it off the island. That’s what we thought. But they did. They crossed the sea like it was nothing. The cities weren’t ready. I wasn’t ready.”

Your knees gave out—but he caught you. Instinctively. Easily.

Your body stiffened for a second—but then you sagged into him. Gave in. His arms wrapped around you tightly, like he could hold you together with sheer will. Your face pressed to his chest, and your hands clutched at his sleeves like lifelines.

You clutched at the fabric of his uniform. “I didn’t even try to run. I froze. I just—stood there, staring out the window, watching people screaming in the streets. And when I saw it… when I saw it coming for me…”

Your body jolted as you broke. Sharp, silent sobs racking through your chest.

Jinwoo tightened his hold. One hand on your back. One cradling the back of your head. Steady. Anchoring.

He felt the tremble of your breath. The way you tried to be quiet, like your pain was an inconvenience. Like you were used to being alone with it.

“It was so fast,” you gasped. “But I still remember every second. I remember the glass shattering. I remember its claws. I remember thinking—this can’t be how it ends. Not again. Not like this.”

Jinwoo’s heart shattered.

And then you collapsed fully into him, and the weight of it spilled out.

Tears soaked his shirt. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

He just held you. Like the world had ended in your arms, and he was the only piece left holding you to it.

He held you tighter.

“And Kamish,” you choked. “Kamish destroyed the world once. Not just a city, not just a squad—the world. I watched from behind screens, from underground shelters, from bunkers that were supposed to be safe. And every time, we thought we were prepared. We never were.”

You looked up, eyes red, voice barely audible. “I tried, Jinwoo. In some lives, I became a hunter. I thought maybe if I just… knew enough, trained enough, I could do something. Anything. But I wasn’t strong. I didn’t make a difference. I just kept watching the world end.”

Your legs folded beneath you, but this time Jinwoo followed you down, holding you even as the rooftop's cold bit through your skin. You cried harder now, like something ancient inside you was finally breaking open.

He didn’t speak. His jaw was tight. His eyes burned.

Because this—

This wasn’t a pain he could fight.

Not with blades. Not with power.

You had been alone. You had carried it all with you.

And now, shaking in his arms, you were finally letting someone see it.

He held you tighter, tucked your shaking frame into his arms like a vow.

“I’m here,” he murmured, so quietly it almost got lost in the wind. “I’m here.”

He pulled back only slightly, enough to look at you, to study the tear-streaked lines of your face. Even now—eyes red, shoulders trembling—you looked so… innocent. So light. How could someone so weighed down still look like freedom?

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You shattered again.

Sobs that cracked something in the air.

Sobs that sounded like a locked door finally being opened from the inside.

Jinwoo kept his jaw tight, eyes burning. He’d thought he was alone. That he was the only one cursed to remember the horrors of what came before. But you—god, you had remembered everything. And you hadn’t even asked for it.

He’d never understood it before, not fully. Not even when he met you the first time. Why you looked at him the way you did. Why you spoke like someone who had nothing left to fear.

But now he knew.

And something inside him shifted.

No more.

Not ever again.

Not if he could help it.

Then—

Ding.

The shrill chime of the school bell rang through the rooftop silence, jarring against the stillness that had wrapped itself around you both like a fragile cocoon. You pulled back slowly, your hands unclenching from his sleeves, your breath still trembling against the place where your face had been buried in his chest.

“I… I need to go to the bathroom,” you said quietly, not quite meeting his eyes.

Jinwoo nodded, though his throat was too tight to speak. He watched as you walked away, your steps still a little unsteady, the wind tugging gently at your sleeves like it didn’t want to let you go.

And then you were gone.

He made it to class a few minutes later, the teacher already speaking, his voice a dull drone against Jinwoo’s pulse still thrumming in his ears.

You came in shortly after.

Eyes dry. No trace of red.

No puffiness, no shine. Nothing.

Your face was calm.

Your smile soft, easy—like you hadn’t just shattered in his arms minutes ago. Like you hadn’t cracked open and bled every secret from behind your ribs.

For a second, he wondered if he had imagined it. If somehow, he had projected the weight he felt onto you.

But then—he looked down.

There, on his uniform. The faint but unmistakable mark.

Tear stains, darkened into the fabric over his heart.

You had cried.

And the evidence of it was his to carry now.

He stared at the mark, and looked over his shoulder. You shot him an easy smile across the room, and something inside him twisted.

How many times had you done this before?

How many lifetimes had you broken like that, in silence?

How many tears had fallen that no one ever saw, because you wiped them away before they reached the surface?

His chest felt heavy. Drenched in a grief that wasn’t just his own.

You had been alone for so long.

Too long.

And if he wanted to restore what the world had taken from you—

That light, that freedom in your smile—

He knew he’d have to leave you alone again.

Just for a little while.

But he promised himself—

He wouldn’t take long.

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@snowy-violet @minh907 @o-qi-shisme @shineinouzen15 @awwwia @hannya-writes @tanspostsblog @lovelyevil @misakicchi @gina239 @livelaughlovekuni

#solo leveling #solo leveling spoilers #sung jinwoo x you #solo leveling x reader #solo leveling jinwoo #sung jin woo #sung jinwoo #jinwoo sung x reader #sung jinwoo x y/n #only i level up #solo leveling fanfiction #jinwoo x you #jinwoo x reader

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blooms-in-april · 9 months ago

Text

I'm thinking sad Jaskier thoughts.

It takes a while for Geralt to realize the music is gone. Oh Jaskier still sings- for their supper, for Ciri when she's sad, to entertain Kaer Morhen on late card playing nights. But the music- the music is gone. No more of the mindless humming as he walks, no more parsing over rhymes by the fire, no more harassing Geralt for his thoughts on such and such melody. Jaskier sings like a wind-up music box, only when requested, cranked for it, and snapping shut into silence like the sharp closing of a lid.

Yennefer snorts at his concern. "It took you this long to notice?"

Geralt grunts. She smiles, sharp and bitter. "You always were slow."

"How do I fix it?" Geralt snaps. He is not here to be mocked or play games.

"Can you fix it?" Yennefer asks. "I don't know."

Geralt doesn't know either. All he can do is try.

One of the mages had left a god's damned harpsichord in their tower room. It takes Geralt weeks- lugging the ornate monstrosity down from the mages tower, finding schematics in the library for the damn thing, undoing by sheer will the rot and moulding of a hundred years on the instrument. He spends his evenings waist deep in the guts of the instrument, swearing over chords and tuning and keys.

Jaskier's silence, now that he notices it, gapes like an open wound, bleeding wherever he goes. It stains memories of years past, of a cheerful smile and conversation given to him so freely, so easily, not a hint of subterfuge or awkwardness or fear. Now Jaskier only says good morrow if Geralt says it first, only speaks when spoken to, only smiles when Ciri is looking his way.

Geralt polishes the harpsichord until his fingers blister and his nose stings from the smell. He paints the elaborate carvings with pure gold leaf. He spends hours tightening strings trying to get the thing in tune. He worries over it like a child, because he doesn't know what else to do.

"What do you think?" He asks Eskel as they carry it carefully down to Jaskier's room.

"It's very nice." Eskel says diplomatically. "I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

"Appreciate it?" Geralt doesn't want appreciation. He wants that soft tone back in Jaskier's voice when he speaks to him. He wants Jaskier to speak to him, to turn to him free and easy with something to say.

