#if it walks and talks and dies like a duck... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

itneverendshere · 6 months ago

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LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - TWELVE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of severe anemia; pregnancy; abortion

💌MASTERLIST

Rafe rolled over, squinting against the sunlight breaking through the shitty broken blinds he'd meant to replace weeks ago. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and before his eyes were even fully open, he swiped it up.

"Yeah?" His voice was a low growl, all gravel, and irritation.

The voice on the other end was professional. "Mr. Cameron? We’re calling to follow up on your father’s properties. There are a few—"

Fuck off.

Rafe cut them off with a sharp exhale, rubbing his temples.

He didn’t let them finish. "Yeah, I know what you’re calling about. I’m not dealing with that right now, okay? Call someone else."

"Sir, you are listed as—"

"I said call someone else," He snapped, hanging up before they could launch into another scripted response. He tossed the phone onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling, breathing hard.

It had been months since Ward died, and somehow, his name was heavier now than it ever was when he was alive. Everyone wanted something—answers, signatures, money. All things Rafe didn’t have or didn’t care to deal with.

The phone buzzed again. He grabbed it, ready to tell whoever it was where to stick their questions, but it was just a reminder about his plans with Topper. For half a second, he considered texting back: Can’t make it. Something came up.

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he shoved himself upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and dropping his head into his hands.

The dream the call robbed him of was still vivid. For a moment, he forgot where he was—his room felt colder, and emptier, and the bed might as well have been a mile wide.

In the dream, you were eighteen again, and so was he. Back when things were simpler—or maybe just felt that way. Back before he’d ruined everything.

He could see it so clearly: the two of you sneaking out of some party you didn’t want to be at, your hand locked in his as you ducked through the dark streets. You’d been laughing, trying to shush him because he couldn’t stop cracking dumb jokes.

You ended up at the dock by your uncle’s boat. The stars were out, scattered across the sky like a million little promises. He remembered how you’d sat cross-legged on the wooden planks, your hair falling into your face as you smiled at him like he was the only person in the world.

The dock, your laugh, the stars—those were the good parts. But he remembers what you were going through back then, and it hit him all over again.

You’d just lost everything—your parents, your sister, gone in an instant. The private plane went down, and so did the life you’d always known. He remembers the way you’d talk about them—your family—late at night when it was just the two of you. Your voice would crack, and your eyes would shine with unshed tears, but you’d talk anyway. About your dad teaching you how to sail, your mom’s tenderness, the way your sister used to be your role model.

He hadn’t thought about those nights in years, but now they come rushing back, all tangled up with the dream. He still wasn’t strong enough for you back then. He let his own shit get in the way, let his insecurities and his anger twist everything good between you over the years. And when he walked away, he left you to deal with the wreckage of your life and his own cowardice.

He threw on a shirt, and some old shorts, didn’t even bother fixing his hair. No one was going to care—not like anyone was looking to him for anything these days anyway. He stomped down the stairs, rubbing at the back of his neck, pretending like he didn’t spend the night dreaming of your face.

Wheezie was at the kitchen counter, cereal in front of her, scrolling her phone.

She didn’t glance up when she heard him, "You look like shit."

Aw, nothing like a teenager.

"Good mornin’ to you too," Rafe grumbled, heading for the fridge. He grabbed a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap like it had personally offended him, “You’re really settling in, huh?"

Wheezie snorted, not looking up from her phone. "Rose stuck me here with you. What else am I supposed to do? I’m just trying to survive."

“It’s two days."

He hadn’t exactly planned on babysitting Wheezie while Rose was out of the country, he hadn’t planned on much lately

"Two days too many," she shot back, smirking. "You going somewhere?"

Rafe slammed the fridge shut, twisting the cap off his water.

"Why are you stomping around like that?"

"Not fuckin’ stomping," Rafe muttered, leaning against the counter.

"You are," she scowled, shoving a spoonful of cereal into her mouth. "You sound like a baby elephant."

Rafe glared at her, but she just shrugged, unfazed. "You’re up early. What’s the occasion?"

"Just woke up, okay?" he snapped.

"Jeez, someone’s in a mood," Wheezie rolled her eyes. "What’s your deal?"

"No deal." He took a long sip of water, staring out the window.

"Can you drop me off later?" she changed the topic, her tone too casual to be innocent.

Rafe side-eyed her. "Drop you off where?"

"Poguelandia.”

His hand froze halfway to the trash can. "You’re kiddin’."

"Nope," Wheezie said, popping the “p.” She didn’t even look at him, scrolling on her phone like this was just a normal request.

"You know Sarah’s there, right?"

"Yeah, that’s kinda the point," Wheezie finally met his glare. "She texted me. Wants to hang out."

Rafe scoffed, tossing the empty water bottle into the trash. "Since when are you and Sarah talkin’?"

"Since forever," Wheezie pursed her lips, "Just because you two can’t stand each other doesn’t mean I can’t hang out with her. Also," She adds, "there’s a party happening later. Like, nothing crazy, but… y’know."

He hadn’t been around much for his little sister lately—shit, not for a long time, if he was honest with himself. After their dad died, he kind of just… checked out. Too much of his own crap to deal with. But Wheezie didn’t ask for any of that.

"Nothing crazy," Rafe repeated flatly, his arms crossed.

"Relaxxxx,” She shoved another spoonful of cereal into her mouth. "Just drop me off. I’ll figure out a ride back."

He rubbed a hand over his face, groaning. "Wheeze, do you even know what you’re walking into? Pogues don’t fuck with us."

"I wonder why….” She hummed, waving him off. “I’ll be fine, they don’t hate me."

"Yeah, well, they hate me."

"Good thing I’m not you.” Wheezie fired back, hopping off the stool.

Yeah, good thing.

"And it’s not just a party. I’m visiting Sarah, too."

"Yeah, I heard you the first time," Rafe rolled his eyes, "Here’s the deal: I’ll drop you off—"

She perked up, her face lighting with hope.

"—but on one condition," he cut in, smirking just enough to make her suspicious.

He hadn’t really spent time with her in ages—not since Ward died. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, it was just…easier not to. Easier to stay away, to let the silence pile up.

The real issue was that, for the longest time, he’s been gone for a reason. He didn’t want to be here. It was easier to be numb by being drunk or high. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his sister—it was just that it was too painful, and complicated.

Yesterday, his therapist had told him to invest time in his sisters. To be there for them, to reconnect, because they were his only real family left. Whezzie he could do, Sarah?

Only time would tell.

You have to show up for the people you love. Even if it scares you.

It scared the shit out of him, honestly.

"What?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"You come with me and Topper on the boat first," he said, folding his arms tighter like he’s already won.

Wheezie groaned, slumping back in her chair. "Seriously? What part of not showing up on a yatch is this?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Why? So I can sit there and listen to you two talk about girls you’ll never get and beer brands you can’t pronounce?"

Rafe glared at her. "It’s not up for debate. You wanna go to fuckass poguelandia? You’re comin’ with us. End of story."

At least he was trying—trying to do something for her, to make up for the time he’d lost, the ways he’d been absent or worse. Even if he still sounded like an asshole most of the time.

"Fine. Whatever. I’ll go with you and Topper. But you owe me big time.”

The whole idea of being present was terrifying, it ruined him when he was a teenager, but he couldn’t keep hiding from it. There was nothing left to hide behind.

“I’ll buy that stupid cereal you like.”

"Lucky me."

"Alright, smartass," He grabbed a mug and filled it with coffee, trying to ignore her smug look. "What do you even eat besides cereal? You’re gonna starve or some shit.”

"I’ll survive. You, on the other hand…" she trailed off, gesturing vaguely at his unkempt pantry. "You look like you could use a babysitter."

Rafe let the corners of his mouth twitch. "You’re an asshole, y'know that?"

“You’re my brother, what did you expect?”

It was just the two of them in his big, empty condo. He might not have been much of a role model—or even a decent older brother—but for the next two days, he could try.

“You’re the worst,” she grumbled, grabbing her phone off the counter.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Rafe said dismissively, turning toward the door. “Be ready in ten.”

Wheezie, rolling her eyes so hard he thought they might fall out of her head, stomped back upstairs, probably to change into something less “little sister on a boat” and more “teen rebel” or whatever the fuck kid’s liked these days. She could dress however she wanted as long as she didn’t make him regret dragging her into this.

Rafe leaned against the truck while he waited for his sister. His arms were crossed, his fingers drumming against his bicep in a nervous rhythm. It wasn’t about the boat—he didn’t even know why he’d suggested it. Maybe it was just an excuse to keep her close for a little longer before dropping her into pogue territory. He missed her.

An hour later, he was pulling the truck into the dock’s gravel lot, the tires crunching as he rolled to a stop. Topper was already there, lounging on the boat, a beer in one hand and sunglasses perched low on his nose.

Wheezie hopped out of the truck before Rafe even had a chance to cut the engine. “God, does he ever not look like a wannabe country club poster boy?”

Rafe smirked as he climbed out.

“Rafe! Wheezie!” Topper called out, spreading his arms wide like he was greeting royalty. “What’s up, losers?”

Wheezie snorted, marching toward the boat. “Nice shorts. Did Vineyard Vines have a clearance sale, or did you just raid your dad’s closet?”

“Stop being ruthless,” Topper glanced down at his pastel pink swim trunks, feigning offense. “These are a classic.”

“A classic embarrassment,” she fake gagged, stepping onto the boat.

Rafe followed her, shaking his head. “Play nice.”

“Fantastic,” Topper drawled, “There’s two of you today.”

“You make it too easy.” Whezzie dropped onto one of the cushioned seats and leaned back, pulling her sunglasses down over her eyes. “What’s the plan, Captain Douchebag?”

Topper raised his beer in a mock toast. “The plan is sailing.”

“Wow. Revolutionary.”

Rafe chuckled, untying the boat and giving it a shove off the dock. “Just sit back and relax, Wheez. We’ll drop you off later.”

Topper’s head snaps up, “Drop her off where?”

"Where do you think?" Rafe leaned over to check the boat's engine. He didn't bother looking at Topper, already waiting for the inevitable reaction, “Sarah's.”

"Wait, wait, wait," Topper held up a hand like he was stopping traffic. "You're taking her to Poguelandia? Are you out of your mind?"

"It's not your problem," Rafe grumbled, starting the engine. The low hum drowned out part of Topper's rant, but not enough to miss the gist.

"Not my problem? Dude, the second you step foot over there, it's everyone's problem. She’s there too, y’know? Stopped by earlier to make peace…She changed her gate’s code. And the lock.”

The gate code. The lock.

He couldn’t get it out of his head.

For years, it had been the same—just like the keys he used to have to your place. Just days ago, the gate had swung open just like it always did, the same code he’d memorized like it was second nature.

You hadn’t changed the code, hadn’t swapped the locks. He’d half convinced himself it meant something, maybe you weren’t ready to fully let him go, either.

Rafe’s hands stilled on the throttle. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but his jaw tightened all the same. Topper, of course, noticed immediately.

"See? This is what I’m talking about," Topper leaned back in his seat, spreading his arms like he was laying out some grand revelation. "Where do you think she’s staying at? It’s fuckin’ obvious. We show up, and it’s gonna stir shit up.”

It was almost like you’d left the door cracked open for him. Just enough to make him believe there was still a chance. Now he wasn’t so sure. Had his visit been the final straw? Had the sight of him standing on the other side of your door—looking desperate and pathetic—been the thing that made you decide to shut him out completely?

You didn’t let him in, but you’d opened up the door. After everything he’d put you through, it was your way of protecting yourself. Shutting the door so he couldn’t come crashing back in.

Topper’s voice snapped him back to reality, “You even listening to me, man?”

Rafe blinked, forcing himself to re-focus on the boat’s controls.

“Yeah. I heard you. ’m not staying. Just dropping her off."

“We’re dead meat.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Topper knew better than to keep talking, the conversation ended there.

For the next twenty minutes, the boat cruised over the water, Rafe kept on steering, letting Topper and Wheezie chatter away behind him. He wasn't really listening—hadn't been for most of the trip—but every now and then, Wheezie's laughter or Topper's exaggerated storytelling pulled him back just enough to remind him they were still there.

When they finally dropped anchor near the sandbar, Topper leaned back, cracking open another beer as he stretched out under the sun.

"Alrigh’, who wants to make a toast? First outing of the month, gotta celebrate properly!"

Rafe shook his head, pulling a bottle of water from the cooler instead. He twisted off the cap and took a long sip, ignoring the way Topper raised a brow at him.

"Wait a second," Topper said, sitting up slightly. "You're not drinking?"

The fact his best friend sounded surprised was reason enough to stay sober. He didn’t like being scrutinized.

"Nah," He waived off, leaning back against the seat and letting the sun warm his face.

He’d made the choice not to drink before they even left the dock, but it didn’t stop the instinct—the small urge to crack open a beer and let the eventual numbness take over like it usually did.

Topper looked between the beer in his hand and Rafe, "You serious? Could've told me, wouldn’t have brought all this shit."

“Yeah, sure you wouldn’t have.”

"Fair," Topper admitted, "Still, man. That's… good. Like, really good."

Wheezie, who had been scrolling on her phone, perked up at the exchange. "Yeah, Rafe. I think it's awesome."

Proud. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said that to him. Maybe you, but it had been a long time since anyone had looked at him and seen something worth being proud of.

He shrugged, “It’s not a big deal.”

But it kind of was. Because sitting there, sober and fully present for the first time in months, he realized it didn’t feel as bad as he thought it would. He’d been drinking non-stop—first to deal with his dad’s death, then to quiet the guilt, and then to forget you.

The therapist had called it “self-medicating.” Rafe had scoffed when she first said it, she didn’t know what she was talking about, but the longer the sessions went on, the harder it was to deny. Drinking had become a way to drown out the memories and feelings he didn’t know how to face.

The therapist had suggested he take a break from drinking, just for a while. “You don’t have to stop forever,” she’d said. “Just give yourself a chance to feel what’s really going on.”

Yeah, because that sounded like fucking fun. Sitting with his feelings.

But something about today felt different. He couldn’t explain it—maybe it was Wheezie’s not hating spending time with him after all the stunts he pulled, or the way Topper had thrown himself into planning this trip like he was trying to cheer him up—but for once, he didn’t feel like drowning himself in alcohol.

It wasn’t like drinking had helped anyway, if anything, it made it worse. The mornings after, when the hangover hit and he couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror, let alone call you to apologize for everything he’d done wrong.

So, yeah. Maybe the therapist had a point.

He glanced at the cooler full of beers and liquor that Topper had dragged aboard. “Don’t feel like it today.”

Topper was still eyeing him like he was an alien, while Wheezie had gone back to scrolling her phone, but every now and then, she'd glance up at him, like she was checking to see if he was still there—if he was still him.

"Alright, enough of the sentimental shit," Topper declared, "Let’s make this a proper day. Who’s up for some wakeboarding?"

Wheezie groaned, flopping back dramatically. "You two are so predictable. Wakeboarding, really? What’s next, golf? A steak dinner? Gonna break out the cigars and talk about how much you love cripto?"

Rafe snorted, tossing a towel at her. "Wheez, you screamed your head off last time you tried it."