"He'll like it," Eskel says, "Just-"

He turns, his soft eyes full of warning. "Just don't put all your hopes on an old harpsichord."

Lambert snorts, "Too little too late!" He laughs. And Lambert has always been hateful, more so since Aiden was lost, but the words feel true.

Jaskier smiles when he presents him with the harpsichord. He exclaims and laughs and claps his hands. He extolls its virtues, coos over its decorations, fusses over it with all the enthusiasm of a performing parrot. He pulls Ciri onto his lap and guides her hands on the keys, composes a little ditty on the fly for Yennefer, plays something sweet and sad that makes Lambert turn his face away. In all the merriment and gratitude and excitement, he looks Geralt in the eyes only once. Once, upon the first shock of the present. Once, with eyes wide and open, like a wound.

Geralt lingers as the others go off to bed, watching as Jaskier slowly fades as his audience wanes.

"Thank you, Geralt." he says. "It is truly a magnificent present. And far more than I deserve."

Do not thank me is what Geralt wants to say. Do not thank me, not when I have done this to you.

"I didn't do much," is what comes out of his mouth. "It was already there."

Jaskier does not look at him. "If this is an apology-" he says, "I do not need it. You were tired and upset. You spoke your mind. And nothing you said was- untrue. From a certain point of view. You do not need to absolve your guilt to me."

"Jaskier," Geralt says. "I'm sorry."

"And I forgive you." Jaskier says "I forgave you even the moment you after spoke. I don't think I would be myself if I could do otherwise."

It is done. The gift given, the apology accepted. And yet the silence still sits heavy in the air. It is not fixed. It is still broken. It is still out of tune and all of Geralt's twisting and tunings have not set the melody to rights.

"Why are you still like this?" He says. Jaskier stiffens. The words are wrong again, he's done it again, and he could scream with frustration, like a child who keeps swinging the sword and cutting himself on the dulled edge.

"Do you know the Countess de Stael bought me a Stradivarius once?" Jaskier said. "You don't know what that is. A fiddle, rarer than rubies. There were only twenty ever made. It sings like nothing else. She presented it to me on a bed of velvet, and told me she loved me. She told me to stay. And I would have."

Jaskier plinks a few idle notes. "She kicked me out a month later. Too mouthy. Too tacky. Too gauche. She had found someone better. She took back the Stradivarius and handed it off to her new minstrel."

"What I am saying, Geralt-" He says. "What I am asking- Is that you not do things you do not mean. That you not give me false hope. That you stop trying to make me love you, because I already do. I already do and it hurts. It hurts so much."

#this is a mess and i wrote it so fast #jaskier angst #geralt angst #geraskier angst #geraskier #geraskier fanfic #jaskier x geralt #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier the witcher #jaskier the bard #angst #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier fic

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cupofteatoyou2 · 2 months ago

Text

I Loved You Beyond the Law of Gods pt2 (final)

You were born under a heavy sky.

Barcelona was drowning in rain that day — not the soft kind that kissed windowsills and softened the stones, but the kind that hammered down like a warning, soaking the ancient bones of the city to their core.

The nurses said you were too quiet when you came into the world.

No wailing, no thrashing fists.

You only blinked up at the ceiling, your tiny chest rising and falling with a strange, steady calm, as if you had done all this before. And maybe, somehow, you had.

The first cry you gave was not a sound of terror. It was almost a sigh. As if the world, even in its brilliance and brutality, was something you already knew.

The doctors called it a miracle birth — healthy, strong, perfect.

But the old woman who cleaned the rooms whispered another word to herself as she saw you tucked into your mother's arms, your tiny hand curling loosely in your sleep.

Old soul.

You grew up in the veins of the city. Barcelona wrapped itself around you like a second skin — the cracked cobblestones that bruised your knees, the markets thick with spices and shouting, the sea breeze carrying salt and music through the crooked streets.

You were a child of narrow alleys and open skies. A child of murals bleeding down crumbling walls, of sunsets that lit the city gold, of wild, stubborn flowers clawing their way through sidewalk cracks.

You lived a simple life, by all appearances.

Breakfast at the corner bakery where the old men played cards and muttered about football.

Afternoons spent chasing stray cats down sun-drenched alleys.

Evenings curled on your tiny balcony, painting with fingers stained in every color but despair.

You were full of laughter. Full of dreams. But even then, even in your earliest memories, there was always something else too.

A thread of something heavier braided through your days — something you could not name. An ache, an absence, a missing piece you didn’t understand.

It lived in the corners of your mind. It lived in your heartbeat when you stood too long by the sea. It lived in your dreams.

Especially in your dreams.

The dreams started small. Soft. Forgettable.Little flashes of something just beyond reach.

A woman's arms lifting you high into the air, her face hidden by blinding sunlight.

Fingers — not your mother’s — braiding your hair, humming a tune that lingered even after you woke.

A forest you had never seen, heavy with the scent of damp earth and blood.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just dreams. Everyone has them.

You laughed about them with your friends over cheap wine and stolen cigarettes.

You shrugged them off when your parents asked why you sometimes woke crying without knowing why.

You built walls around the dreams. But dreams are patient. Dreams wait. And yours — yours had been waiting lifetimes.

As you grew, so did the dreams. They sharpened. They deepened. They began to carve themselves into you. Whole lives unfolded behind your closed eyes.

A sunburned child racing barefoot across dusty hills toward a village swallowed by war.

A woman weaving baskets by firelight, her hands scarred from a lifetime of work you had never done.

A man’s voice — rough, kind — calling you a name you didn’t recognize, but which made your chest ache with missing him.

You loved and lost and died and lived — again and again and again.

You woke each morning with your sheets twisted around you, your pillow damp with tears you could not explain.

There were nights you woke with the ghost of a blade still biting into your side.

Mornings when you cradled your wrist as if still feeling the shackles of some long-forgotten dungeon.

The memories clung to you like wet cloth, like a second skin you could not shed.

Then came the night that changed everything.

The night the dreams cracked open wide enough to swallow you whole.

You had fallen asleep curled up on your tiny couch, the windows thrown open to let in the restless night air.

The sound of the sea was a lullaby — rough and endless and full of old grief.

The dream gripped you before you even knew you were asleep.

You were standing in the corner of a room you had never seen before — stone walls, heavy with shadows, a fire dying low in the hearth.

The air was cold. The dark pressed against you like hands.

The world felt... wrong. And across the room, you saw them.

You saw yourself — curled in a bed, body small under the weight of heavy blankets.

Sleeping. Breathing. Alive. And beside you —Women. Kneeling. Clutching you so tightly it hurt to watch.

Her face was twisted in a grief so raw you almost looked away.

You tried to move. Tried to run to her, to yourself, to fix something you didn’t understand.

But your feet wouldn't move. You were trapped. Frozen. Forced to watch.

You saw her reach out — trembling fingers brushing hair back from your forehead.

You saw her press desperate kisses against your skin, whispering prayers to a god who wasn’t listening.

You felt the thread snapping before you even saw it.

The door opened without a sound. A figure stepped through — wreathed in shadows, wrapped in the quiet power of something ancient and final.

He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look cruel. He looked inevitable.

You watched as woman scrambled from the bed, placing herself between him and your sleeping body. "Please," she whispered. "Please don't."

You saw him watch her with that same stillness — not hate, not rage — only certainty.

"You knew the law," he said, voice echoing through the bones of the room.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to tear him apart. You wanted to leap into your own body and run. But you couldn’t move. You were a ghost, a prisoner in your own dream.

You watched her climb back onto the bed.

You watched her pull your body into her arms, rocking you like something precious, something already slipping away.

You stirred.

Your sleeping self blinked up at her — confused, soft, trusting.

"Alexia...?"

The sound of your voice — so small, so human — broke something in you.

She choked on a sob, pressed her forehead to yours.

"I'm here," she said. "I'm right here."

You watched yourself smile. Slow. Sweet. You watched your fingers reach up to wipe her tears — clumsy, tired.

You watched your hand fall away.

You watched your body sag against her.

And you felt it — even from across the room — you felt it.

The moment you left.

The moment the thread snapped for good.

Woman howled — a sound no human throat was ever meant to make.

She clutched your lifeless body to her chest, rocking back and forth like she could shake you back into being.

She kissed your forehead, your mouth, your cold hands — desperate, broken, refusing to believe.

She whispered your name over and over and over.

You wanted to run to her.

But you couldn’t move. You could only watch her crumble. You could only watch man stand silent at the foot of the bed, unmoved by the ruin he had made.

You could only watch as woman pressed her face into your hair, sobbing, whispering

"Come back. Please. Come back."

But you didn’t move. Not the flutter of an eyelash. Not the ghost of a breath.

You were already gone. And she was already broken.

The dream shattered after that — the room collapsing into shadows, the fire sputtering out, the world folding in on itself.

You gasped awake, the sound torn from your throat like a sob.

Your room — your real room — was dark and still.

Your hands shook.

Your heart thundered against your ribs.

Tears blurred your vision.

You pressed your hands to your face, trying to breathe, trying to forget — but the images clung to you.

Women’s face.

Your own limp body in her arms.

The way she had screamed your name like it was the only thing left she believed in.

You sat up in bed, the sheets tangled around you like a trap, and whispered the only name that was repeating in your mind.

"Alexia”

The halls of Olympus held their breath.

beyond the reach of mortal prayers and mortal dreams, the gods gathered in a circle of marble and gold — and they trembled.

It had been so long since fear touched them.

So long since any mortal had mattered enough to stir the heavens.

But tonight — tonight, the old wounds bled again.

Because a mortal had remembered.

And that — that was dangerous.

Because mortal souls were not meant to remember.

Life and death were supposed to wipe the slate clean.

Memory was a weapon against fate itself — a crack in the cycle the gods depended on to keep the world turning.

One mortal remembering could shift everything: destinies, loyalties, even futures the gods thought were certain.

It could create chaos. It could rewrite things even Olympus could not control.

And so the gods trembled. because the balance they had protected for so long was slipping through their fingers.

Zeus sat on his throne, carved from the bones of dead stars, his body stiff with rage barely contained.

He had not spoken yet.

But the air crackled around him — thunder rumbling low in the stones, lightning flickering in the cracks between the pillars.

Every god present — even the proudest — stood at a distance. Because when Zeus’s fury woke, even the mighty bowed.

It was Hera who dared to break the silence first. Sharp, brittle, cruel. "The mortal remembers," she said, voice echoing through the hollow hall. No gentleness. No sorrow. Only cold judgment. Only blame.

Before the echoes had even faded, Ares stepped forward — his armor clinking softly, the scent of old blood clinging to him like perfume.

"We should have crushed this weakness when we had the chance," he growled. "Before Alexia brought shame to Olympus." His mouth twisted into a sneer. "Love made her foolish. Made her weak."

Hera nodded, eyes hard as obsidian. "This time," she said, "we must show no mercy."

Their words curled like smoke around Zeus — feeding him, sharpening him. And deep inside, the storm began to break free.

But not all voices rose in cruelty.

At the edge of the gathering, in the long shadow of the dying fire, Apollo stood with his golden head bowed.

He remembered. He remembered Alexia — bright, fierce, reckless.

He remembered the way she once sang to the stars, fearless and full of life. The way she once laughed, throwing her head back like she could tear the sky apart with joy.

And he remembered the day that light went out. The night she lost mortal girl. The night the heavens themselves dimmed at the sound of her screams.

Artemis stood at his side, her silver gaze heavy with memory. She had fought beside Alexia — had seen her wield valor and loyalty like weapons no blade could match.

She had loved her sister And she had watched that sister crumble. After your death, Alexia became a ghost. No laughter. No rage. No fire.

Only silence. Only absence. Only a grief so vast it swallowed even Olympus’s endless skies. And Artemis had pitied her — as she pitied her still.

Demeter, kind and patient, felt tears burning behind her closed eyes. She had watched Alexia tend the gardens once —gentle, careful, whispering to wounded flowers like they were her own wounded heart.

She had seen the tenderness no battlefield could destroy. And she had seen it die, piece by piece, when mortal girl was torn from her arms.

Demeter pressed a shaking hand to her chest now, feeling the old sorrow rise again — helpless, useless, heavy.

She mourned not the mortal girl — she had barely known you. She mourned the sister who would soon lose everything, once again.

Even Athena, who prided herself on cold wisdom and sharp reason, frowned. She saw the future unfolding — a tapestry unraveling stitch by stitch — and she saw no victory in it. Only ruin. Only loss. Only another god broken past repair.

None of them spoke against Zeus. Because fear was older than love. And tonight, fear ruled Olympus.

Zeus rose from his throne.

The marble cracked beneath his feet, veins of lightning spidering through the stone.

"We end this," he said. Not shouted. Not barked. Whispered. And it was so much worse. Because it was final. Because it was already done.

From the swirling shadows at the edge of the hall, a figure stepped forward. Broad shoulders. Eyes like cold iron. One of Zeus’s son. A weapon given breath. A god without mercy.

"You will find her," Zeus said, voice low as thunder. "You will silence her."

The son bowed — deep, wordless — and turned away. A sword unleashed upon a world too small to survive him.

For a long, terrible moment, the gods stood frozen. Some bowed their heads — not in loyalty, but in grief. Some turned their faces away — unable to bear witness. Some simply stared into the dying fire, watching the last light flicker out, knowing they had already abandoned their sister. once again.

Apollo’s hands trembled at his sides. He remembered Alexia collapsing, clutching a body grown cold. He remembered the way she screamed your name until her voice broke. He remembered begging her to let you go — and the way she looked at him like he had asked her to tear out her own heart.

He remembered. And he said nothing.

Artemis’s throat ached with the memory of her sister’s silence — the endless centuries where Alexia spoke to no one, smiled for no one.

She remembered. And she said nothing.

Demeter wept silently into her hand.

Athena closed her eyes.

And high above the world, Olympus mourned in silence for a sister they would fail again.

They didn’t know she was there. Tucked into the long shadows cast by ancient marble columns, half-hidden by the restless, shivering light of the dying fire, Alexia stood.

Silent. Unmoving. Watching.

Her hands hung uselessly at her sides. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to break free.

She had not stood in this hall for centuries. Not since the night her world ended.

She had come here tonight without hope. Hope had been beaten out of her a long time ago. She came because she felt it — the tremor in the air, the old thread stirring between her ribs — the way your soul had whispered her name into the world again.

And because she knew. Deep in her bones, she already knew. What they would say. What they would decide. What they would do to you.