“Yeah, because I nearly died!" she threw the towel right back at him.

"You were fine.”

“You said I was fine while I was choking on lake water.”

Rafe smirked, standing up to adjust the rope for the wakeboard. “Builds character.”

“Builds trauma,” she retorted, kicking her flip-flops off and stretching her legs out over the seat. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when I’m suing your ass.”

“Good luck with that.”

She tilted her chin up with a satisfied grin, “I can now, thank you very much. I’m an adult.”

“You turned eighteen two weeks ago. Chill with the big-girl talk.”

Topper cracked up from the other side of the boat, pointing his beer at her like it was a microphone. “She’s got you there, big bro. Maybe let her drive the boat next.”

Wheezie perked up instantly. “Wait, can I?”

“No,” Rafe deadpanned.

“Why not?” she whined, her entire body deflating.

“Because last time you tried, you almost ran over a dock,” Rafe tugged the line to make sure it was secure.

“Okay, that was one time, and I was learning,” Wheezie argued. “You’ve done way dumber stuff.”

Topper leaned over, watching the exchange like it was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week. “This is amazing. You guys should fight more often.”

“Shut up,” Rafe and Wheezie said in unison, which only made Topper laugh harder.

The afternoon passed quickly, filled with sun, water, and Wheezie’s relentless commentary. She refused to try wakeboarding again, opting instead to sunbathe and heckle them from the safety of the boat. Rafe couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard her laugh so much—or the last time he’d felt this calm.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the water in shades of gold, Rafe slowed the boat to a gentle drift. Wheezie was sprawled out with her headphones in, her phone propped up on her stomach. Topper had passed out in the corner, his sunglasses slipping down his nose. Rafe sat at the helm, one hand resting on the wheel, the other dangling over the side. The cool water lapped at his fingertips, calming him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

For once, he wasn’t thinking about the mistakes he’d made or the people he’d lost. He wasn’t drowning in guilt or regret. He was just… there, present. It didn’t feel as bad as he thought it would

Rafe cut the engine as the boat drifted closer to the dock. The sight of Sarah’s house on the Cut came into view. It wasn’t a kook mansion or some pristine estate—just a house that Sarah and her friends had claimed for herself.

The second the boat bumped against the dock, Wheezie sprang up, tugging her bag over her shoulder. Rafe was quick to follow, throwing the rope around a cleat to tie them off.

“You’re not getting off, are you?” Wheezie asked, looking over her shoulder with her brows furrowed.

Rafe stepped off the boat, sneakers hitting the creaky dock with a purpose. She rolled her eyes when she realized he wasn’t staying behind like she hoped.

“You don’t need to come,” she grumbled, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Yeah, I do,” Rafe said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Not letting you walk in there alone.”

“She’s our sister, not some random stranger,” Wheezie stomped down the dock.

She might as well have been.

Rafe grabbed the bag she was struggling with and followed her toward the weathered building at the end of the pier. Sarah’s place wasn’t just a house; it was a business. A small café-slash-bait shop that catered to the locals. The painted sign hanging over the front door read Cut Cafe in faded lettering, with a little drawing of a fish under it.

He hated it.

Not because it wasn’t nice, but because it wasn’t theirs. It was Sarah’s—a piece of her new life that had nothing to do with him or Wheezie or anything resembling their family. Another reminder of how far he hadn’t gone.

If he was being honest—something he rarely let himself do—he missed her. Not the Sarah she was now, but the sister she used to be, before the huge fights, before she looked at him like he was some kind of monster. Before Ward.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Ward had made sure Rafe would never get to have what Sarah did. She was the golden child, Dad’s favorite. And Rafe—he was just there, a constant disappointment.

It wasn’t that he hated her; it was that he hated what she represented.

Approval he’d never get, a life he wasn’t good enough for.

It was ironic, really. He used to resent Sarah for being Ward’s favorite.

Now he resented her for being yours.

Rafe scowled as the sound of the party reached his ears, even from the dock. Music thumped loud enough to vibrate the air, shouted conversations, and the occasional crash of something—probably a bottle—shattering.

Someone let out a loud whoop, followed by the unmistakable sound of people chanting for a keg stand. Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience thinning with every passing second. He wasn’t in the mood for this juvenile shit.

“You're way too comfortable here,” he scoffed under his breath as Wheezie marched ahead, her steps confident. It pissed him off more than it should have.

“Maybe because Sarah doesn’t treat me like I’m still twelve,” Wheezie shot back, smirking at him over her shoulder.

Rafe ignored the jab, his eyes scanning the small crowd outside.

A couple of Pogues lingered near the porch, laughing over beers and baskets of fries. Their relaxed, judgmental stares followed him like they could smell the kook entitlement on him from a mile away. He bristled, tightening his grip on Wheezie’s bag.

She bounded up the steps and pushed open the door, the bell above it jingling. He hesitated for half a second before following her inside, knowing he was going to regret ever stepping foot in this place.

The air smelled like beer, fried food, and sunscreen. Behind the counter, Sarah stood with her back to them, her hair tied up in a loose bun.

Wheezie cleared her throat loudly. “Hey, Sar!”

Sarah turned, her smile faltering the second she saw Rafe lurking behind Wheezie. Her expression hardened. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too,” Rafe said dryly, crossing his arms.

“I told Wheezie to come by. Not you.” Sarah’s eyes flicked to Wheezie, softening just slightly. “You didn’t need to bring a bodyguard.”

“I wasn’t gonna let her wander around here by herself,” Rafe shot back, his voice low and defensive. He hated the way Sarah’s words hurt, hated that her disapproval still got under his skin after all this time.

Sarah rolled her eyes, wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped out from behind the counter. “Wander? She’s not a toddler. She knows how to get here. It’s safe.”

Wheezie stood between them, looking like she was torn between laughing and rolling her eyes so hard she might fall over. “Okay, can you two stop? It’s embarrassing.”

Sarah sighed, brushing past Rafe as if he wasn’t even there.

“Whatever. You can go now. Wheezie’s fine here.”

He stood awkwardly near the door, arms crossed, glaring at the locals who cast curious glances his way. It wasn’t worth staying.

Wheezie was safe.

Sarah would make sure of that, whether she hated him or not.

With a sigh, hr pushed open the door and stepped back out onto the porch, letting the door slam behind him. He took a deep breath of salty air, rubbing the back of his neck.

He’d barely made it to the dock when he spotted someone climbing off the boat—

“Dude,” Rafe’s brow furrowed as his friend stepped onto the creaking wood. “Thought you were scared shitless of this place.”

“I’m not scared,” Topper lied through his teeth.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, “Right.”

“We ran out of snacks on the boat, and I’m starving, figured I’d raid the stash at the party.”

“Snacks?”

“I’m starving!” Topper argued, throwing his hands up. “And unless you brought a secret bag of chips somewhere, this is my best shot!”

He sighed, knowing there was nothing he could do to change Topper's mind. “Hurry up.”

“Relax, I’ll be two minutes!"

He watched Topper jog away, sighing and leaning against one of the wooden posts.

You were probably in there, somewhere. Laughing, maybe, or smiling that smile he used to wake up to, a smile that used to be for him.

Now, it was for everyone but him.

He tried not to think about you, but that was like telling the ocean not to rise and fall with the stupid tides. Therapy had taught him to sit with his feelings, to not let them rot into something worse, but he was just starting and you weren’t just the girl he loved.

You were the only person who had ever seen him for more than his name, his mistakes, or the wreckage Ward Cameron had left in his wake. You didn’t just tolerate him; you chose him, since day one.

He didn’t deserve you, not then, not even now.

The sound of footsteps broke his focus.

“About time,” Rafe muttered, turning. But it wasn’t Topper.

Sofia stumbled into view, her dark hair wild and face flushed. Her hand gripped the railing for support as she swayed slightly.

He frowned, mildly concerned, “What the f—are you okay?”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and frantic. “Y-You need to go get Topper. Right n-now.”

His first thought was that she might’ve come here to throw some drunken, slurred insults his way.

The last time they'd spoken, things had ended...He didn’t even know how to classify that mess. But it didn't look like she was there to slam him with any guilt-trips or hurtful words.

She just looked scared.

“What?” His brows knit together as he stepped toward her, “What are you talking about? Are you drunk?”

Sofia waved him off, her breathing panicked. “The T-thorntons.”

That stopped him cold.

“What about them?”

She tried to grab his arm, her eyes wide, “They’re fighting. It’s bad.”

“Fighting?”

It couldn't be just some random fight; this had everything to do with the bullshit Topper had pulled.

Shit.

Rafe wasn’t even sure if he could fix it. Could he? You hated him too, and no matter how hard he tried, it seemed like you’d never forgive him for everything he’d fucked up. But Topper—Rafe didn’t even have to think twice.

He knew you, how you were when you’d had enough. You weren’t the type to lose your shit unless it was really bad.

He gritted his teeth, knowing full well that when you finally let it out, it was never just a “throw a drink and move on” kind of thing. Nah, when you lost it, it was like you’d been holding all this shit in for way too long and finally decided you weren’t gonna take it anymore.

He knew exactly what you were pissed about.

Topper. Of course. And him. Fuck.

He hated it.

The way your voice would rise when you finally let everything out.

You weren’t someone who yelled, but when you did? Jesus fucking Christ, it hit different. Rafe could never prepare himself fully for that kind of fury, especially when it was aimed at him.

He hated seeing you like this, especially when he knew it was because of him. But it was his fault, wasn’t it?

Rafe’s thoughts were a mess as he followed Sofia, who was clearly way over tipsy, stumbling a little, but she was still trying to explain, voice slurring a bit from the alcohol.

“You gotta understand—she was helping me. I wasn’t feeling so great, right? M-my head was spinning, I don’t know… I just needed a little space. But then Topper walked in and he...S-she just lost it.”

He wasn’t even surprised when she mentioned that you’d been helping her out. Of course you would.

You always had that side to you. Even when you were pissed, even when you hated people, you couldn’t help but step in when someone was in need. You hated Sofia, and everyone knew it. You hated the fact that she’d come around right after he’d fucked everything up with you. You hated how fast she seemed to take your place, even though Rafe didn’t want to admit it to himself either.

Still, there you were, trying to make sure Sofia was okay, again. It made him feel like shit. Not just because you were still holding it together when he couldn’t, but because he knew the whole fucking reason you probably didn’t want anything to do with Sofia—because of how it’d felt when he’d jumped into something else so quickly, so recklessly, after breaking your heart.

The sound of raised voices reached him before he even saw you. He could hear the anger in your voice. There was no mistaking it: you were pissed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen you this way, and it fucked with his gut. You didn’t lose control easily. You never let anyone see the mess, the shit you were going through.

Now you were ripping into Topper in a way that made his blood run cold. He rounded the corner and saw you, hands flailing, and he couldn’t help but wonder: When was the last time anyone stepped up for you? It certainly hadn’t been him. Not the way he should’ve.

And then, of course, there was Topper. He could see the look on his face—guilt, embarrassment. But it wasn’t going to be enough. You had to work through it yourself.

Your shoulders were tense, the way you stood, like you could snap anyone who walked through that door in half if they so much as blinked the wrong way, was all too familiar.

Your cousin was standing in front of you, trying to apologize like it was gonna fix anything, but you weren’t hearing it. No, you were done with that shit.

Topper wipped his hands down his ruined shirt, green smears of guacamole spreading across the fabric. “I fucked up.”

“No shit,” you hissed, “You don’t get to come back from this. You have no idea how fucking sick I am of you—” Hands shaking as you shoved him back, your words coming out in short bursts, "You're the fucking worst. How could you—"

You were about to throw something—probably another drink—when your eyes snapped over to Rafe.

For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw your breath hitch. You froze, eyes wide for a second, and then your expression soured.

Your lip quivered before you sucked in a breath and squared your shoulders.

"Not you too,” you sneered, throwing your hands in the air as the world had just dropped another pile of shit on your already full plate. “Oh my fucking god, seriously?"

Your face was flushed with anger, lips twisted in a snarl. You were so fucking beautiful, even when you were fuming. He could see the fire in your eyes, that same spark he’d fallen for all those years ago. You were just... you. And it was killing him.

He was so fucked.

“All of you—” You spit out, “I should’ve known better. I did know better, but I was stupid. So fucking stupid.”

He couldn’t think straight when you looked at him like that, when you had that look in your eyes. Even in the middle of a fight, it was so goddamn hard to look away.

You weren’t just a memory to him anymore. You were right in front of him, and he couldn’t even breathe straight.

Rafe’s throat tightened, feeling something that wasn’t just anger or regret or confusion. He felt longing. He longed to hear your voice, all the time, longed for those mornings when you’d be pressed against him, all warm, the world outside his shitty room irrelevant.

He missed the simple stuff.

He missed your face, the way you’d look at him with that irritation and affection.

It hit him harder than anything had in months—how much time had passed since he last saw that pretty face smile at him like you used to. Since he last kissed your forehead while you fell asleep next to him, since you last fit so perfectly into his arms that he didn’t want to let go.

He didn’t even know how to start getting that back.

He left. Over and over again.

Rafe registered another drink splashing across Topper’s face a little too late, the sound of the liquid hitting his skin pulling him out of his trance. He blinked a few times, the moment dragging back to the mess in front of him.

You weren’t done, though, as if throwing the drink wasn’t enough, you whipped a bowl of guacamole from the table and hurled it at Topper’s face. It splattered across his shirt, leaving a sticky, green mess in its wake.

He didn’t even flinch, still apologizing, still taking it.

“Sis—”

“I don’t want some bullshit excuse! You were supposed to be my family. You were supposed to—” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head because you couldn’t fathom finishing the thought.

And then—slap, slap, slap—you were hitting his arms, frustration flashing across your face as you let him have it.

Your cousin stood there like a fucking idiot, wiping guac off his face, trying to stammer out some kind of half-assed apology.

“You had no right,” you spat, voice breaking on the words. “None. You don’t just walk in here and act like everything’s fine after what you—” your words choked in your throat. You threw another plate, “You had no right!”

Rafe saw it all, saw the tears ready to spill as you wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand. You weren’t crying yet, but he knew that was about to change. And when it did, it was going to hurt worse than the yelling, worse than the throwing.

Before you could even get another word out, Rafe was there, stepping in between you and Topper, his body tense, preparing himself for something, maybe a few slaps across the face, a drink if you felt generous. You didn’t have to say a word, he could sense it in the way your lips quivered, the way your shoulders shook.

“You need to calm down,” He told you tenderly, though it wasn’t a demand—it was more of a desperate plea.

You didn’t listen.

Instead, you shoved him out of the way, the tears starting to slip down your cheeks, but you didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

“Get out,” you snapped, "Move.”

Rafe didn’t budge, he was here for you, he never stopped fucking choosing you even when he had no right to. He remained still, staring down at you with those blue eyes that had always known you better than anyone.

“Fuck, not like this,” Rafe muttered under his breath, stepping forward once more, this time blocking your path before you could reach Topper again. His hands were gentle on your shoulders as he held you back, “Please, stop.”

You froze, eyes wide, like you couldn’t believe it—you hadn’t been expecting him to step in, hadn’t been expecting him of all people to be the one to try and talk you out of it.