She listened as Hera fanned the fire of Zeus's fury, her voice sharp and cruel. She listened as Ares — as predictable as a blade swung without thought — growled for blood. They spoke your death as though it were a simple thing.

A necessary thing. A correction of an old, shameful mistake.

Alexia was the mistake.

You were the price.

And the worst part — the part that hollowed her out more than any blade — was the silence. The silence of those who should have loved her most.

Her brothers.

Her sisters.

Apollo, golden and bowed with quiet sorrow, but saying nothing.

Artemis, stone-faced, her mouth a tight, bitter line.

Demeter, tears running unchecked down her cheeks, but voiceless.

Athena, wise and ruthless, already looking past the grief to the ruin that would follow.

Not one of them raised their voice. Not one called her name. Not one even whispered a plea for mercy.

They pitied her. They mourned her. But they would not save her.

Alexia pressed her forehead against the cold stone of the column she hid behind. It was easier to stay hidden.

It was easier than looking into their faces and seeing that she had already been buried in their hearts.

They had mourned her a long time ago. Tonight was only a formality. Tonight they were digging the grave a little deeper.

But more than grief, more than betrayal, something colder, more savage, settled inside her chest.

Fear.

Because she knew. If they killed you this time, you would not return. No new life. No new dreams. No rebirth waiting just over the horizon.

The old laws were clear.

A mortal soul touched twice by divine love — twice by divine tragedy — could not be pulled back a third time.

The soul would not sleep. It would not scatter among the stars. It would vanish.

Oblivion.

A silence even gods could not undo.

Alexia clenched her fists so tightly blood welled from her palms.

The blood ran down her wrists and dripped soundlessly onto the cold marble floor. She didn’t feel it. She felt only the crushing, screaming knowledge rising inside her.

This is not just death.

This is annihilation.

This is the end of her world — truly, finally, forever.

There would be no distant stars to wish on. No faint songs carried through the tides of time.

There would be no you.

No memory.

No trace.

She would be alone. Truly alone.

And the universe would go on, blind and deaf and uncaring.

And she would carry your absence like a scar no time could heal.

She watched through blurred eyes as Zeus stood.

As he called forth his other son — the weapon bred for obedience, shaped to destroy without question.

"You will find her," Zeus said. "You will silence her."

The son bowed — a hollow, empty motion — and vanished into the storm gathering outside.

The gods stayed behind, quiet and unmoving.

Not triumphant. Not victorious.

Only weary. Only resigned.

They had already buried her in their hearts.

Alexia didn’t wait to hear their final prayers.

She had heard enough.

She slipped away through the crumbling side halls — places even the gods no longer walked.

The corridors were dark and empty, choked with dust and silence. Her footsteps echoed hollowly against the cracked stone.

The world she had once loved so fiercely had become a mausoleum — a tomb for a life she could never get back.

She passed the shrines she had built with her own broken hands — shrines no one knew existed, hidden in forgotten places.

Shrines built to you.

Not to gods. Not to heroes. Not to kings.

To you.

Each life you lived, honored in marble and flame.

Each name you wore, whispered into the stones like a prayer.

Each face you carried, carved with reverent, desperate hands.

She paused before one of the oldest shrines — a tiny alcove barely big enough to kneel in.

The name carved there was one you hadn't spoken in thousands of years — one even she sometimes forgot in dreams.

She touched the worn stone with shaking fingers.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice breaking open in the darkness. "I'm so sorry." And then she straightened. Slowly. Painfully.

Piece by shattered piece, she gathered herself together.

Because grief would not save you. Tears would not save you. Only action would. Only defiance. Only fury strong enough to shake the roots of Olympus itself. She would not lose you again.

Not while she still had breath in her body. Not while the earth could still tremble under her fury. Not while she still remembered how to love.

Two days had passed. Two days since the dreams cracked you open from the inside.

Two days since the old ache had begun to pulse steadily behind your ribs — a second heartbeat, slower, older, heavier than your own.

You barely ate.

You barely slept.

You walked through the streets of Barcelona feeling like a ghost — like the world had gone slightly out of focus around you, like everything was happening underwater.

The dreams did not stop. They only grew worse and better and deeper.

In your sleep you saw. the glint of a sword catching the dying sun, the flicker of golden hair caught in a storm, a hand reaching for yours across a chasm of smoke and ruin.

You woke with your cheeks wet and your hands shaking.

You didn’t understand what was happening to you.

You didn’t understand why everything hurt.

You only knew one thing

You had to go.

You left the city behind without thinking. Without packing. Without telling anyone.

You boarded a bus you didn’t remember choosing.

You got off in a town whose name you didn’t know.

You walked — out of the town, past the crumbling edges of civilization, into the waiting mouth of the forest.

The forest swallowed you whole. It wrapped itself around you, thick and green and ancient.

The canopy above was so dense it drowned the sunlight, turning everything into a cathedral of shadows.

The ground was soft beneath your feet — layers of dead leaves, moss, forgotten stones.

You pushed deeper into the trees without knowing why. Without caring why.

Something was pulling you. Something bigger than memory. Older than thought.

You came to a clearing.

At the center stood a low, crumbling wall — half-buried under ivy and time.

You stepped closer, your breath catching painfully in your throat.

You dropped to your knees, hands brushing the rough, ancient stones.

They pulsed faintly under your fingertips — warm, almost alive.

this was once your home.

The home where you had lived your first life.

The home where you had loved her.

The home where you had died.

The grief hit you without warning.

You folded forward onto your hands, gasping, the earth pressing cold and damp against your palms.

Tears blurred your vision, hot and desperate.

You knelt there for a long time.

The forest around you was silent — no birdsong, no wind, no life.

It was like the world was holding its breath. Waiting.

And hidden deep in the trees, unseen by you, someone else was holding their breath too.

Alexia.

She stood half-shrouded by a thick oak tree, watching you with a gaze so full of broken things it could have shattered the sky.

But she didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Not yet.

She was waiting — waiting for the right moment, waiting for the danger she knew was coming.

And it came.

At the edge of the clearing, across the broken stones and tangled roots, the air shimmered — a ripple, a distortion, a wound opening in the world. And from that wound, he stepped through.

Her brother. The son of Zeus. The weapon sent to kill you.

Alexia’s heart stopped. She recognized him instantly.

Broad shoulders, eyes cold and lifeless as winter stone.

He stood there at the forest's edge, watching you with no anger, no cruelty — only duty.

A predator.

A judge.

The end.

Alexia pressed herself tighter against the tree, her hand going instinctively to the hilt of the sword strapped to her back.

Her breath shuddered out of her — silent, frantic.

She could not cry out. She could not warn you.

Not yet.

Not without drawing all Olympus down upon you.

She watched, helpless, as her brother took a slow, deliberate step toward you.

Toward the girl kneeling in the ruins of her own forgotten grave.

Toward the soul that had already been stolen from her once.

Alexia gripped the hilt of her sword so tightly her knuckles burned white.

Hidden in the thick shadows of the trees, she watched the scene unfold before her — helpless, trembling with barely contained rage.

You had lifted your head.

You had heard the footsteps.

You had turned.

Alexia watched your face shift — from confusion, to unease, to polite caution.

You didn’t recognize him for what he was.

You didn’t know the danger standing at the edge of your life.

How could you? You only saw a stranger. A man in the woods. Nothing more.

Her brother smiled at you.

Alexia’s stomach twisted.

He called out to you — his voice light, cocky, dripping with false friendliness.