Rafe’s heart dropped when he saw the way your body was starting to shake. You were spiraling, he could see it coming—he'd been here before. The way your breath hitched, how your eyes turned glassy.

He still knew the signs all too well.

His hands shot out instinctively, grabbing your arms, trying to hold you still, "Hey, hey, calm down," he muttered, his voice soothing, "You're gonna make yourself worse if you don’t stop."

He could feel the rapid pulse under your skin, the way your body tensed like a coiled spring, and he didn’t give a fuck that you still hated him.

"Look at me," he coaxed, "Please, just breathe with me. You know this ain't gonna help. You gotta breathe."

Rafe’s heart broke all over again as you crumbled in front of him, damn it, he should’ve been there. He should’ve been there when this all fell apart, when you needed someone to hold you together instead of pushing you away.

He hated seeing you like this.

"I’m right here," he said again, softer this time, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

Topper stood there, eyes wide, not sure what to do, his face pale as he watched you fall apart in front of Rafe.

Sofia, still drunk and disoriented, caught the look in his eyes and quietly grabbed his arm, “We need to go," she whispered, nudging him, "T-this isn’t helping her."

Topper’s eyes moved to you, and then to Rafe, you could see it in his expression—the guilt, the regret. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

Rafe shot him a look, one that said everything—get out.

Your cousin, wiped his face before he took a few steps back. "I’m sorry," he muttered, eyes darting between you and Rafe. "I’m so sorry.”

He turned away like a dog with his tail between his legs, Sofia following him without saying much, leaving you.

Rafe barely paid them any mind, his entire focus on you, his hands still holding yours, as he watched you try to calm your breathing.

He pulled you closer, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered again, "Not going anywhere. I’m here, swear to God, I’m here."

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into him fully, not caring if he was blocking the view of anyone else, not caring if things were a fucking mess—he only cared about getting you back to yourself.

He could feel it in his chest, every shitty thing that had piled up, every moment no one had your back when you needed it most.

You didn’t pull away. Maybe it was the anger finally burning out or the exhaustion catching up to you, but for a moment, you let him hold you. Your chest heaved as you fought for control, but your weight sagged against his hands.

His hands loosened their grip, his thumb brushing against your arm without him even realizing it. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to risk letting go because God knew if he’d ever get this close to you again.

You’re safe. You’re okay. I’ve got you.

He didn’t deserve it—not even a little, but he couldn’t let go, you needed someone, even if it wasn’t really him you wanted anymore.

Rafe could sense the way your breathing came out as almost pants against his chest. Every little tremor sent a pang through his chest, like someone had grabbed his ribs and squeezed until it hurt to breathe.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why hadn’t he fought harder?

Rafe rested his cheek against your hair, closing his eyes as he let himself feel it—the weight of you leaning on him. The smell of your perfume, faint but still the same as always. He felt like a fucking thief, stealing this moment from you when he had no right. You didn’t want this from him, didn’t need this from him.

He wished he could take it all back, erase every mistake, the fight, every stupid decision that had pushed you to this point. If he could trade places with you, take all the pain and carry it himself, he would. In a heartbeat.

You took one shuddering breath, then another. It was enough for him to feel like maybe he’d done something right for once. Maybe he could—

“Get your hands off me.”

Rafe barely moved. His grip slackened, but he didn’t let go, didn’t step away like you wanted.

You pushed at his chest, but he didn’t budge. “I said get your fucking hands off me.”

“Not happenin’,” He swallowed hard, his pulse thrumming against his throat, but he didn’t loosen his grip. “You’re not okay.”

“Go fuck yourself. You don’t get to decide that—”

Your voice cracked, and the sound of it nearly knocked the will to live from his body. He’d always known your tells, had always been able to read you better than you liked.

Rafe’s hands twitched, and then he moved them, moving like he was about to let you go—but then you did it.

You curled your arms around yourself, your fingers gripping the fabric of your dress, right over your stomach. Protective.

Fuck.

Could it be? It was an unconscious gesture, you probably didn’t realize you’d made, but to him, it might as well have been a fucking confession.

Rafe felt his body lock up, every muscle going rigid as the pieces fell into place.

Fuck fuck fuck. Topper was right, wasn't he?

His throat went dry, he managed to croak out, “You’re—”

“No,” you snapped immediately, your fingers tightening on your dress, but you wouldn’t look at him.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t need you.”

He knew he was losing you.

Rafe exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

“Fuck you. You don’t get to— say shit like that. You don’t get to—” Your breathing hitched, and you bit down on the inside of your cheek.

“To what? To give a shit?”

He waited, watching, hoping, praying—please look at me, baby, please—but you didn’t move.

You scoffed, a bitter sound.

“You don’t care. You just don’t like the idea of—” Your breath caught, but you swallowed it down, pushing past the lump in your throat. “You don’t like the idea of me making a choice that doesn’t involve you.”

He hadn’t breathed properly since he saw your hands gripping your stomach, hiding yourself from him like you thought he was something to be afraid of. Like you thought he wouldn’t love you.

You thought he wouldn’t fucking stay.

“I love you.”

He barely recognized his own voice when he said it, but it was the only thing he could spill out. He swore to God he saw your left eye twitch at the confession, he knew what came next, but he’d never been good at shutting up when he should when it came to you.

“I do,” he insisted, “And I know I don’t—I don’t deserve to say that. I don’t deserve to expect anything from you.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “But I need you to know it.”

You clenched your jaw.

“I fucked up, I know. I fucked up so bad.”

You turned your head to the side, blinking up at the ceiling, refusing to spare him a glance. “I don’t want you to fix it.”

“I know,” he said immediately. “I know, but I can’t—I can’t just let you go through this alone.”

Your chest rose and fell too quickly, your breath uneven, but still—you stood your ground. “I don’t need you.”

“Please don’t say that,” he nearly dropped to his knees. “Please.”

You looked at him, since he’d realized what this meant, you lifted your head, met his gaze—really met it.

And shit—It nearly destroyed him, because he knew that look.

“Where the fuck were you, Rafe? Kissing her two months after we ended? Huh—” Your breath shuddered, and you shook your head, stepping back, “You didn’t even wait. You just—just moved the fuck on like I never even mattered—”

“It wasn’t like that—”

"Did you fuck her?" Your lips curled into a faux smile. "That’s what I thought."

"No,” He added quickly, shaking his head like the thought alone disgusted him, "No, I didn’t."

You chuckled disbelieving. "Don’t lie to me."

"I’m not," he said, stepping closer despite the way your body went rigid. "I didn’t touch her like that. I swear to God."

"But you wanted to, right?"

His head moved so fast it gave him whiplash, "No. The only person I’ve ever wanted is you.”

You scoffed, “That’s real sweet, real fucking poetic.”

“I let my own shit get in the way, and I hurt you. But I swear to God, I’ve never stopped loving you.”

“That supposed to make me feel better? You fucked off to play house with some other girl,” You swallowed hard, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Why were you there with her? Why did you let me think—"

"Because I’m a fucking assshole," he admitted, "I was trying to forget you, okay? But I couldn’t. No matter what I did, it was always you."

“Fuck you.” You snickered. “Where were you when I finally got my internship? The one I worked for, the one I wanted so bad?” You shook your head, “You didn’t even text me. Not once.”

His throat was tight, his pulse hammering, because he had thought about it—so many times, so many nights staring at his phone, fingers hovering, but he hadn’t.

Rafe’s heart plummeted.

“I—”

“You what? You forgot?”

His nails bit into his palms, “I—”

“You don’t get to speak,” you seethed, you eyes burning through him. “You don’t get to fucking say you care when you weren’t there, when you didn’t even fucking check if I was okay.

"I'm sorry."

"Where the fuck were you,” you whispered, voice shaking with grief, “when I found out I was pregnant with your fucking kid?”

Rafe froze, his stomach jumped around, violently, his ears started ringing. His brain short-circuited, his lungs forgot how to take in air, his heart fucking stopped.

Pregnant.

Pregnant. With his—

“Oh, right.” Your laugh was venomous, “You showed up at my charity gala.” You licked your lips, shaking your head, “Defending her.”

He never felt so completely useless, completely fucking helpless while you stood in front of him, looking up at him like you hated him.

“I—” He started, but nothing came out. “You—”

There was nothing to fucking say, you were right, he had failed you.

You weren’t telling him this so he could weigh in or because you wanted him to be a part of it. You were telling him so he’d know, so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings, so he wouldn’t ever think, even for a second, that there was still a version of this where he got to be a part of it.

“How long?” The words were hoarse, hardly audible.

Your lips curled in disgust, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Like you fucking care.”

He did, he did care.

So fucking much that he thought he might fucking die under the weight of it. Except the realization hit him just as quickly—he didn’t get to stand here, wide-eyed and breathless and shocked like this wasn’t the natural conclusion to the shitshow of mistakes he’d made.

“Don’t fucking stand there and act like this is some big revelation. You didn’t spend the last months with your tongue down someone else’s throat while I was home—sick, alone—wondering how the fuck I was supposed to do this without you.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, pressing your knuckles to your lips to stop them from shaking.

His gut twisted.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Jesus Christ, he’d been so fucking stupid.

“I don’t need you. I never did.”

It was a lie, maybe you even believed it.

But Rafe knew you, understood how hard it was for you to ask for help. Knew how much it had hurt to stand in front of him, admitting the truth. And Rafe—he needed to fix this. Even if it was the last thing he ever did.

“I should’ve been there.”

“Yeah? No shit.”

Rafe felt his ribs caving in. “I’m here now.”

“That’s not good enough.”

It was a death sentence, it was fair but fuck, he couldn’t accept it.

Rafe stepped closer.

You took a step back.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he swore, desperate. “I don’t care if you fucking hate me, don’t care if you never forgive me.” His throat worked around the lump in it. “I’m here.”

You were so fucking angry. So fucking hurt. He didn’t blame you for it. But if he didn’t try, if he didn’t fucking show you—prove to you that he was here now—then he’d never forgive himself.

“You think I’m gonna just forgive you for this?” you sneered, arms folded tightly over your chest. “Just because you’re here now, just because you say the words that mean nothing—that’s enough? After everything? After all of it?”

All he could do was look at you—look at the person he had ruined, the person he had loved, and still loved, more than anything.

“I just—” He sucked in a breath, running a hand through his growing hair. “Tell me about the baby.”

Your expression faltered before you hardened again, lips pressing into a thin line.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Bullshit.” His voice broke. “Don’t do that—don’t shut me out. Is it... a boy? A girl?”

You hesitated, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. “Why does it matter?”

“Don’t—don’t keep me in the dark, please. You’ve felt them move?”

You looked down at your feet. “No.”

"Did you—uh—" He rubbed the back of his neck, nerves raw. "Do you have morning sickness? I read that happens early on, right?"

You blinked, "What?"

"Like... throwing up and all that? You okay?" He sounded genuinely concerned, but it only made your head spin.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “Can we drop it?”

It’s then he remembers the beach cleanup, the memories of that afternoon colliding all at once—the way you’d collapsed into him, pale and unresponsive. The panic that gripped his chest as he carried you to the truck. The fight during the drive, when you told him to leave, your refusal to let him come inside.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You were…” He pratically gasped, “You were pregnant. At the beach cleanup.”

You stiffened, already dreading where he was going with this.

“Don’t.”

His pulse raced, “That’s why you didn’t want me to come inside the hospital, wasn’t it?” His words spilled out, “You were scared they’d tell me. Holy shit.”

“Stop,” you snapped, but he couldn’t.

“You passed out because of—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. “Jesus Christ.”

“I said stop.”

He couldn’t unsee it now—couldn’t unfeel your dead weight on his arms. He’d been right there, clueless, driving you to the hospital while you were carrying his baby. And instead of being there for you, he’d made everything worse.

“I didn’t know,” he pleaded, voice breaking. “I swear I didn’t know.”

“Exactly.” Your voice was cold, “You didn’t know because you weren’t there.”

He was going to have to spend that entire fucking inheritance fortune on therapy

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige

@rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron

@serrendiipty @sunny1616 @yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog

@psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

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raven-dor · 1 month ago

Text

just a shell of me

in which rafe cameron finds the girl of his dreams, and refuses to let her go

PAIRING: rafe cameron x fem!reader, rafe cameron x pogue!reader

WARNINGS: given last name (Bradshaw), making out, soft rafe, angst, ward being a jerk (as per usual), kie being nosy, kissing, fluff ending

WORD COUNT: 2.1k

🎶 : another life - sza

AN: ♥️💗

The summer air was heavy, savory even, thanks to the salt spraying from the ocean. You ducked your head, running quickly across the Ward’s large lawn. The house, or mansion, more like, was guarded by motion detectors and traps, set to go off with one wrong move. Pausing below Rafe’s window, you tried to figure out a way you could scale the wall. The gutter was right in front of you, practically calling your name. Then again, you had little faith in that supporting your body weight. The porch was directly under his window, and if you willed yourself (or utilized your upper body strength), you would be in the clear.

You decided to do the latter. Jumping up to the roof, you carefully walked the rest of the way to his window, tapping urgently, the fear of getting caught clouding your mind. "Let me in!" You hissed, tapping on the glass a little louder than before. "Rafe!"

His room appeared empty, and you frowned. He’d just texted you saying he was home, so why was he not in his room? The door's handle moved, and your eyes widened, pressing your body against the wall, holding your breath. The window creaked open, Rafe’s familiar timbre breaking the silence. "Front doors exist, you know.”

You scoffed, climbing through the window clumsily. "As if your father wants you associating with a disgraced Bradshaw."

Rafe shut the window behind you, muttering under his breath. "I don't care what my dad thinks. He's an asshole anyway."

"Never said he wasn't." You looked around his room, arms crossed defensively. "Still looks the same."

He fought the urge to roll his eyes, watching with evident amusement. "You were here last week."

"Yes, last week when I was still a somewhat redeemable Bradshaw and my mother hadn’t abandoned me."

Rafe frowned, hands carefully wrapping around your waist. "Are you alright? You know it’s fine if you’re not. You've been through-"

"I don't want to talk about it." You wiggled your eyebrows mischeviously. "Now take off your clothes."

He shook his head. "You can't just show up here whenever you want and expect something. You're using me to ignore the real problem. You know that you need to talk to someone. Your father died, and your mom abandoned-"

You leaped up, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Rafe- just let me forget about that for tonight, please."

He sighed, pulling you flush against him. “You're not getting out of talking about this."

Lacing your fingers into the hair near the nape of his neck, you tugged, eyes fluttering shut as his lips neared yours. "I think I just did."

Placing his hand gently on the side of your face, he pulled your lips to his once more. "God, I love you." His breath hitched, heart dropping as he waited for a reaction. "I-"

You smiled, actually smiled. "I love you, too. Now less talking and more-” He fell back on his bed, pulling you along with him. “Smooth.”

He grinned, eyes falling to your lips every so often. “I try my best.”

The morning light streamed through the blinds, ripping you from your sleep. You dug your face into your pillow, trying to indulge yourself in a few more moments of peace. You sighed, reaching out in Rafe’s general direction, frowning when you realized that Rafe was no longer in bed.