"Lost, are you?" he said, laughing lightly, as if he were just another hiker, another traveler, as if he didn’t carry divine orders wrapped around his bones.

Alexia watched you shift uncomfortably, rising slowly from where you knelt.

She could see the tension in your body — small, almost invisible, but it was there.

Some part of you knew something was wrong.

Her brother stepped closer — slowly, carefully, like a wolf approaching a wounded deer.

Casual hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders loose, mouth curved in a smirk that set every alarm screaming in Alexia's chest.

You answered him — your voice soft, uncertain — telling him you were just out here exploring, that you weren’t looking for anything in particular.

She heard the small catch in your voice.

She saw the way you took a tiny step back without even realizing it.

Her heart broke. You were trying to be polite. Trying to be safe. But you didn’t understand. You didn’t know there was no safety here. Not anymore.

Alexia’s breath came fast and shallow.

She pressed herself tighter against the rough bark of the tree, the ancient magic singing under her skin,

begging her to act.

Not yet.

She had to be sure.

She had to wait for the moment he moved — the moment his true intent revealed itself.

She couldn’t strike too soon. If she did — if the gods saw her break the law openly — they would descend like wolves.

Not just her brother.

All of them.

Her fingers tightened around the sword.

The blade pulsed faintly against her skin — a weapon forged for war, for defiance. A weapon that had not tasted blood in too long.

She saw her brother chuckle, easy and relaxed, as he circled a little closer to you. Saw the way his body tensed even as he smiled —readying himself for the kill.

She saw you laugh nervously in return, the sound brittle, unsure, your instincts clawing at you to run even if you didn’t know why.

Her vision blurred with fury. You were trying to be kind. You were trying to be human. And he — he was going to slaughter you for it.

Alexia’s whole body trembled with the effort it took to stay still. The blade in her hand sang for release. Her heart pounded so loudly she thought it might shatter the world.

She could not watch you die again. She would not. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

Her brother reached into his coat — slow, casual, as if pulling out a map or a phone — but Alexia saw it. She saw the flicker of divine steel catch the dying light between his fingers.

The killing blow was seconds away.

Alexia moved. Silent. Swift. Deadly.

You didn’t understand what was happening at first.

One moment you were standing in the clearing, nervously smiling at the cocky stranger with something cold and wrong behind his eyes — The next, the world exploded into motion.

The man moved. Too fast. Too sharp. Too inhuman.

You saw the flash of steel in his hand — bright, final.

You didn’t have time to react. You barely had time to breathe. And then — another figure crashed into the clearing, a blur of speed and fury, a blade singing through the air.

Steel struck steel with a sound that split the world apart. Sparks showered the ground between them.

You stumbled back, heart hammering against your ribs. Shock rooted you to the spot — your legs refusing to move, your body refusing to believe what your eyes were seeing.

They fought like storms given flesh. The stranger — the killer — lunged again and again, his strikes brutal, precise, unrelenting.

But the other figure — the one who had come from nowhere — met him blow for blow. Faster. Sharper. More desperate. For a long, endless moment you could only stare. Frozen. Breathless.

Your mind screamed at you to run — but something deeper held you still. Some instinct, some ancient piece of you, knew. You had to see.

The stranger knocked the hood back from the other fighter’s head during a savage blow. And that’s when you saw her.

A glimpse.

Just a glimpse.

Golden hair tangled with sweat and blood. Eyes burning with a fury so fierce it nearly scorched the earth. A mouth set in a line of desperate, furious devotion.

Her.

Alexia.

The world around you seemed to lurch sideways. Your knees nearly buckled under you. A sound tore out of your throat — a gasp, a cry, you didn't even know.

Because in that one glimpse, the dreams you had tried to ignore, the visions you had told yourself were madness, the memories that haunted the edges of your sleep — They snapped into place.

Not all at once. Not perfectly. But enough. Enough to know.

The laughter by the river. The touch of a hand you trusted more than your own breath. The promises whispered against your skin. The final moment — her arms around you, her voice screaming your name into the ruins of the world.

It was all real. It had always been real. You were not crazy. You were not dreaming. You had lived. You had loved her. You had died in her arms.

The ground swayed under your feet. Your lungs burned with the effort of breathing. You could barely feel your body anymore — numb with grief, numb with wonder, numb with terror.

In the clearing, the battle raged on — steel flashing, snarls ripping through the heavy air.

You should have run. You should have moved. You should have screamed. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You stood there, frozen in the wreckage of your mind, watching the past collide with the present, watching the person who had loved you. fighting to save you.

You clutched at your chest, your fingers tangling in your clothes as if you could hold yourself together by sheer force of will.

Tears blurred your vision — hot, helpless, endless.

Because you knew. Because now, you could not deny it no longer.

The dreams were indeed memories.

The love was indeed real.

The loss was real.

The forest cracked open under the fury of gods. You stumbled backward, frozen, watching the impossible unfold in front of you.

The man — the stranger — lunged again, his blade gleaming bright and hungry under the roiling sky.

But Alexia met him with a roar, her sword flashing upward to parry the blow.

The clash of metal rang out like a scream, shaking the ground beneath your feet.

They moved too fast for human eyes to follow — a blur of gold and blood and desperation.

Steel struck steel, again and again — sparks flying, breaths tearing through the thick, heavy air.

Alexia gritted her teeth, driving forward with a brutal swing, forcing him back toward the broken stones at the clearing’s edge.

But he was strong — stronger than her in brute force. He ducked under her strike, sweeping her legs out from under her. Alexia hit the ground hard — her sword slipping from her grasp, clattering out of reach.

You gasped, a hand flying to your mouth, heart lurching painfully in your chest.

The man grinned — vicious, sure. He kicked the sword further away and drove forward, dagger flashing from his belt — aimed straight at her throat.

But Alexia was faster. She rolled to the side, grabbing a jagged stone from the earth itself — and as he lunged again, she slammed it into his side.

Hard.

He stumbled, snarling, momentarily thrown off balance.

Alexia scrambled to her feet, blood dripping from her scraped palms, her chest heaving with ragged, desperate breaths.

She didn’t hesitate. She couldn’t hesitate. With a cry that tore straight from the center of her soul, she threw herself at him.

Her hands locked onto his wrist, forcing the dagger upward — struggling, twisting, battling him hand-to-hand now.

You could see the muscles straining in her arms, the wild, frantic light in her eyes. You could see the realization, too — She didn't want to kill.

But she would. Because of you. Because if she didn’t — he would bury that blade in your heart without a second thought.

With a savage wrench, Alexia turned the dagger against him.

It happened almost too fast to see. A flash of silver.

A gasp. A burst of blood too dark against the clearing’s mossy floor.

Man froze — eyes wide, shocked — staring down at the dagger buried deep in his own ribs.

Alexia held it there — her hand trembling — her breath tearing out of her in broken sobs.

For a moment, they just stood there — frozen in a horrible, intimate silence.

"You shouldn’t have come," Alexia whispered.

man’s lips parted — but no words came. Only a breath — shallow, disbelieving.

His knees buckled. Alexia caught him as he fell — lowering him gently to the earth, like she could make this less monstrous.

She knelt over him for a single heartbeat longer, her hand trembling over the hilt of the dagger still buried in his side.

And then — slowly, with a shudder that wracked her whole body — she let him go.

He died with his eyes open.