You groaned, pulling the covers tight around you as you sat up. "Rafe? Where are you?"

No response.

You huffed, standing up and investigating. He wasn’t in his bathroom or his closet, which was much too large for a boy who wore the same three outfits. You felt dejected - after last night, you would have thought he’d stay with you, talking about everything and nothing.

Your eyes caught the time on his alarm clock, pulling you back to reality. You had work in three hours, and since you did not have a single work-appropriate item of clothing stored here, you had to go back home. Your shorts were thrown haphazardly across the room, your shirt at the foot of his bed. It was like a scavenger hunt, finding all of your clothing before he came back.

"Leaving so soon?"

You grabbed your shirt off the ground, nodding. "I have work, Rafe. I know that's something you're not accustomed to-"

"Don't do that.” He frowned. “Don’t start deflecting." He shut his door, wrapping an arm around your waist. "Stay. I’ll drive you so you’re not late.”

“I don’t know-”

“I’ll make you breakfast, you can take a shower. I’ll buy you a new outfit, even. We can talk." He spun you around, smirking at the flustered look on your face. "Stay with me."

You tried to fight it, his charm, his loving look, but he was hard to tell no. Irresistible, you would call him to your friends. Never to his face, his ego was already too large. "Alright, fine. I'll stay." He nodded like he already knew you’d say yes. You hissed at his back, watching as he walked back out the door and down the stairs. "Blueberry pancakes, please."

He laughed, saluting you playfully. “Yes, ma'am."

You showered quickly because even though Rafe had vowed to drive you so you weren’t late, there was still that nagging voice in the back of your head saying that you would be.

You pulled on the clothes you’d worn yesterday before venturing back out to his bedroom, searching for a hoodie in his closet. The familiar creak of his bedroom door broke the silence, and you laughed. "Those pancakes didn't take long-"

Ward Cameron stood in the doorway of his son's closet with an eerily calm demeanor. Your heart dropped, knowing that every outcome of this conversation would be less than desirable. "Mr.Cameron."

He smiled, but you knew that look. It was fake, the kind of smile you give your boss who you secretly hate. "You are not my son."

You quickly pulled on Rafe’s hoodie, a chill running down your spine. "I was just leaving."

He smile and faded into a purse, lips tight and rigid. "Perfect." You turned to the window, pulling it open before realizing your mistake.

Turning around, you walked toward the bedroom door, smiling gratefully when the older man moved just enough out of the way to let you by.

You’d almost been free, your foot already on the first step, when Ward grabbed your arm, stopping you in your tracks. "I don't want to ever see you on my property ever again. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir-”

“Stay away from my son. You and your family's recent fall in-” He grimaced. “Your reputation will ruin his prospects, his future. I don’t need you messing up everything we’ve worked so hard to achieve.” He let go, his smile much brighter now. "Have we reached an agreement?" You nodded, and he sighed disappointedly. "Speak up."

"Yes, yes, agreed. I agree." You ran down the stairs, tears streaming down your cheeks. "Sorry for disturbing you."

Rafe pushed the door open, carefully balancing the tray he’d made for you.

The blueberry pancakes you’d requested were spent and center, along with a coffee and a small bouquet of daises. “I hope these meet your standards, Your Highness.”

Setting the tray down on his night stand, he frowned, looking around his room curiously. “Baby?”

“Shit!” Your voice rang through his window from the lawn.

He tilted his head, looking out his window for the source of the curse. “Baby, where are you going?” You opened your mouth, about to speak, before deciding against it. If you spoke, he would break you down, convince you to stay, and you couldn’t do that to him.

Rafe leaned out the window and yelled after you, confused beyond belief as to why you were leaving without saying goodbye. “Come back!”

“What’s wrong with you?” Kiara pulled you aside, smiling quickly at a customer who walked past. “You’ve been all mopey since you got here.”

“Nothing’s wrong, Kie.” You faked a smile, sticking your tongue out. “See? I’m smiling.”

“I don’t appreciate the sass.” She glared, lowering her voice. “Is this about-”

“I don’t appreciate you butting into my personal buisness.” You teased. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the regular at table five is waving me down.”

Kiara scoffed, yelling after you as you walked away. “You’re in denial!”

You ignored Kiara, smiling at the man in front of you. “You want the usual?”

“I think I’ll try something new today, sweetheart.” He glanced down at the menu, fixing his glasses before reading off his order.

The entrance bell rang behind you, but you ignored it, taking the menu from the customer's hand. The old man smiled, laughing to himself. “Your friend is staring at you.”

You laughed along with him, making a mental note to smack Kiara upside the head. “She’s like that.”

“You mean he?”

You nodded, smiling like you had made the mistake on purpose. “Sorry, sir. Long day.”

“No worries, sweetheart.”

You knew he’d follow you. You wish he hadn’t, but Rafe was nothing if not persistent. Keeping your head down, you danced past him and behind the counter, placing the menus back in their assigned spot. “Please leave.”

“You left,” Rafe whispered, leaning over the counter. “With no explanation.”

“I didn’t think you would need one.” You explained like it was obvious. “Are you going to take a seat?”

He raised an eyebrow, obviously not enjoying your approach to the situation. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Are you going to tell me why you left?”

You sighed, pouring a mug of coffee and stepping out from behind the counter. “Either take a seat or leave, Rafe.”

“I’m not leaving.” He was adamant, following after you as you handed the mug of coffee to your customer.

“Is this young man bothering you?” The old man whispered, admiration blooming in your heart.

You shook your head, smiling. “No, but you’re sweet for asking.”

Rafe smiled quickly at the old man before turning back to you. “What happened? I thought we’d finally-”

“You want the truth?”

“That’s all I want.” His hand twitched, and you could tell he was itching to reach out and hold you.

“Here’s the truth. I’m not good enough for you.”

“Not good enough for me?” He laughed, his voice raising, grabbing the attention of your customers. “Not good enough-”

“Your reputation is everything, Rafe. I can’t be the one who ruins it, I just can’t.” Your eyes were watering for the third time that day. It was embarrassing, honestly. “Now will you please leave?”

“I’m not leaving.” He looked thoroughly upset. “Why would you say that?”

“It’s the truth.” You hissed. “That’s what you asked for.”

“You sound like my father right now.” He laughed. “If anything, I’m not good enough for you.”

“We both know that’s not the truth.” You rolled your eyes. “I’m a disgraced-”

“Stop saying that.” His voice was weak, practically pleading. “Wait a second, did my-”

“Rafe.” You couldn’t have him catching on. “Go home, please.”

“What did my father say to you?” You avoided his eyes, staring at the wooden floor. “I knew it.”

“Rafe-”

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“Rafe!” You hissed. “Don’t say that. He’s just looking out for you.”

“So he did say something then?” Rafe took your silence for an answer, turning toward the door. “I’ll be back.”

“No.” You shook your head, following after him, ignoring the onlookers. “It’s not worth it, really.”

“Well, it’s his fault that I lost you, so I would say it’s worth it.” He jumped into his jeep, slamming the door shut. “He’s gonna-”

“You didn’t lose me.” You called out, heart beating a million miles a second. “You never lost me.”

“What?” He climbed out of his car. “What did you just say?”

“I said-” You laughed, in disbelief that this was all happening. That this was real, and not a dream. “You didn’t lose me.”

“Yeah?” He walked slowly toward you, like a lion stalking its prey. “You still want me?”

“I always have.” You whispered, scared to move. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop wanting you.”

“Dangerous words.” He was grinning, pulling you into him. “I might have to kidnap you, take you away and ravage you.”

“Can’t do that.” You laughed, your breath intertwining with his. “I have to finish my shift.”

“Well, shit.” He frowned. “Guess I’ll just have to kiss you here.”

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Guess so.”

He leaned down, lips soft like he thought this was all still a mirage, something he’d imagined. A growl escaped from his throat, pulling you impossibly close, lips attacking your passionately. You yelped, giggling as he tried to keep kissing you. “Stop laughing.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just-” You pecked his lips. “You’re attacking me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His eyes were soft, lips still against yours as he spoke. “You’re not leaving, I don’t care what my dad says.”

“Excuse me?” You jumped, pulling yourself out of Rafe’s arms. Kie was standing on the porch, her hand on her hips. “I’m glad this-” She waved in your direction. “Got resolved, but your table’s food is ready. So… break it up.”

“Alright.” You nodded. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Kie smiled. “Stop distracting my employees, Cameron.”

“I’m not your employee!” You yelled at Kie. “Stop spreading lies.”

Rafe laughed at you as he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you back into his hold as he saluted the pogue. “Yes, ma’am.”

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keirareidss · 1 month ago

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a fitting punishment - s.r

♡ summary: after spencer gets injured in the field, you find the perfect punishment for his negligence pairing: spencer reid x mean!reader warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut, p in v wc: 3.6k request here

"I cannot believe you did that! What were you thinking?" You smacked your boyfriend's arm.

"I- I was thinking that I might do something heroic and my girlfriend would think I'm awesome." Spencer chuckled through his sentence.

"You cheeky little fucker." You shoved him by the shoulders, gently, and a laugh slipped out of you. He giggled, tugging you closer on his hospital bed until you were nearly on top of him. You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss on his lips, grinning against him. He wasn't terribly injured, just a little banged up and in need of some bed rest and special treatment from his girlfriend, but he'd still nearly given you a heart attack with what he did.

On your most recent case, Spencer had decided to attempt to take down the unsub all by himself, like the big boy he is, and got himself all bruised up in the fight. Though he had successfully taken him down, he still had to face the wrath of his girlfriend when he got back.

"Your cheeky little... fucker." He always hesitated to curse, the sound of it unnatural coming out of his mouth. It was adorable. You smiled, pulling back from his lips. He was to be discharged from the hospital tonight and you'd bring him back to your apartment where he'd stay for the duration of his time off from work.

"Mmm. Mine." You hummed, leaning in to kiss him again. The door opened, interrupting your sweet moment as your boss walked in the room.

"Reid. You okay?" He asked, abandoning his boss voice in favor of his work-dad voice.

"Yeah. I'm fine." Spencer squeezed his lips together in that cute pursed smile of his.

"Good. You have four weeks paid leave."

"Thank you, Hotch." Your boyfriend says and Aaron leaves the room with a curt nod to the both of you.

"Two weeks off. Whatever will you do?" You teased.

"I dunno. Pick through your bookshelf again, maybe. Knit you a blanket. Take up cooking."

"If you step anywhere near my stove, I will hit you over the head with the heaviest book you have." He chuckled, ducking his head to hide his blush.

"So a lot of takeout then?"

"Sounds like a plan."

A warm comforter, a full belly, the weight of you on top of him, and maybe a few orgasms was all Spencer needed in this moment. And he only had half of it. He gazed longingly at the desk in the corner of your room where you were currently sat doing your files. You'd requested a few days off from Hotch to take care of Spencer, and he'd given you an armload of files to work on from home.

"Angel? Can you come here?" You spun around in your chair, you eyes finding your boyfriend, sprawled on your bed.

"What do you need Spencer? Are you hurting?" Your eyes held a look of concern as you tilted your head.

"No, I'm fine, I just... I need you."

"Oh?" You stood from your chair, sauntering over to the bed. "Maybe you should have thought about that before you put yourself in harm's way." You teased with a grin. Spencer's face grew red and he buried it in the pillow next to him. You climbed on the bed, kneeling next to him. "No, no, come back out." You pulled him out of the pillow, looking him in the eye.

"Please? I need you."

"So you've said. But you know what? I think you deserve some punishment."

"Punishment?"

"Yeah! You put your life in danger, Spencer! You nearly died!"

"That's not-"

"Don't talk back." You covered his mouth with your hand and he shut right up. "You took a stupid risk, without thinking, and that deserves discipline." You thought for a few moments before a wicked smile grew on your face. Here he was, your boyfriend, laying underneath you, needy and begging for you. The perfect punishment had fallen right into your hands.

You moved your hand from his mouth and leaned down, brushing your lips against his. He tried to lean up to seal the kiss but you pushed him down by the shoulder.

"I am not going to touch you for the next month."

"What?" He asked, his eyes snapping open.

"Sex, Spencer. That's the punishment. I'm withholding sex for the next month."

"What? That- that's not- you can't-"

"I can and I will. Sorry baby. That's karma." You stamp a kiss on his lips before climbing off the bed and sitting back at your desk, continuing to work on your files while Spencer's punishment really sinks in.

It's been a week. A long, torturous, need-filled week since you gave Spencer his ruling. And he was miserable. With all he newfound spare time, he was expecting sex to take up some if not most of it, especially because you elected to take a few days off, but now? He found himself constantly bored, unable to do anything other than lay around, reading his books or taking naps or... well, that's about it. He'd tried to take care of himself a few times but it just wasn't as good and he never ended up finishing.

"Spence? Are you awake?" You shuck the curtains open, shocking the room with the brightness of the mid-noon sun. A groan sounds from the middle of the bed and you glanced over your shoulder to find your boyfriend pushing his face further into the pillow. "You gotta get up, honey." You put a knee on the edge of the bed, leaning over to kiss at his exposed skin.

"Why?" He griped and you chuckled, mussing his hair and pushing off the bed to open the next set of curtains.

"Because it's nearly 12:30. The Spencer Reid I know has never slept past ten."

"The Spencer you know is gone." He grumbles, the sound muffled by the pillow.

"Is he? Then who's this?" You ask, plopping down next to him.

"No one."

"Oh no. Well if my boyfriend's gone, who's gonna keep me up at night with his outlandish little tidbits?" He responds with a grunt, his eyes still closed. "Hmm. I guess this strange man in my bed won't get any kisses then." You shrugged. Spencer cracked an eye open, perking up a bit.

"Strange man?"

"Yeah. The Spencer I know is gone apparently."

"Well... maybe not totally." He murmurs, tilting his face out of the pillow slightly.

"No? Is he here?" You poke him in the side and he jolts.

"Will he gets a kiss?" You couldn't help the smile, spreading on your face, wide and toothy.

"I dunno. He'll have to come out and see." You poke him again, scrambling your fingers across his side this time and he lets out a small giggle, squirming away. He turns fully out of the pillow, laying on his back and looking up at you.

"Okay, fine. It's me, can I have a kiss now?"

"Not when you're asking like that." You teased.

"Can you kiss me, please?" He asks, giving you his big wide puppy dog eyes. You hummed in approval, leaning down over him to slot your lips against his. He leans up, pushing further against you, but you pull back. "What-"

"Remember what I said?" He sighed, falling back down to the pillow with a huff.

"Please, please, I've been good. I'm so- I need you, angel, please." He begged as you sat back on your knees, further from him.

"One month Spencer. You've got three weeks to go, you can take it."

"No, I can't, I can't please." He takes your wrist, tugging gently. When you don't move, he sits up, shifting onto his knees. "I need you. It hurts." He whined, his hand moving to his lap where his erection was straining against his sweatpants.

"I'm sorry baby." You cup his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. "But this is your punishment." You planted a firm kiss on his cheek before slipping off the bed. Spencer sighed, letting himself fall back to the bed, defeated. This was going to be a long month.

He'd barely hit his two week mark when he resorted to all out, no-shame, begging. I'm talking on his knees, whining and pleading.

"Spence,"

"Please, I can't take it." His head was in your lap, on his knees in front of your chair as you sat at your desk, attempting to get work done. You didn't know what would kill you first, your boss because you didn't finish your files in time, or your boyfriend with his horniness. You'd never realized a grown man could be filled with so much of it.

"I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything. Just let me cum. Please." Your leg ended up between his legs and he'd started grinding himself against it, looking up at you with teary eyes.

"Can't do that, baby." You brushed his hair behind his ear before standing, depriving him of the ability to cum. He stood, following you to the kitchen, stopping you before you reached the fridge with his arms around your waist.

"Angel, please." He buried his face in your neck, holding your tight.

"I don't know what else to tell you. This is your punishment. If you didn't want to deal with the consequences, you shouldn't have tried to get yourself killed."

"It's too much. I can't do it."

"You'll have to figure something out." You step out of his arms, moving to the fridge. Spencer dejectedly slinks back to the bedroom, flopping onto the bed, his cock aching with need. He lays on his back, reaching down to palm himself through his sweatpants. He whimpered, needing more. His hand slid into his pants, grasping his hard length and stroking. His hips jerked and he winced at the stimulation.

He let out a low whine, moving his hand faster. It was almost painful how much he needed to cum but no matter what, no matter how fast his hand moved or how hard he was, he couldn't release.

He groaned in frustration, yanking his hand back and tossing his arm over his eyes. Why couldn't he just have this? It was bad enough he didn't get to fuck you for an entire month but not being able to cum was a different story. He cursed himself for not being the type to keep dirty videos or pictures but even if he did have them, he didn't know if it'd be enough to get him there.

He needed to get his mind off of this. He needed a cold shower and a nap. No, no, not a nap. Sleeping would give him dreams that would make his dick stand at attention all over again. He needed to read a long book or... or watch a scary movie or something. Yeah, that's what he'll do. Get his mind off of it.

Three and a half weeks. Four days left and you'd gone back to work three days ago. Spencer was losing his mind. He'd almost read every goddamned book on your shelf and watched most of your DVD's (you didn't have very many) and now he was flat out bored.

He went on the occasional walk but lately it had been raining a lot so he'd been stuck inside. Sometimes he went to the coffee shop down the street to get some different scenery but 13 dollars for a drink was outrageous, even for him.

You called him during your lunch break and that was probably his favorite time of the day, getting to hear your voice. It was also the worst part of the day because just the sound of your voice make his cock stand up and reminded him of what he couldn't have.

"Spencer, I'm home!" You called, dropping your keys in the dish by the door and peeling out of your coat.

"In the bedroom!" He shouted back. You trailed through the apartment to find him laying on the bed. You were surprised he hadn't melted into it by now with how much time he spent there. It was a wonder he hadn't messed up his sleep schedule.

"Hi, baby. How was your day?" You bent down, intending for just a peck to his lips, but a hand on the back of your neck kept you close. Spencer tugged you onto his lap, instinctively rutting up into you. Your hands found his hips, stilling him against the bed. You pulled yourself from him, glaring down at him. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I- I-"

"You what?"

"I'm sorry, I just want- I need-"

"Do you want another month?"

"No! No, no, no, please, please, I'll be good, I'm sorry, I'll be good."

"Will you?"

"Yes, yes, I promise, I will. I can wait."

"Good. Now how was your day?" You climbed off his lap, sitting next to him on the bed. He shuffled into a sitting position, knees up, arms wrapped around his legs, face flushed red with embarrassment.

"It was fine. Boring."

"It probably sucks having nothing to do all day, huh?" You asked, acting as if you hadn't just deprived him of the thing he'd been needing all month.

"Yeah." He hummed. "How was work?"

"Fine. Pretty normal." You rolled off the bed, pulling your shirt over your head as you headed to the closet. Spencer felt like a Victorian man seeing a woman's ankle for the first time when he spotted your bare skin. "Derek spilled coffee all down his front. That was funny, I guess." You recalled as you changed.

"Oh, really?" Spencer was barely half-listening, the image of you replaying in his head. Great, now he was hard again. He flopped back onto the pillows, pressing him palms over his eyes.

"Yeah. And JJ showed us some new baby photos of little Henry. He's so adorable." You shuffled out of the closet, now in your pajamas and flopped back down onto the bed next to him. "Hey, come back out." You pulled at his wrists and he dropped his hands, turning his head. "What do you want for dinner? We can get takeout, maybe. I could order a pizza?"

"Sure. That's fine."

"Great. I'll be right back, then." You bounded out of the bedroom and Spencer was once again, left in a haze of horniness, desperate for even a breath of you on his cock.

It was over. It was finally over. His month of torture has come to an end. It has been over 31 days since he'd cum and he could hardly contain himself. He'd woken up this morning with your ass pressed against his crotch and he'd nearly cum right there but he couldn't. He wanted the first time to be inside you.

He had to suffer through breakfast with you in just a shirt and panties but after that, he'd do absolutely anything to get you to touch him. You were doing the dishes when he snapped, wrapping himself around you, his cock aching, precum staining his boxers.

"Hi, baby. Do you need something?"

"Angel... I need you. It's been a month, please, please, I need-"

"Has it been?" You check the calendar and, sure enough, exactly 31 days since your punishment started. Exactly 31 days since the torture began. "Well, what are we doing here, then?" You turn off the sink, turning around in his arms and wrapping yours around his neck. You lean up to kiss him, taking his bottom lip between your teeth. He pushes you against the counter, his hips rutting against yours and this time, you don't stop him. Your tongue slips into his mouth, tracing his teeth languidly. He moans brokenly, hips stuttering.

"Please, please, please, I need you. I need to- I want-" His lips barely leave yours to beg and plead.

"Come on, then. Let's go to the bed." You nip at his lips before pulling away, tugging him quickly to the bedroom. You push him onto his back over the sheets and quickly climb onto his lap. "How do you want it?"

"What?" Spencer's eyes were wide, his chest heaving as he stared up at you.

"Do you want my mouth? Or my pussy?" He shuddered, his mouth hanging open dumbly.

"I- I don't-"

"Both, then?" Spencer was going to have a heart attack. He was going to absolutely combust, but not before he came at least twice. You slink down, pulling his plaid red sleep pants down his legs and tossing them aside before doing the same with his boxers. You kiss his chest, around his happy trail, his hips, leaving marks along the way, before you make it to the exact place he's needed you.

"God- please, please- I-"

"Shh. It's okay. I'll take care of you." You caress his thighs lovingly as you slowly lower his mouth to his angry red tip. He gasps when you take him into your mouth, jerking and shuddering. He's immediately whining at the stimulation as you slowly take more and more of him past your lips. His babbling fills your ears, pathetic nonsense that he doesn't even know the meaning of.

You bob your head up and down, swirling your tongue as he gasps and shivers. His hands grasp at your hair, fisting tightly. You let out a soft moan and the vibration makes Spencer tremble.

"I'm so c-close, I'm so close." He whimpers. You hum against him and he jolts, his hips thrusting upward. You nearly gag around him, pressing an arm over his waist to hold him down. He finishes in your mouth when you don't pull off, his body quivering underneath you. You swallow him up dutifully as he cums, long and hard.

You sit up, wiping your chin and licking off the residue. Spencer lets out a shaky breath as his eyes open. You crawl over him, pressing a kiss to his lips, slipping your tongue into his mouth again and letting him taste himself.

"Ready for round two, pretty boy?"You asked and he couldn't do anything but nod. You pulled your panties to the side, sinking onto him. You didn't need any lube, wet enough already at the sight of your pathetic boyfriend. He let out a loud moan as you sheathed him fully inside you. "Shh, honey, don't want the neighbors complaining." You lifted yourself off of him, smiling at the whine he let out as you pulled your underwear all the way off. "Open." He obeyed immediately and you stuffed them in his mouth.

He said something that was muffled by the fabric and you grinned, centering yourself over top of him again. You sank down onto him again, with less of a sting this time, and started moving your hips. Spencer bucked and whined at the overstimulation to his already tortured cock.

"I can't, I can't-" You barely caught what he was saying through his gag.

"You can't? This is what you've been begging for all month, isn't it? You wanted to cum. I'll make you cum." You rolled your hips faster, rolling your head back so your neck was exposed. Pulling your shirt over your head, and tossing it aside, you let out a breathy moan. Spencer whimpered at the sight of you bare above him, twitching and shuddering underneath you.

"I'm so close. I'm close. Mmph." Spencer said through your panties and you chuckled.

"Cum for me, Spencer. Come on." You thrusted faster, reaching a hand down to rub at your clit to get yourself there quicker. Spencer moaned as he came for the second time inside you, exactly what he wanted. But you didn't stop, rolling your hips more and more. Spencer whined and squirmed, the overstimulation becoming too much for him.

"Please, please." He squeezed his eyes shut.

"I'm almost there. Hold on." You planted a hand on his chest, arching your back as you felt your orgasm wash over you. You slowly came to a stop, pausing for a moment, feeling him inside of you, before you climbed off of him. He twitched but his eyes didn't open. You smiled softly, brushing his hair back from his sweaty forehead. "Spencer? You with me?" You heard a small hum from behind the gag and you chuckled, pulling it out of his mouth, a trail of saliva following that you gently wiped off his chin. "Can you open your eyes?"

Teary, hazel eyes peeled open to look up at you. You gave him a soft smile, letting your thumb trail across his face, down his cheekbone, across his jawline, down to the pulse point in his neck. You bend down, kiss, kiss, kissing his swollen pink lips.

"Are you okay?" You whisper against him. He hums, nodding slowly, his eyes falling shut again.

"Please... don't do that again."

"I won't have to, as long as you don't put your life in danger like that ever again." You kiss him again, gently, lingering. He shuffled closer to you across the bed as you laid down next to him. You kept brushing through his hair, gently untangling the knots. You pull your boyfriend into your arms, holding him tight to your body. He's asleep within the minute and you're not far behind, the morning sunlight painting over your bodies as you slept.

Spencer's rest was filled with dreams of you, not wet dreams as he'd been having consistently for the past month, but domestic, sweet dreams. Because his month of torture was over. His punishment was complete. He finally had you.

Taglist: @superbeaglewitch, @perfectgoopfishuniversity-blog, totallynotabuckybarnessimp, @dramioneforevertilltheend. @cynbx, @diminombre

#criminal minds #♡ keira's fics #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid smut

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ijustwannabecool · 3 months ago

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Come Home With Me

Lewis Hamilton x Wife!Reader

Summary... After a chaotic race weekend, Lewis skips the afterparty for something better: a quiet café, a shared vegan wrap, and your thighs brushing under the table. You’re just trying to be normal for one night—but nothing about being with Lewis Hamilton is ever really normal. And maybe that’s the best part.

trigger warnings: fluff, swearing, brief fan interaction, stress mentions, post-race tiredness, domesticity, casual fame realism, pure husband energy.

The hoodie he gave you this morning is way too big, and that’s exactly why you love it. It still smells like champagne and his cologne, even after a full day in it.

“Come on, babe,” Lewis grumbles, tugging your hand as you pass a narrow stone street near the marina. “Let’s duck in here. M’starving.”

He’s right. He is starving. And not in the dramatic, I-forgot-to-eat-my-snack-bar way. He’s just raced for two hours in 90-degree heat and skipped the afterparty entirely.

So now it’s just you and him, tucked into a corner booth at a sleepy café that smells like garlic and fresh bread.

His curls are tucked under a cap, hoodie zipped halfway, fingers intertwined with yours under the table like he has no plans of letting go—even to eat.

“Falafel wrap, sweet potato fries, ginger ale,” he says confidently when the waiter comes by. “Extra tahini.”

You blink. “You knew my order?”

He smirks, nudging your foot under the table. “I know everything about you. Try me.”

You shoot him a playful look. “Okay. What was the name of the cat I had in uni?”

“Mochi,” he answers without hesitation, popping a fry into your mouth. “Used to sit in the window waiting for you, even when you were out all night studying. You cried for three days when she passed.”

You melt. In the booth. Fully liquify.

But just as you're about to tease him back, you spot a girl in the next booth. She's trying not to stare. There's a phone in her lap, barely tilted your way.

Lewis squeezes your hand tighter and leans in close, whispering, “Just me and you tonight. Eyes on me, baby.”

POV – Sofia (18), café worker in Monaco I almost died when he walked in. Like actually had to go into the back for a second to collect myself. Lewis Hamilton. In our café. With his girl. Sharing fries.

But what got me was how normal they were. Laughing. Teasing. She fed him a bite of her wrap and he literally kissed her palm after.

I didn’t say anything. Didn’t post anything.

Not every moment is for the world. Some are just for them.

You barely make it back to the hotel before he’s all over you.

The second the door clicks, Lewis’s hands are on your waist, mouth at your neck.

“I didn’t say it earlier,” he murmurs, pulling the hoodie over your head, “but you looked so good today. Could barely focus on the damn race.”

You giggle, but it turns breathy when he lifts you onto the bathroom counter, his hips slotting between your thighs.

“You’re gonna let me thank you properly, yeah?” he whispers, voice rough with want.

The shower is running by the time he gets you both undressed. Your back hits the cool tile while his mouth is hot on your skin.

“You take such good care of me,” he mutters as he sinks to his knees. “Let me take care of you.”

He’s curled around you afterward, both of you in robes, tangled on the couch with a half-eaten bag of kettle chips between you.

His eyes are half-lidded. Tired. Soft. At peace.

“You know,” you murmur, “someone in that café definitely clocked us.”

Lewis hums. “Let ‘em talk. You’re mine. Always have been.”

And when the news alerts start to roll in—grainy photos, blurry sightings—he just laughs.

“They didn’t even get my good side.”

🌤️ The Next Morning

The sun slips through the sheer hotel curtains, casting golden stripes across the bed.

You're still half asleep when Lewis props himself up on one elbow, kisses your cheek, and murmurs, “You awake?”

“No,” you mumble, shifting closer.

He chuckles. “Wanna come with me to the paddock today? Just for a bit. Say hi to the engineers. Wear your hoodie.”

You yawn into his chest. “Only if you promise to feed me waffles first.”

“Done.”

You open one eye. “And kiss me like you did in the shower.”

His grin is lazy and smug. “Oh, that’s definitely done.”

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scarletwinterxx · 1 month ago

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in his orbit - jeon wonwoo imagine

girlie is back with another fic, can you tell i love writing slowburns? in case it wasn't obvious yet i love writing slowburn fics😅🤣 buckle up you're about to fall inlove (i mean i did so maybe you will too)🫠🤭

you can follow me on x i usually rant there, niniramyeonie 😊🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You stand just behind the sleek glass walls of the boardroom, the hum of tense conversation vibrating through the air like static. The executives are already seated, each with their tablets, papers, and rehearsed reports all waiting for the same thing.

For him.

The door opens precisely at nine.

Jeon Wonwoo enters the room. His tailored black suit fits with surgical precision, every line sharp enough to draw blood. He doesn’t greet anyone, doesn’t have to. He simply walks to the head of the table, sets down his folder, and looks up.

Conversation dies mid-sentence.