Alexia rose slowly, blood-smeared, wounded,shaking — but alive.

She staggered a step back from the body, her sword slipping from her hand, falling to the ground with a dull, hollow thud.

Alexia turned toward you then — and the world fell away. Her sword slipped from her fingers, falling into the dirt with a dull, final sound.

Her hands — empty now — curled into helpless fists at her sides, as if she was trying to hold herself back, trying not to break apart before she reached you.

She took a single step closer. And then another.

Her eyes locked onto yours — wide, wild, full of a thousand lifetimes of grief, love, guilt, and hope.

It hit you like a storm breaking open in your chest.

Your heart stuttered painfully, like it didn’t know how to beat in the presence of something this real.

You wanted to run. You wanted to fall into her arms. You wanted to scream until the forest itself cracked open and swallowed you both whole.

But you couldn’t move. You could only stand there — trembling, shaking, breaking — as she came to stand before you.

"You're real," you whispered. Barely a sound at all —just a shattered breath in the heavy air. Your voice cracked painfully around the words. Tears blurred your vision again, spilling over before you could stop them.

You shook your head — small, frantic movements —desperate to make sense of it, desperate to deny it, desperate to believe it all at once.

"I thought..." Your voice broke completely. "I thought I was dreaming. I thought I was crazy."

Alexia’s throat worked around a broken, shuddering breath. Her whole body shook with the effort of holding herself together. Slowly — so slowly — her hand lifted.

Her fingers hovered near your cheek, trembling, as if she was terrified that touching you would make you vanish again.

Not touching. Just... close. Close enough to feel the warmth of your skin.Close enough to feel the fragile, fragile hope burning between you.

"You were never crazy," she said. Her voice was low, raw, wrecked beyond repair. Her face crumpled, her mouth shaking as she spoke. A sob ripped from your chest before you could stop it. You swayed toward her — your hands trembling as you reached out, just barely brushing your fingertips against hers. touch so fragile it could have shattered the world. But it didn’t. It anchored it instead.

"Alexia," you whispered, voice broken. Her name on your lips tasted like a prayer — like a home you had been searching for across endless, empty lifetimes.

Tears streamed down your face, hot and unstoppable. You reached up, wrapping your shaking fingers around her wrist, feeling the frantic pulse there, the desperate life still burning inside her.

She stared at you — devastated, awed, overwhelmed — like she couldn’t believe you were real either. And then she moved.

She closed the tiny distance between you, cradling your face in both hands now, her thumbs brushing away your tears even as her own fell freely. You surged into her touch — clinging, needing — feeling yourself collapse into the space between her hands.

The moment fractured. The dam broke. And then she kissed you. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate. It was savage with grief and longing.

Her lips crushed against yours, hot and trembling, and you kissed her back just as fiercely, hands fisting in the fabric of her ruined clothes, pulling her closer, anchoring yourself to her with everything you had.

When she finally pulled back,her forehead pressed to yours again, your ragged breaths tangled together in the cold air.

"I lost you once," she whispered, voice cracking, "I will not lose you again."

Her words wrapped around you like a shield, like a vow stronger than any god’s decree. You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Your hands stayed curled in her clothes, your whole body trembling with the effort to stay together.

Above you, the sky roared — a furious, wounded god waking from his throne. The trees shook. The stones cracked. The world itself trembled.

And from the edge of the clearing, out of the boiling storm and crackling fury, he stepped forward.

Zeus.

The King of the Gods.

The Father of Storms.

The Judge of Souls.

He stood taller than any mortal man, wreathed in roiling clouds, eyes burning like twin suns about to devour the world.

His presence alone nearly knocked you to your knees.

The ground shivered under him. The air itself seemed to recoil.

Alexia stood firm. Between you and him. Bleeding. Breathing hard. Refusing to yield.

"Step aside," Zeus growled, his voice loud enough to shake the trees to their roots. The stones cracked at his feet. The clearing itself seemed to shrink under the weight of his fury.

Alexia did not move "No," she said. The word cut the air cleanly, as sharp and final as a blade.

"You defy me," Zeus thundered. "You break the laws that have held our world together since before your first breath!"

Alexia’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She lifted her chin higher. "I break your laws," she said. "Not the ones written in the blood of love and loyalty."

Zeus’s face twisted into something monstrous. "You chose a mortal," he spat. "You chose weakness over your own blood. You let your heart poison your judgment. You let it corrupt you." His voice dropped lower, sharper. "And now you have murdered your own blood for her."

The words hit like stones. You flinched — shame and guilt surging even though you had no part in it.

Alexia stood straighter. Her jaw trembled, but she didn’t look away. "I didn’t," she said, voice hoarse. "You killed him the moment you sent him after her."

Zeus’s laughter cracked through the clearing — a terrible, hollow sound. "I sent him to protect our realm!" He pointed a hand at you, lightning gathering around his fingers. "Girl must die!"

You gasped, shrinking back. Alexia moved instantly — a shield, a wall, a force that no storm could tear down.

"She’s not a threat," Alexia said fiercely. "She’s my heart." Her voice broke — not with weakness, but with a love so fierce it shook even the storm. "My heart is not a threat to Olympus. But your cruelty is."

Zeus’s face twisted in fury. "You are no longer my daughter," he roared. "You are no longer of Olympus. You are nothing but a traitor. A butcher of your own blood."

Alexia flinched — not from the words, but from the memory they carried. She had loved her family once. But not enough to let you die again.

"If protecting her makes me a traitor," Alexia said, her voice steady even as her heart broke, "then so be it."

Thunder cracked the sky in two. The clouds seethed and screamed above you. "You would throw away eternity," Zeus said, voice trembling with wrath, "for a mortal who will crumble to dust before you?"

Alexia’s eyes burned with a fury to match his own. "I would throw away eternity a thousand times for her."

"You are a fool," Zeus snarled. "And you will die a fool’s death."

The ground split at Zeus’s feet. A bolt of lightning struck a tree nearby, splintering it in a burst of flame and smoke.

The heat washed over you, making you stagger.

Alexia stayed still — a fortress against the coming storm. "You’ll have to kill me first," she said. "And even then — my love will not die."

Zeus raised his hand. The sky trembled. The storm bared its teeth. The first strike was moments away.

The world seemed to hold its breath. The storm tore itself open above you — black clouds swirling in fury, lightning flashing like knives across the sky.

The earth cracked and groaned under the weight of ancient rage. And in the center of it all, they faced each other.

Father and daughter.

King and traitor.

Storm and flame.

Zeus struck first. Lightning poured from his hands — raw, blinding, violent — a spear of white-hot power aimed straight for Alexia’s heart.

She barely dodged. The blast tore up the ground beside her, sending shards of stone and dirt raining down around you.

Alexia rolled, blood smearing the earth where her hands scraped raw against it. She came up low, breathless, but standing.

Another strike — Zeus moved with terrifying speed for a being so massive, his sword flashing into existence in his hand, forged from storms themselves.

He swung it in a wide, brutal arc — and Alexia barely raised her forearm to block it. The impact threw her back again, skidding across the dirt, coughing blood.

You cried out — but your voice was lost under the thunder that roared through the clearing.

Still, she got up. Bleeding. Shaking. But standing.

"You shame yourself," Zeus roared, advancing, his sword trailing sparks where it scraped the stones. "You shame me!"

Alexia wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. She stood her ground, even as the ground itself trembled under Zeus's fury.