You follow behind him, your steps two beats behind, practiced and measured. By the time he sits, you're already at your place beside the wall, tablet in hand. You don’t need to ask. He hasn’t even looked your way, but you know the exact schedule, the order of presentations, and judging by the faint twitch in his jaw, he’s already displeased.

Someone’s stalling.

“Begin,” he says, voice like cut glass.

The CFO starts talking, fumbling slightly under the weight of Wonwoo’s attention. He doesn’t yell. He never does. But his silence is worse than shouting. Midway through a shaky statistic, Wonwoo shifts in his chair.

Your cue.

You tap into the live data feed from the financial team. A graph updates in real time, and you cast it to the screen before anyone even notices the CFO is behind. Wonwoo doesn’t glance your way, but he no longer drums his fingers against the table.

Success.

It’s been three years since you started working for him. You remember the exact moment he stepped into this role . Barely older than some interns, yet the air seemed to lock in place around him. Most people are shaped by power. Not Jeon Wonwoo. He wears it like skin.

The meeting wraps with a sharp, clipped nod from him. No formal dismissal. Just the subtle scrape of his chair against the floor and that’s enough. Everyone starts packing up in a flurry, heads ducked, voices low.

Wonwoo stands.

So do you.

You’re already a step behind him, speaking low enough that only he hears. “You’ll need a summary of the revised Q3 forecasts from finance, I’ll have the file before lunch. The director of marketing rescheduled her one-on-one for Thursday at nine, I moved your investor call accordingly. Legal flagged two issues in the new vendor contracts. I’ll highlight them in your next review.”

He doesn’t answer. He never does when you run through his day unless you miss something.

You never miss.

You match his pace effortlessly as he strides down the hall, nodding once to the intern who nearly drops their tablet scrambling to open the elevator. Once inside, the doors close, sealing the two of you in silence. The mirrored walls catch the cold gleam in his eyes, unreadable as always.

You speak again, tone measured. “Lunch with Chairman Ryu at twelve. The chef from Verité confirmed your usual. Security’s updated on the venue change.”

His gaze shifts not quite to you, but close. “What about the Shanghai brief?”

“It’s on your desk. Summarized, annotated, with the risk assessment.”

He gives the barest of nods. But what most people don’t realize is that he doesn’t waste words when silence will do. That’s where you learned to read him.

The elevator dings open. He walks. You follow.

You’ve been in his orbit long enough to know every little thing about him. You knock once and when there’s no response, you step in anyway. He expects it.

Wonwoo’s at his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie slightly loosened. His glasses rest low on the bridge of his nose as he flips through a thick report, one hand turning pages while the other taps a pen against the wood.

You walk in without pause, tablet in hand, your steps soft against the expensive flooring. “You’ll want to look at the shareholder report before your dinner with Chairman Ryu,” you say, placing the file on the edge of his desk you already know how he likes things arranged.

“There’s a discrepancy in the voting record. I flagged it.”

“You read the full report already?”

You nod once. “Twice. Once for detail, again for tone.”

That gets his attention. Slowly, he lifts his head. The weight of his stare lands heavy, but you’re used to it by now. That sharp gaze that makes board members stutter and interns nearly cry — you’ve seen it a thousand times.

“Do you want a printed version for the meeting?”

“No.” He leans back, the leather creaking faintly. “Just the highlights.”

Already done. You offer the printed brief without a word. He takes it, brushes your fingers as he does. A light touch. Accidental. Maybe.

He doesn’t apologize. Neither do you.

The silence stretches as he skims the top page, glasses catching the light. You watch the slight tightening in his jaw a sign only you would notice. He’s annoyed. Probably with the numbers. Or the people behind them.

You shift your weight. “I can delay the Chairman by twenty minutes if you want more prep time.”

He exhales through his nose, sets the brief down. “No. He can wait if I’m not done.”

Of course. You should’ve known. Jeon Wonwoo doesn’t adjust for anyone. The world adjusts for him.

You nod once and turn to go, but his voice stops you.

It’s sometime after two when your phone buzzes with a simple message from him.

JWW: Come in.

When you step into his office, he’s seated behind his desk, sleeves rolled up again, reading glasses pushed onto his face.

“You need something?” you ask, tablet in hand, thumb already hovering over the agenda notes.

“Sit.”

The small table near the window. Two covered trays. Bottled water. A fresh set of chopsticks laid out neatly beside each plate.

Your brows lift before you can catch the reaction. “You—”

“You didn’t eat.” He doesn’t say it with concern, not exactly. Just fact. Like he’s stating a poor business decision you made, and he’s correcting it. “Neither did I.”

Wonwoo finally removes his glasses, setting them down with a soft click. “Eat. We have fifteen minutes before the next briefing.”

You hesitate only a second longer, then get up and walk toward the table. You sit, open the tray. your usual. Exactly how you like it.

He joins you, pulling out the chair beside yours without a word. You both eat without rushing. The only sounds are the quiet clink of chopsticks.

Halfway through, he speaks without looking up. “You need to stop skipping meals.”

You give a soft huff. “You’re one to talk. If I start eating regularly, I expect it’ll be written into my contract.”

Wonwoo’s reply is smooth, almost quiet. “I’ll have legal draft the clause.”

You look at him. He’s already resumed eating, expression calm. As if this is just another business item on his to-do list. But it’s not.

You feel it in the small things. The way he ordered for you. The exact meal. The timing.

You eat in silence but the air between you is no longer just charged. It’s laced with something else now.

Something like care.

You steal a glance at him between bites sleeves still rolled, tie loosened, It’s the most unpolished version of him anyone ever sees. Just you.

And maybe that’s why you risk it.

“You know,” you say, tone casual as you pluck a piece of radish from the tray, “you keep telling me to take care of myself, but I’ve seen your calendar. You’ve had four hours of sleep in the past two days. That’s not impressive. That’s a health hazard.”

“You’re lecturing me now?”

“Not lecturing, lightly nagging. There’s a difference.”

His brow lifts. The corner of his mouth quirks so faintly, you almost miss it.

You press on. “You always tell people to be efficient, but you’re running yourself into the ground. I’ve seen cyborgs take more breaks.”

“I function fine.”

You snort. “You’re functioning on caffeine and willpower. That’s not a personality, it’s a warning sign.”

He leans back, arms crossing, watching you now with more amusement than reprimand. “You’re getting bold.”

“I’ve earned it,” you say, popping the last bite into your mouth. “Three years of anticipating your every micro-expression buys me at least five minutes of sass.”

“Four minutes,” he says, deadpan.

You grin. “You’re soft.”

His eyes narrow. “Careful.”

“See?” you say, standing to clear the trays, “That right there? That’s the face you make when you're trying not to smile.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You’re not not smiling.”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head once. But the curve of his lips betrays him just a little. As you gather the empty containers, you glance at him over your shoulder.

“You should nap after your 3 p.m. I’ll move the export briefing.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

You give him a bright, unapologetic look. “Nagging clause. Already in the contract, remember?”

He says nothing, just watches you again with that same unreadable gaze. But this time, the weight of it doesn’t feel like pressure.

It feels like gravity.

It’s late. Most of the lights on the executive floor are off.

Except his.

You’d just finished clearing the last round of emails, already mentally sorting through tomorrow’s prep, when your phone buzzed.

JWW: Come in.

You enter his office without hesitation. You’re about to ask what he needs when he speaks first.

He doesn’t look at you. Just nods toward the small sofa across the room.

“On the couch.”

You follow his line of sight. There’s a paper bag sitting there. Neatly folded at the top. No logo, no tag. Just unassuming and out of place in the otherwise sterile precision of his office.

You walk over, eyebrows pulling together. “What is—”

Your voice fades when you open it. Inside, nestled in soft protective paper, is the bag. The one you’d joked about for months half-teasing, half-dreaming. The limited edition one that sold out in hours. The one with a price tag so high, you always added, “That’s my endgame motivation. When I can afford this, I’ve made it.”

You reach in slowly, fingertips brushing over the material like you’re afraid it’ll vanish.

Then you turn, eyes wide. “This is—how did you—”

Wonwoo finally looks at you. His expression is unreadable, as always, but his gaze is steady. “You kept saying it was your motivation, Consider it... early congratulations.”

Your heart stumbles. “Wonwoo, this bag is—it's not just expensive, it’s impossible to find. There’s a waitlist.”

He doesn’t reply. Just leans back in his chair like he’s already decided the conversation is over.

“You were listening,” you say, quieter now. Not accusatory. Just stunned.

“I always listen.”

You blink, still holding the bag in your hands, overwhelmed with the weight of it—not just the price, but what it means.

“Thank you,” you say, voice steadying.

He nods once. Then adds, almost like an afterthought, “Don’t cry. I won’t know what to do with that.”

You let out a breath half laugh, half something else. “I’m not crying. Just... processing. This is insane,” you murmur, your hands hovering just above the bag.

“Like actually insane.” You reach in again, fingertips brushing the handle like it's fragile. Like it might vanish if you touch it too long.

His voice cuts through the quiet. “You forgot.”

You blink, looking up sharply. “Forgot what?”

Your mind starts racing. did you miss a meeting? An investor call? Something urgent? Your tablet is already lighting up in your hand, but then—

“It’s your work anniversary.”

You freeze.

“…What?”

“THree years,” Wonwoo says plainly. “Today.”

You stare at him. For a second, you don’t know what to say.

You’d lost track. too busy chasing deadlines, organizing his schedule, holding everything together. It slipped past you like so many other personal milestones.

But not him.

“This is way too much,” you say, laughing under your breath as you shake your head. “I mean—this bag? We can’t accept gifts this expensive. It’s in the handbook, page thirty-two”

Wonwoo lifts a brow. “I’m the CEO.”

“Right. But even you—”

“What are they going to do?” he asks, tone flat, but laced with something you can’t quite place. “Fire me for bending a rule or two?”

And that hits differently.because you know who he is.

Jeon Wonwoo doesn’t bend.

He doesn’t indulge.He doesn’t move unless it’s efficient, calculated, strategic. His life is systems and structure. Precision down to the second.

And yet this. He bent a rule.

For you.

You don’t let yourself sit in that thought for long. You can’t. Not when it threatens to stir something too deep, too real.

So you set the bag down gently, like it’s sacred. Like you’re afraid of what holding it too long might reveal.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

“But you did.”

You glance up. He’s looking at you again. You look away first. You always do when it’s like this. When the air feels too heavy, too loud for two people standing in complete silence.

Wonwoo stands. He shrugs on his coat, slow and deliberate, then moves to your side to retrieve something from the table. You can feel him without looking. The warmth of him. The tension.

Neither of you says anything.

“I’ll have the car brought around,” he says quietly. “It’s late.”

You nod, still not trusting your voice. “Okay.”

He walks past you, heading for the door. Then stops. Doesn’t look back. Just says, low and even, “Three years is a long time. You’ve earned it.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

The city lights blur past the car window, streaks of gold and blue washing across the glass like motion smeared in silence.

Wonwoo sits in the back seat, coat open, tie loosened slightly. He doesn’t say much. Never does with his driver. But his mind isn’t still.

He leans his head back against the seat, eyes closing for a moment. The hum of the engine fills the space between his thoughts.

Three years.

He remembered. Of course he did. Dates are easy. Predictable. Clean. But that’s not why he got the bag.

He heard you mention it once. Then again. And again, like a joke you didn’t realize you kept repeating when the days got long and the pressure sharpened around the edges.

“That bag is the dream. That’s my finish line.” “If I survive Q3, I’m buying it. Manifesting.” “Maybe in my next life when it doesn’t cost a kidney.”

Each time, you said it like it didn’t matter. Like it was a throwaway thought, just something to lighten the mood.

But he remembered not because it was important in the grand scheme of things. But because you said it. And he listens when you speak.

He always listens.

Wonwoo opens his eyes, watching the reflection of the streetlamps skim over his reflection in the glass.

You looked at the bag like it wasn’t real. Like you didn’t quite believe you were allowed to have something that wasn’t earned through exhaustion or sacrifice.

He hated that look.

You’ve given everything. More than anyone in that building. And still, you doubt if you deserve even the smallest indulgence.

You’d told him it was too much. That it broke rules. That gifts like that weren’t acceptable.

He said, “I’m the boss.”

It was a joke. But not really because it wasn’t just about the rules. It was about what he could control. And for someone like him, that’s everything.

The car slows as it turns onto the private street leading to his penthouse tower. His building looms ahead, lights on near the top floor.

But he doesn’t move.

He stays there for a second longer. Letting himself sit with the quiet thought he won’t say aloud. That he doesn’t care about the bag. Doesn’t care about the price, or the brand, or what it might look like to anyone else.

He got it because it made you smile. Even if only for a moment.

And because it let him give you something — for once — without it being part of the job.

The elevator ride up is silent. Smooth. Efficient.

But his thoughts stay with you. Like they always do, lately.

You, with your sharp eyes and steady voice. You, who can answer his questions before he even speaks. You, who always knows when he hasn’t eaten, when he needs to be pulled back from the edge, when silence says more than words.

He steps into the penthouse. It’s spotless. Quiet. Exactly the way he likes it.

He thinks of your expression tonight. The way your voice faltered. How quickly you looked away. He didn’t say anything then.

He won’t tomorrow, either.

But the rules? He’s already bent them.

And that’s not nothing.

The next few days settle into rhythm. Or at least, the shape of one.

You’re back to the usual: synchronized movements, shared silences, decisions made with nothing more than a glance. The bag now lives on a shelf in your apartment, untouched but not forgotten.

It’s business as usual.

Except not really because something has shifted.

It lives in the pause between your words, in the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching. An elephant in the room dressed in tailored suits and polished restraint.

This morning is no different.

You’re in his office early, already running through his schedule with a practiced efficiency.

“First meeting at nine with Strategy, followed by the call with Tokyo. After that, the product review with Marketing, then the lunch briefing with legal.” You scroll through your tablet, tapping quickly. “Afternoon is clean aside from the quarterly report with Accounting. Oh, and someone from the Chairman’s office—”

You pause when you notice it.

He’s standing in front of his mirror, silent as usual, but there’s a small crease between his brows. His left cuff is fastened, but the right dangles open, the cufflink still on the tray nearby. His fingers brush the fabric, slow and stiff, trying again.

Jeon Wonwoo, youngest CEO in the country. Mind like a scalpel. Composed down to the breath.

And yet here he is — struggling with a cufflink.

It’s not unusual, exactly. You know him well enough to know his hands go a little rigid when he’s deep in thought, when the numbers won’t sit right, or when he’s slept less than three hours, which has been more often than not lately.

But it’s distracting. The way his fingers fumble. The way he doesn’t ask for help, won’t ask for help so you don’t ask either.

You set your tablet on the table quietly and alk across the room without a word.

You pick up the cufflink from the tray, then gently reach for his wrist.

Your fingers curl around it. You’ve done this before, in passing, in chaos, during ten-second scrambles between meetings.

His arm stays still as you fold the fabric, press the metal through the slit, fasten it in place. It’s mechanical. Thoughtless. You’ve done it so many times.

But then you glance up nd that’s when it hits you.

Just how close you are.

You’re standing barely a breath away, your hands still on his wrist, your face tilted toward his collar. His cologne is subtle, expensive, and now impossibly near. The warmth radiating from him sinks under your skin before you can steel yourself against it.

He’s watching you.

You drop your gaze quickly, fingers brushing against his skin as you pull back.

“All done,” you say, and you hate how your voice feels thinner than usual.

You turn back toward your tablet, moving before he can respond, needing the space like you need oxygen.

Business as usual but not really.

And both of you know it.

You stare at the door of the penthouse for a beat longer than necessary.

Jeon Wonwoo does not miss mornings. He does not run late. And he definitely doesn’t go silent.

You had called his driver when his office remained empty well past his usual arrival.

“He hasn’t come down,” the driver had said, voice tinged with something close to concern. “He always texts. He didn’t today.”

That’s all it took. One missing signal in a man who never forgets a beat.

So now you’re here, using the emergency access card he gave you over a year ago. For security protocols, he’d said. Just in case.

You’d never had to use it until now.

The lock beeps. The door opens. You step inside.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

You walk in, shoes barely making a sound against the sleek floors. T You pass the kitchen, untouched. No coffee. No breakfast. And then, finally, you find him.

His room is dim, curtains drawn halfway, Wonwoo lies on the bed, half-covered by the sheets, body curled slightly in a way that makes your stomach twist.

His face is pale except for the red burning high across his cheekbones. Sweat at his temples. Hair stuck slightly to his forehead.

He’s burning up.

“Sir?” you say, quietly, cautiously.

No response.

You step closer, heart picking up now, each second tightening your chest a little more. You place a hand lightly on his forehead. It’s scalding.

“Wonwoo,” you say again, firmer this time.

His eyes open barely but when they land on you, something in his expression shifts. Like he’s seeing something impossible. His voice is hoarse, dry.

“You’re here.”

“You didn’t show. No text. I called your driver.” You pause, kneeling beside the bed now. “You’re sick.”

“Didn’t mean to sleep through…”

You shake your head, already reaching for the blanket, pulling it higher over him. “You didn’t just sleep through — your body shut down. God, you should’ve called someone.”

His eyes close again, brows twitching as if the thought of arguing with you costs more energy than he has. “Didn’t want to—” he exhales — “make it your problem.”

Your fingers still for half a second, then move again, tugging the covers with more care this time.

“Too late for that. I’m making it mine.”

You move around the room, switching on the bedside lamp, searching for a thermometer, medicine, anything. When you find none, you grab your phone and start making calls, his doctor, your contacts, the concierge for extra supplies.

You’re in work mode, the same precise, efficient tone you use in meetings and under pressure, but your hands shake slightly as you dial. You return to his side, pressing the back of your hand to his cheek again.

Wonwoo opens his eyes a sliver. “…You mad?”

You scoff quietly. “Furious.”

His lips twitch into the ghost of a smile, dry and weak but still him. “Figured.”

“You’re the CEO of a multi-billion won company and you can’t even tell someone when you’re sick? What kind of example—”

“I was tired,” he mutters. “Didn’t think it was that bad.”

“You have a fever of 39.4. That’s bad, Wonwoo.”

You don’t realize you’ve dropped the title until it’s already said. His name. Not sir, not CEO Jeon . Just… Wonwoo.

“I’m staying,” you say before he can argue. “Don’t bother telling me to go back to the office. You’re not dying alone in here just because you’re pathologically stubborn. Next time, just text. Like a normal person.”

You went out for a moment to grab something. balancing a small bag in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. You’re mentally rehearsing how to convince a man like Jeon Wonwoo to eat more than three spoonfuls of congee.

Then you see him.

Sitting up in bed, back against the headboard, glasses on and right there on the nightstand, his phone, which he’s just reaching for.

Not on your watch.

You move fast, stepping across the room and snatching the phone before he can grab it. He blinks, caught in the act.

“Hey—” his voice is still rough but clearer than earlier, more him now.

You raise an eyebrow. “Nope.”

“You do remember I’m still your boss, right?”

You roll your eyes and toss the phone gently onto the dresser, far out of his reach. “And you remember you’re running a fever and nearly passed out alone this morning, right?”

“I’m fine now.”

“You sat up. That’s not a full recovery.”

He exhales slowly, jaw flexing as he rests his head back against the headboard. “I need to check on a few things.”

“You’ll live if you don’t answer emails for six hours,” you say, placing the food down on the nearby table. “In fact, so will the company. Miraculously.”

Wonwoo watches you, eyes narrowed behind his glasses, expression unreadable. It’s not that usual sharp gaze — it’s quieter now, like he’s studying you rather than challenging you.

You ignore it. You move to pour water into a glass and set it down on the nightstand next to him. “Drink first.”

He doesn’t move.

“Seriously, don’t make me spoon-feed you,” you add dryly.

That gets the smallest quirk at the edge of his mouth. “You’d do that?”

“Try me.”

His eyes meet yours, something soft flickering there. “You’re being very bold today.”

“You left me no choice. I wasn’t about to let Jeon Wonwoo become a tragic headline: Youngest CEO in Korea dies alone in penthouse because he refuses to text assistant back.”

His laugh is barely a breath, but you catch it. Low, quiet. Real.

“Eat. Slowly.”

He takes the spoon, finally, and you watch as he takes a bite. You don't miss the small win when he doesn't grimace. Instead, he nods. “It’s…decent.”

“High praise.”

“You didn’t make it, did you?”

“Rude.”

After a few moments, he says, “You came all the way here.”

You glance at him, surprised. “Of course I did.”

"Did you at least call my driver?" he asks, voice low but calm.

You freeze for half a second, then busy yourself with the water bottle, unscrewing the cap like it needs your full attention. You don’t answer. He already knows.

His expression shifts subtly. Jaw tensing just enough. "You didn’t."

"Before you start," you say quickly, holding up a hand without meeting his eyes, "you cannot nag me right now. You’re sick. You're literally under a blanket and still half-burning up."

"You took the bus." He says it like it’s a crime.

"It’s not like I walked across the Han River. It was two stops, and it was faster than calling someone. What did you expect me to do, wait?"

“I expected you to be smarter about your safety.”

You glance at him then, lips twitching in dry amusement. “That’s rich coming from the man who was about to go to a board meeting while actively dying.”

“I wasn’t dying,” he mutters.

“You were sweating through your mattress.”

He glares, but it lacks real heat. “You know I’ve been trying to get you to learn to drive.”

“And I’ve been politely declining,” you counter.

“You’re going to keep declining even if it means riding a crowded bus to the top of a private skyscraper in the middle of Gangnam?”

“If it means making sure my boss doesn’t collapse alone in his overly minimalist bedroom, yes.”

“You’re impossible.”

You smirk. “I’ve been told.”

He shifts slightly in the bed, resting the bowl of soup on the tray. “I just don’t get why you won’t—”

“Wonwoo,” you interrupt, tone firm but not unkind.

“You work late hours. Some nights you leave past midnight. You don’t tell anyone when you head home—”

“And what, you’re gonna start putting a tracker on me next?” you joke, trying to cut the tension, trying not to think about how this doesn’t sound like a boss worrying about his assistant anymore.

He doesn’t even blink. “If that’s what it takes.”

You stare at him, unsure if you’re more shocked that he said it, or that he said it so seriously. You stand abruptly, clearing your throat.

“Okay, you’re clearly fever-delirious. That, or you’re confusing me with a younger sister you don’t have.”

“Stop deflecting—”

“Stop sounding like someone who has a say in how I get home.”

The air tightens between you, tension stretched taut and sharp, until a buzz from the panel near the door. The intercom.

You breathe out in relief, practically speed-walking to answer it. “Doctor’s here.”

You open the door before he can say anything else, and the on-call physician walks in, polite and efficient with his small case in hand. Wonwoo sighs and settles deeper into the pillows as the doctor greets him and begins unpacking instruments.

You feel his gaze on you as the doctor checks his vitals, asks him routine questions but you don’t look back. You can’t.

Not when your heart’s still catching up to what it all means.

The doctor left just before sunset, giving you a few instructions and a prescription list you already knew you'd handle yourself.

The apartment lights are dimmed to a soft gold. Outside, the city is easing into the deep hues of early evening, the skyline humming behind the wide windows.

Wonwoo rests against the headboard again, he looks much better than how you found him this morning. You sit in the armchair across from the bed, fingers tapping your knee rhythmically, tablet balanced in your lap.

You're pretending to go over tomorrow’s briefings.

He’s pretending not to stare.

“Are you hungry again?” you ask finally, not looking up.

“No.”

“Thirsty?”

“No.”

“…About to say something else about bus safety?”

He speaks again after a moment, voice softer this time. “You always do this.”

You tilt your head. “Do what?”

“Act like you’re fine. Like you didn’t just spend the last six hours worried sick and micromanaging every detail of my care.”

“I’m your assistant,” you say, slower now. “That’s what I’m supposed to do.”

You shift in the chair and glance toward the side table. “I should prep the meds. You’ll need to take something before bed.”

You stand, already turning toward the counter when he says quietly, “You really weren’t going to tell me you took the bus, were you?”

You pause mid-step. “Nope.”

“I’m going to hire you a driver.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m going to try.”

You turn halfway, eyebrow raised. “Good luck with that.”

You’re lining up the pill packet with almost militant focus when his voice cuts through the quiet again.

"Okay, fine."

You glance over. He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just says, calmly, like it's the most reasonable thing in the world:

"Either you let me hire a driver for you… or I’m driving you home myself."

The sound of the pill bottle cap clicking shut is the only thing between you and the complete whiplash you feel.

"I'm sorry, what?" you ask, turning fully now, arms crossed.

One eye opens lazily. “You heard me.”

"You’re literally sick in bed."

"I'm not that sick."

"You had a fever of 39.5 like—" you check your watch, "—four hours ago."

"I'm recovering. Fast. As usual."

“You just had soup and nearly fell asleep between spoonfuls. And now you want to play chauffeur?”

“I wouldn’t have to if you'd let me hire a driver like a normal high-ranking executive assistant.”

"I'm not normal, though," you fire back, smug. "That’s why you keep me around."

"And because of that, I have no choice but to personally ensure you don't commute like you're still in college.”

You squint. “You’re threatening me. With a ride.”

“I’m offering you one,” he says, voice all false sweetness now. “As your extremely thoughtful boss.”

“No, this is extortion.”

He shrugs — or tries to. It’s barely more than a weak lift of his shoulder. “You either accept a company-assigned driver... or you accept Jeon Wonwoo, flu and all, behind the wheel.”

“You can't just hold your own sickness over me like that. It’s emotional blackmail.”

“It’s logical consequence.”

“You’re delirious.”

“You’re stubborn.”

You throw your hands up. “You can't drive me home! What if someone sees?”

“Let them.”

You stare at him. He stares back, perfectly calm, perfectly composed, like he didn't just casually declare social war on your carefully constructed boundaries.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what the tabloids would say if you got papped driving your assistant home in your Aston Martin.”

“That you finally caved and accepted a ride like a rational adult?”

“You’re impossible,” you grumble, turning back toward the kitchen.

“You say that, but you still haven’t said no.”

About an hour later you’re holding your phone, thumb hovering just above the call button, eyeing the door like it’s somehow going to open by itself and grant you escape. You’ve done the math. Checked the timing. Calculated the route. You could sneak out. Technically.

But you also know this man.

You know how he notices every detail, how he reads every flicker of hesitation like it’s printed in bold. And unfortunately for you… that road goes both ways.

“Don’t even try it.” His voice cuts through the quiet, low and unbothered.

You groan “Fine. I’m calling the driver.”

He arches a brow without even looking up from the bottle of water you gave him. “Only took you an hour”

You point a warning finger at him. “Only for tonight.”

He hums. “So you’re negotiating with me now?”

“Yes,” you snap back. “Because you’re being like an overprotective boy—”

You freeze.

He freezes.

You clamp your mouth shut so fast you feel your teeth click.

The room goes dead silent. Not even the city noise outside dares to interrupt this moment of sheer, horrifying clarity.

Wonwoo slowly sets the water bottle down, eyes narrowing just slightly as he looks at you — not in irritation, not in mockery, but in something far worse.

Amusement. No. Worse.

Interest.

“Overprotective… what?” he asks, far too calmly.

You shoot to your feet like the chair burned you. “Boss. BOSS. That’s what I was going to say. Obviously.”

“Were you?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“So sure.”

He leans back into the pillows again, arms crossed like he’s settling in to enjoy the chaos. “Sounded like something else.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You clear your throat, aggressively casual. “You're obviously still running a fever.”

He gives you a long, unreadable look. And then, in the most infuriatingly smug tone:

“Just saying. Boyfriends do tend to worry about their girlfriends taking late-night buses alone.”

You look at him like he just grew a second head.

“Excuse me?”

“But I’m not saying anything,” he adds, shrugging one shoulder.

“Good. Don’t.”

“You already said it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

He gestures toward you. “It was right there. Almost out.”

“Almost doesn’t count.”

“It does to me.”

You groan again, dragging your hands down your face as you spin around toward the counter, muttering something unintelligible into your palms.

You end up calling the driver but somehow you still feel like he won this round.

The next morning he texted you at 6:47 a.m.

JWW: I’ll be back today. Resume as normal.

Now it’s 9:03 a.m., and you’re standing across his desk, scrolling through your tablet as you list off the day’s schedule like always except today, there’s a weird hitch in the rhythm because he’s not responding.

No confirming nods, no subtle gestures, no hmm or okay. Not even his usual corrections when you list the sequence slightly out of order.

You glance up — and freeze.

He’s not signing anything. Not reading. Not checking his watch, or his emails, or multitasking the way he usually does with quiet precision.

He’s just… staring at you.

“...The quarterly partner dinner has been moved to next Wednesday,” you continue, a little slower now, narrowing your eyes. “They requested the Hangang Room instead of the main hall, and the guest list is—”

“Why didn’t you argue with me this morning?”

You blink.

“Because I knew you’d win,” you deadpan, eyes narrowing further. “Also, I like having a job.”

“That’s not usually what stops you.”

You close your tablet with a sharp little snap. “Okay. What’s going on.”

“Nothing,” he says, still watching.

“You’re not doing anything.”

“I’m listening.”

“No, you’re staring. There’s a difference. One feels like work, the other feels like…” You trail off, suspicious. “Did the fever damage your frontal lobe? Blink twice if you need me to call the doctor back.”

His mouth twitches — that almost-smile you’re starting to clock more often than you used to.

“I was just thinking,” he says.

“Dangerous.”

He huffs a laugh. “About how strange it is.”

You raise a brow. “What is?”

“This. You.” He tilts his head slightly. “You’re doing exactly what you’ve always done — running through my day, anticipating every need, already knowing what I’ll ask before I ask it — and yet...”

“And yet?”

“It feels different.”

“Maybe because you’re still half-recovering and emotionally compromised by your own mortality,” you say lightly, trying to diffuse it.

But he doesn’t let it go. He just rests his chin in one hand, elbow on the desk, and says plainly:

“Maybe it’s because I can’t stop wondering what you were about to call me last night.”