"I don't care about your pride," she spat, voice hoarse but fierce. "I don't care about Olympus." She shifted her stance — injured, weak, but unbowed. "I only care about her."

Zeus’s face twisted with rage. He lunged — a devastating blow meant to split her in two.

Alexia sidestepped, barely avoiding the blade, and drove her fist — glowing faintly gold — into his side.

The shock of it made Zeus stagger — but only for a heartbeat. He turned, catching her by the throat with one massive hand, lifting her off the ground with horrifying ease.

Your scream tore out of you, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t reach her. You could only watch — helpless — as Alexia struggled against the iron grip of her father.

"You would destroy yourself," Zeus hissed, "for a mortal that will never understand what you gave up."

Alexia choked, her hands clawing weakly at his wrist. She bared her teeth in a broken, defiant smile. "I don't care," she rasped. "I would choose her again. And again. And again."

With a roar of frustration, Zeus hurled her to the ground. She hit hard — the sound sickening in the silence that followed. You staggered forward a step, desperation burning through your body.

Alexia pushed herself up on shaking arms. Every movement was agony. Blood dripped steadily from a gash above her eye, soaking into the torn collar of her clothes. She couldn't even fully stand anymore — one knee buckled under her, forcing her to half-crouch.

But she lifted her head anyway. She faced Zeus anyway. She faced death anyway. For you.

Zeus lifted his sword. It gleamed, alive with stormlight, the blade thrumming with the gathered power of a god’s fury. He stepped toward her —slowly, heavily — the ground shuddering under each step.

Alexia knelt there, too broken to rise, but refusing to bow her head. Refusing to surrender.

The world seemed to narrow. to still. the wind died. the thunder paused. even the trees leaned in, holding their breath.

You watched — frozen, sobbing, your heart breaking into a thousand pieces — as Zeus raised the sword high above her.

High enough to kill her in a single, devastating blow.

High enough to end her.

And still — still — Alexia stared him down.

Still she protected you.

Still she chose you.

The blade flashed above her head.

The moment hung there — unbearable — on the edge of time.

About to fall.

About to shatter everything.

The sword moved.

It fell through the air like a sentence already written, too heavy to escape, too certain to be denied.

It was meant for Alexia.

It was meant to end her rebellion, her defiance, her love.

But you moved first.

So small.

So fragile.

So heartbreakingly human.

You threw yourself between her and the storm without a second thought.

Without hesitation.

Without fear.

The blade struck.

It drove straight through you, the impact so powerful it stole the breath from the world.

Your body arched for a heartbeat — a moment of terrible grace — before sagging forward, the steel buried deep in your chest.

Your blood spilled in a rush.

Dark and vivid against the grey of the storm.

And the world broke.

Alexia screamed — a sound so raw it seemed to tear the sky itself open.

She lunged forward, catching you before you fell.

Both of you crashed to the ground, her arms wrapping tightly around your broken body, desperate to keep you here.

Desperate to keep you alive.

"No—no, no, no," she sobbed.

Her voice was wrecked. Her hands fumbled helplessly over your wound, over your face, over every trembling piece of you.

She pressed her hands to the bleeding, to your slowing heartbeat, to the last warmth leaving your skin.

"Please," she gasped. "Please stay. Please stay. Please stay—"

Zeus stood frozen. Sword still gripped in his bloodied hand. He had meant to kill Alexia. He had meant to punish betrayal. He had meant to crush rebellion beneath the weight of law. Sword wasn’t meant for you, Not yet.

He had not expected you.

Not like this.

He thought mortals were selfish. Weak. Driven by fear. Chained to survival at all costs.

He thought — even if you loved — you would run.

You would scream. You would beg for life.

But you had done none of that. You had stepped into death with your head high. You had offered yourself, body and soul, without hesitation. You had thrown yourself into the path of a god's fury. for nothing more than love.

And it shook him.

Alexia cradled you against her chest, rocking you back and forth as if motion could call you back.

Her fingers threaded through your hair, desperate to memorize the softness, the weight, the preciousness of you.

She kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, as your skin grew colder and colder under her touch.

"I love you," she whispered against your brow. Over and over again. "I love you. I love you. I love you—" As if the words alone could build a wall strong enough to keep death away.

But your breath came slower. And slower. And slower.

Your eyes fluttered open one last time. You found her.

You smiled. A small, trembling, perfect thing.

You reached for her cheek with fingers that barely obeyed anymore.

You brushed away her tears.

And you mouthed the words back "I love you." No voice left. Only breath. Only soul.

And then you stilled.

Alexia pressed her face into your neck, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.

Her body shook around yours, rocking with the force of grief too large for her to contain.

Zeus lowered his sword. Slowly.

Staring at your still body in Alexia’s arms.

At the love he had tried to destroy.

At the life he had ended.

And for the first time in countless lifetimes, the King of the Gods tasted something bitter on his tongue.

Not anger. Not pride. But shame.

Alexia held you tighter. As if love alone could pull you back. As if her heart could beat enough for both of you.

But it couldn't.

nothing would ever be the same again.

The storm crashed against the world. The rain fell in heavy, endless sheets, washing blood into the earth, soaking into the broken stones where you now lay cold and still.

Alexia knelt over you — her forehead pressed to yours, her body trembling with grief too large for her skin to hold.

When she lifted her head, something inside her was gone. Something human. Something soft.

All that remained was fire. And rage. And a love that refused to die, even as everything else crumbled.

She rose. Slowly. Painfully.

The wind ripped at her torn clothes, at her bloodied hands, but she barely felt it.

Her body was broken, but it didn’t matter anymore.

Nothing mattered anymore.

She screamed — a broken, animal sound — and launched herself at Zeus.

He turned just in time to catch her. Her fists beat against his chest, small and wild and furious.

Magic flickered uselessly at her fingertips, sparks hissing out before they could hurt him.

"Why?" she screamed. "Why did you take her from me?!" Each word was a blow. Each sob was a blade.

Zeus’s jaw tightened. He caught her wrists. Held her struggling form with far more gentleness than his rage should have allowed.

"Enough," he said, his voice low and heavy with something like regret. "This is over."

He shoved her back — not cruelly, but firmly.

Trying to end it. Trying to push her away, to walk away. To leave the ruins of what he had done behind him.

Alexia stumbled, falling to her knees in the mud.

Zeus turned his back on her, starting to walk away into the storm.

The sword hung heavy in his hand. His shoulders bowed low. Like he wanted to forget. Like he wanted to bury what had happened.

But Alexia rose. Broken. Bleeding. Breathless.

But she rose.

Because she had nothing else left. Because without you, there was no purpose. No future. No reason not to fight until her last breath.

She charged at him again.

A flash of gold against the storm.

A cry of pure heartbreak.

Zeus heard her coming. He turned — reflex, not thought — and his body reacted before his mind could stop it.

His hand shot out. A bolt of raw power, wild and unmeasured, leapt from his palm.

It struck Alexia in the chest.

Dead center.

The impact lifted her off the ground, throwing her backward like a broken doll. She hit the stones hard — a sickening, final crack echoing through the clearing.

Alexia lay crumpled where Zeus's blow had thrown her, her body broken beyond healing. Every bone screamed. Every breath tasted like blood.

But she was not dead. Not yet.

Her fingers twitched weakly against the stones, scraping through the mud and blood.

Her vision blurred, the world swimming in and out of darkness.

Her lungs burned for air she could barely drag in anymore.

Her ribs refused to expand. Her legs refused to move.

But still — still — she turned her head.

She saw you. A few paces away. So close, yet So far.

Lying silent and still in the mud, your body soaked through by the endless, uncaring rain. Your hair fanned out like a halo around your head. Your face too pale, too peaceful.

Her heart shattered all over again.

She needed to reach you. She needed to touch you one more time.

If she could just feel your skin, just once more, maybe she could find the strength to follow you wherever you had gone.

With a broken, gasping sob, Alexia dragged herself forward.

Her arms shook violently, barely able to hold her weight. Her legs refused to respond at all, trailing uselessly behind her.

Every scrape of her bloodied hands against the stones was agony. Every inch closer was a battlefield won.

And still Alexia crawled. One hand forward. Pull. Gasp. Collapse. Then another.

Her breath rattled wetly in her chest, each gasp thinner than the last. Her vision narrowed —shrinking down to nothing but you.

Your hand. Just a few inches away now. Waiting. Silent.

She sobbed, a broken sound that twisted the air around her, and reached out.

Her fingers trembled, slick with blood and rain.

Just a little further.

Pain lanced through her chest. Her vision dimmed again. Her heart lurched violently once, twice.

She almost collapsed. Almost gave up. But she didn't. She would never give up on you.

With one final gasp of broken strength, Alexia stretched out her hand. And touched your fingers.

The connection was feather-light, so soft it almost wasn’t real. But it was enough.

Her fingers curled weakly around yours. Not strong enough to hold you.

Only enough to say

I found you.

I love you.

I am coming with you.

Her forehead dropped to the ground, pressing against the earth that cradled your body. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips. Her body trembled once more.

Then went still.

Zeus stood frozen. Watching. Listening. Feeling — for the first time in an age — the full, unbearable weight of what he had done. The full, unbearable cost of a love he had never understood.

His daughter. His shame. His broken pride. Gone.

The world was smaller now. Quieter. Darker.

And in the center of it all — in the ruin of what had been — two bodies lay together.

Hand in hand.

Side by side.

Together.

Even in death, refusing to be separated. Even now.

Especially now.

Forever.

It was a quiet night. No gods roared. No thunder cracked the sky. Only stars scattered across the heavens, twinkling in solemn silence.

In a small town near the sea, a baby’s first cry rang out — sharp, fierce, full of life.

She kicked her legs wildly, as if already fighting unseen chains.

They named her Alexia.

Her mother laughed through tears, pressing kisses to her damp forehead, whispering promises of love and protection she could never fully keep.

Miles away, across green hills and winding rivers, another newborn blinked up at the ceiling with wide, wondering eyes.

Silent.

Observing.

Her little fingers curled around her father’s thumb — a soft, sure grasp for something she didn’t understand.

They named her Y/N.

Neither family knew.

Neither mother, neither father.

No one knew that inside those tiny bodies lived souls older than cities, souls carrying a love so deep, so stubborn, it had refused to die even when the gods themselves had tried to destroy it.

The world gave them new bodies, new chances. A blank page. A softer beginning.

Alexia learned to run before she learned to speak properly.

Her legs carried her across beaches, through dusty alleys, fast and wild and unstoppable.

There was a fire in her chest even then — an ache she could not name, a hunger to move, to reach, to find something missing. Something... or someone.

Far away, Y/N spent afternoons in fields of yellow flowers, sitting cross-legged in the sun, humming songs with no words. Her mother would ask, "What are you singing, sweetheart?"

Y/N would just shrug. She didn't know. The songs were inside her, old and aching and too big for her tiny body.

Alexia began to dream. Of waves swallowing cities. Of lightning shattering mountains. Of hands — warm hands — slipping away from hers in the dark.

She woke up screaming sometimes, her heart slamming against her ribs. Her parents would rush to her bedside, whispering soft reassurances, stroking her hair.

But she couldn’t explain it. She only knew it felt like losing something she had never really had.

Y/N too dreamed. But hers were softer.

She dreamed of gardens, of laughter she couldn't place, of arms that made her feel safe beyond reason.

When she woke, she cried without understanding why.

One sunny afternoon at a bustling seaside market, their families crossed paths.

Alexia tugged at her father's hand, drawn toward a particular stall — a place thick with the scent of oranges and salt.

Y/N, holding her mother’s hand, skipped past that very stall, laughing at something her brother had said.

For the briefest of moments, their shoulders almost brushed.

Alexia’s head snapped up, her heart tripping over itself.

She looked around wildly, frowning, searching.

But the crowd swallowed Y/N back up before she could see.

Y/N, too, felt it —a sudden shiver down her spine, a pause in her laughter.

She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd.

Nothing. Only strangers. Only noise.

And so they moved on, carried by the tides of life, two ships passing in the same ocean, never realizing how close they had been.

Alexia was a name starting to be whispered on football fields. Fast. Fearless. Fierce.

She trained until her muscles screamed, played until her lungs gave out. There was a fire in her blood she didn’t know how to put out.

Sometimes, standing on the grass under roaring stadium lights, she felt like she was chasing something she could never quite catch.

Something she was born to find.

Y/N sat at her bedroom window, a guitar balanced on her knees, writing songs by lamplight.

Songs of longing. Songs of missing.

Her friends laughed and teased,

"You're writing love songs about a person you haven’t even met yet!" Y/N only would smile.

Alexia signed her first professional contract.

The world opened before her — wide and brilliant and hungry. And still, at the end of every game, every medal, every headline, she stood alone under the stars and felt the same hollow ache.

She didn't know what it was. Only that she was waiting for something more.

Y/N released her first EP — soft, aching songs about oceans and storms and hands she couldn't hold.

Critics called her a dreamer. She smiled and let them. She didn’t write for them. She wrote for the echo inside her chest.

A charity concert. A football fundraiser.

One of those meaningless little events that no one really paid attention to.

Except fate did.

Alexia stood backstage, waiting for her turn to speak, nervous for the first time in years.

Music floated through the thin walls. Soft. Clear.

A voice like the first breath of spring.

She stopped breathing.

On stage, Y/N sat on a stool with her guitar, eyes closed as she sang.

The song was simple. A song about loving someone across lifetimes.

A song about promises that even time couldn't break.

A song written without knowing why — only knowing that it mattered.

Alexia's legs nearly gave out. Her hands trembled.

Her heart stuttered, then roared in her chest.

And when Y/N opened her eyes and looked straight at her — through the crowd, through the noise, through the years — they both knew.

Without memory.

Without explanation.

Without words.

It was her.

It had always been her.

They fell in love like breathing.

Easily.

Painfully.

Inevitably.

Coffee dates that stretched into sunrise.

Football games with Y/N screaming Alexia's name louder than the whole stadium.

Songs written on scraps of napkins and sung into Alexia’s laughing mouth.

Home.

Finally.

On a warm summer evening,

Alexia sat on a porch swing, a lazy hand running through Y/N's hair as she dozed in her lap.

The sea sighed in the distance.

The stars blinked overhead — the same stars that had witnessed their endings and now, finally, their beginning.

Alexia leaned down, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s forehead.

She didn’t know why, but she whispered anyway

"I've waited my whole life for you."

And Y/N, half-asleep, smiled.

This time, they were home.

Together.

Forever.

(I think this story didn’t go as I expected 😆it’s not good)

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