You freeze. Then slowly, very slowly, you tuck your tablet under your arm, straighten your posture, and say

“I was going to say ‘boiling.’ Like boiling overprotective CEO.’ You know. Because you had a fever.”

Wonwoo stares at you and ou stare right back.

It’s silent for two seconds too long before he exhales a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh and mutters, “You’re a terrible liar.”

You turn sharply on your heel, muttering, “Resuming normal schedule,” and make for the door.

The car ride back to the city is quiet. You’d both just finished a site visit, checking on progress for a high-profile expansion project. he’s halfway through reviewing the day’s minutes when you mention needing caffeine before heading back into Seoul traffic.

He doesn’t even argue. Just mutters a dry, “Fine, but only if you don’t insist on that sugar-water vanilla thing you call coffee.”

“It’s not sugar-water. It’s comforting.”

“It's a dessert.”

“You wear suits to construction sites. What’s your point?”

The café is small and tucked at the edge of a quiet road, with warm wood interiors and soft lighting. A little too charming, honestly. The kind of place couples probably stop by on dates after hiking.

“I’ll take a hot americano,” he says, pulling out his card.

Then the barista turns to you, smiling. “And for your girlfriend?”

Before you can answer, Wonwoo beats you to it.

“She’ll have an iced vanilla latte. And one of those croissants to go.”

The words hit the air like a glass shattering on tile. You gape at him, every muscle in your body seizing. He doesn’t even blink. Just calmly taps his card, like he didn’t just commit social assassination.

You don’t even think, your hand moves on instinct, pinching his side with a sharp “are you crazy” kind of vengeance.

He grunts and looks at you out of the corner of his eye. “Ow.”

You hiss under your breath, leaning in. “What the hell was that?”

“What?”

“Girlfriend?”

“Mm.” He moves aside so you can grab your coffee. “Didn’t feel like correcting him.”

“That’s not how correcting works!”

He takes a sip of his americano, completely unbothered. “He assumed. I went with it. You were going to order an iced vanilla latte anyway,” he adds, like that justifies everything.

“That’s not the point—”

“Croissant too?”

You stare.

He smirks, that tiny half-quirk of his lips that always means trouble. “You always eye them. Never buy them.”

You blink. “...You watch me eye pastries?”

“You make it very obvious.”

You grip your cup like it might keep you grounded in this reality. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yet,” he says casually, holding the door open for you, “you still show up every morning.”

You walk past him without looking. “Because I’m contractually obligated.”

He follows. “Is that all?”

“Don’t push your luck, CEO Jeon.”

Later taht evening. You get home and drop your bag like it weighs ten kilos. Which, to be fair, it might — emotionally, at least.

Your heels come off with two exhausted kicks by the door, and you shuffle in like a ghost that's been overworked and emotionally blindsided in the span of a single car ride and a café order.

Your thoughts are spiraling again. Replaying the moment on a loop like your brain’s refusing to let it go.

My girlfriend will have an iced vanilla latte.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face.

He didn’t even flinch. Said it like he orders for you all the time. Which he doesn’t. Because he’s your boss. Your boss. The youngest CEO in South Korea. The man who built empires with one look and shuts entire boardrooms up without raising his voice.

You should not — cannot — be thinking about how sharp his jaw looked when he turned slightly in the café light. Or how the corners of his eyes crinkled just the tiniest bit when you pinched him.

You’ve lasted this long. Years of working beside him, through sleepless nights and global deals, through power plays and gala events and 3 a.m. emergencies. You’ve survived his deadpan sarcasm, his overachiever control freak tendencies, even the subtle ways he remembers your coffee order and favorite pastry.

You cannot fall for—

“Unnie.”

You scream.

Your little sister Minjeong blinks up at you from the couch, a blanket around her shoulders and a bag of chips halfway to her mouth. “Whoa! Are you okay?!”

You clutch your chest, gasping like you just ran a marathon in your own hallway. “Minjeong! What the hell—what are you doing here?!”

She shrugs like she lives here, which, okay, technically she does. “I finished class early. You didn’t text back, so I figured you were still working late. But you’re early.”

You slump onto the armrest of the couch, still trying to get your heart rate back to normal. “Early is a strong word. I’ve just… had a day.”

She squints at you. “Wait. Are you blushing?”

You stare at her. “I am not.”

“You so are. Your ears are red. That only happens when you’re embarrassed or thinking about something you shouldn’t be thinking about—oh my God, is it work guy?!”

“Stop calling him that.”

“You never give me a name! So I just assumed ‘mysterious hot boss you won’t talk about’ means he’s secretly your forbidden office love.”

You groan, burying your face into the blanket she left on the side of the couch. “I hate you.”

“You do not. Spill. Right now.”

You mumble through the blanket. “He called me his girlfriend in public.”

Minjeong gasps so loudly it sounds fake. “WHAT?!”

“In front of a barista. Like it was nothing”

Minjeong slaps the couch cushion beside her. “Did he wink? Was there hand-holding? Did he look at you like you’re the only woman who’s ever understood his trauma?!”

You lift your head. “What drama have you been watching—?”

“This is real life drama! What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything! I pinched him! Pinched. In public.”

Minjeong’s mouth falls open. “Scandalous.”

You groan again, collapsing fully onto the couch this time. “He’s my boss, Minjeong. This is a nightmare.”

She leans over you, her eyes wide. “Or it’s the best plot twist ever.”

You throw a pillow at her. your face is still warm and the word girlfriend won’t leave your head.

Wonwoo can pinpoint the exact moment it shifted.

It wasn’t some dramatic, earth-shattering realization. No lightning bolt. No slow-motion scene from a movie.

It was simpler than that. Quiet, like most important things in his life.

You were leaning over his desk, rattling off his schedule without looking at your tablet — because you’d already memorized it. You were adjusting his tie, the fifth time that month because he couldn’t be bothered to fix it right

You had this look on your face and you didn’t even flinch when he gave one of his sharper remarks. You just quipped something under your breath and moved on.

And that was it.

That was the moment. He still remembers thinking, God, I’m in trouble.

He’d always been good at structure. It was how he survived becoming CEO at twenty-eight. How he controlled rooms full of people twice his age and didn’t blink. His life was systemized, every minute accounted for, every decision calculated.

But you… you snuck in between the seconds. You made space where there wasn’t supposed to be any. And worst of all — you never asked for it.

You never asked for special treatment. Never tried to charm your way into anything. You just showed up — on time, prepared, infuriatingly perceptive — and somehow made the chaos manageable. Made him manageable.

He tried not to think too hard about it. Especially in the beginning. You were his assistant. That line was immovable. He’d built too much to risk it.

But then you started noticing the little things too. That he skips lunch when he’s stressed, that his coffee order changes depending on how his meetings went. That he gets tension headaches after long phone calls in Japanese. That he breathes a little easier when you’re around.

You never said anything about it. But you adjusted for him, anyway. Quietly. Naturally.

When the word “girlfriend” slipped out, he expected panic. Maybe a scandalized look or a stammer. He didn’t expect a sharp pinch to the side.

And God, if that didn’t make him want to smile.

Now, sitting in his living room after watching you nearly combust from your own embarrassment, he can’t help but let the smirk tug at his lips. The one he only ever lets slip when no one’s around.

He knows it’s risky. Knows the lines are still there, waiting.

But he also knows something else now — something he’s known for a while but only recently let himself admit:

You aren’t just part of his life.

You are his life.

The quiet in the storm. The thread in the chaos. The one person who never demanded anything, and somehow ended up meaning everything.

The door opens with a heavy click, and you glance up from the stack of files on your lap. Wonwoo walks in, loosening his tie with one hand, the other clutching his tablet. His jaw is tight, movements sharper than usual.

He doesn’t speak at first, just tosses the tablet onto the desk and shrugs off his jacket. Eventually, he turns, leaning back against the edge of the desk with his arms crossed. His eyes find yours, unreadable but heavy. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

You tilt your head, voice soft. “Bad meeting?”

He scoffs, low and humorless. “Understatement.”

“Do you want me to reschedule anything for tomorrow? Push a few things so you get a breather in the morning?”

He shakes his head, looking down at the floor for a beat. “No. I’ll handle it.”

You eye him for a second, then lean forward, sorting through another file. “You say that like you’re not running on caffeine and spite.”

“Spite’s effective,” he murmurs.

You glance up again. “Not sustainable.”

He walks around the desk slowly, finally moving toward you. You expect him to stop at his chair, but he doesn’t. Instead, he comes to where you’re sitting and wordlessly drops down on the couch beside you, close enough that his thigh brushes yours.

You don’t say anything at first but then, voice quiet you say “Was it something I can fix?”

He exhales through his nose, then turns his head to look at you. “You fix more than you know.”

Your chest tightens, but you force a small smile, bumping his knee with yours. “Yeah, well. That’s what you pay me for, right?”

He hums, eyes still on you. “I don’t pay you enough.”

You glance away before you can look too long, heart tripping slightly. You’re too aware of how close he is. Of the tension from earlier meetings still lingering in his shoulders, the tired look in his eyes, the quiet way he always softens when it’s just the two of you in moments like this.

“You hungry?”

His lips quirk faintly. “Only if you are.”

You smile at that, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “We’re both going to end up eating crackers from the vending machine again, aren’t we?”

“Classy dinner for two.”

You laugh under your breath, and he watches you. A little too long. A little too hard.

Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice quieter now. “You should’ve gone home earlier.”

You tilt your head, meeting his gaze. “You know I don’t leave until you do.”

He looks at you for a moment more, something in his eyes you can’t place.

And then softly, under his breath: “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

You blink. “What?”

But he’s already standing again, brushing off his pants, like he didn’t just say something that made your stomach twist.

“I’ll call the driver,” he says. “We’re done for today.”

And just like that, the moment is gone.

Minjeong flops down next to you on the couch, dropping her backpack with the kind of dramatic sigh only college students and people who’ve had three back-to-back group projects can muster. “God, if I hear the word ‘presentation’ one more time, I’m throwing myself into the Han River.”

You grunt from under your blanket, fully cocooned. “Mood.”

She turns to look at you. “Why do you look like a defeated burrito?”

“I am a defeated burrito.”

Minjeong raises a brow. “Rough day?”

You pause. Then with a long, tragic sigh, you mumble, “Hypothetically…”

“Oh boy.”

“…what does one do,” you continue, voice muffled from under your blanket, “when they’re… possibly… kind of… maybe… starting to like someone they’re not supposed to like.”

Minjeong’s eyes light up like a crow who spotted something shiny. “Ooohhh. We’re finally talking about it.”

You sit up just enough to glare at her. “Talking about what? I said hypothetical.”

“Yeah, sure. Hypothetical,” she echoes, with full air quotes. “Let me guess. Is this hypothetical person tall? Powerful? Smart? Obsessed with order? Wears tailored suits that scream ‘please emotionally damage me’?”

You scowl. “You know too much.”

“I live with you. You literally talk in your sleep.”

You throw a pillow at her. She catches it with a smirk. “So what happened? Did he brush your hand? Did he breathe too close?”

You sigh again, flopping back dramatically. “He ordered coffee for me. Then today he drove me home, well his driver did but you get what i mean right?”

Minjeong stares. “Wow. Scandalous. I hope you recovered from that very erotic experience. so what’s the problem?”

You groan, throwing your hands over your face. “The problem is: 1. He’s my boss. 2. I’m his assistant. 3. He’s objectively terrifying. 4. I’m very good at pretending I don’t find him absurdly attractive. 5. I don’t want to die.”

Minjeong leans in like she’s hosting a gossip podcast. “But you do like him.”

“No! Maybe. I don’t know. Shut up.”

She’s grinning so wide now you want to kick her. “This is so fun for me.”

“Good. Glad one of us is thriving.”

“You know,” she says, suddenly thoughtful, “for someone who’s always in control and totally unflappable at work, you really are spiraling like a romcom heroine right now.”

“I am not—”

“Next thing I know you’ll be running through the rain in heels crying about how you can’t be with him.”

“First of all, I would never ruin good heels like that. Second, I hate you.”

She grins, leans over, and flicks your forehead. “You love me. And you totally love him.”

You flop back into your blanket. “God, I need a lobotomy.”

“Nope,” she chirps, standing up. “You need a plan. Operation: Seduce Scary CEO.”

You peek from under the blanket. “I will call mom.”

“And tell her what? That I’m encouraging you to get your rich, hot boss to fall in love with you? She’ll ask why it hasn’t happened already.”

You sigh like it’s your last breath on Earth and scrub your hands over your face. “I’m serious, Min. I can’t do this.”

She pokes her head back into the living room like a nosy meerkat. “Do what, exactly?”

You groan, flopping back down on the couch. “Function like a normal human being when he does these things! Like, he’ll look at me — just look! — and for a solid three seconds my brain just. Stops working. Completely.”

Minjeong is smirking again, the menace. “So... like how you look at carbs after a diet?”

“Worse!” you wail. “Because bread doesn’t make me think about HR policies!”

Min walks over, sits back down beside your burrito form, and raises a brow. “That’s a very specific guilt.”

You wave your hand like you’re shooing away the ghost of professionalism. “It’s one hell of a long letter to HR, Min. One hell of a letter. ‘Dear HR, I accidentally had a daydream about my boss shirtless again. It was a Tuesday. There was nothing I could do.’”

She snorts. “Again?!”

“Don’t judge me, I’m fragile.”

Min is full-on laughing now. “You’re spiraling.”

“I am!” you cry dramatically. “He said I was his girlfriend to a stranger! In public! With his CEO face on like it was just another bullet point in the agenda!”

“And you’re sure it wasn’t just to mess with you?”

You glare. “Oh, he was absolutely messing with me. But then he does that thing where he holds eye contact a second too long, or says something kind of sweet but in his emotionally constipated CEO tone, and I just— I lose my ability to form words.”

Min makes a fake sympathetic noise. “Poor thing. Falling for your terrifying boss who buys you luxury bags and remembers your coffee order.”

You grumble into the blanket. “He’s too powerful. It’s like being in a boss battle with feelings. And I can’t even use any of my attacks because he already has all the cheat codes!”

Min pats your head. “You need therapy.”

“I need to quit.”

“You won’t.”

You sigh. “I know. I’d just end up crying on the street while LinkedIn roasts me with passive-aggressive rejection emails.”

Min grins and stands. “I’ll go start popcorn. Let me know if you plan to make out with him in a boardroom so I can clear my evening.”

Wonwoo noticed it immediately.

It was subtle at first barely-there shifts only someone who’d spent nearly every waking moment with you the last three years would even register. But for someone like him, whose job required reading rooms, reading people, reading you, it was impossible not to see it.

You still handed him his coffee just the way he liked it. Your reports were still precise, your scheduling still impeccable, and your presence still reliable as ever.

But that was the thing. That’s all you were now.

Reliable. Efficient. Distant.

You no longer stood too close. No light teasing, no under-your-breath comments when you passed each other in tight hallways. No quiet, shared glances from across a boardroom when someone said something ridiculous.

But oddly enough… it wasn’t like you were distracted. Not the usual kind.

You were sharper. Every task executed with ruthless precision. Every deadline met before he even brought it up. It was as if you’d turned all your energy inward, redirecting it completely to your job. Like a shield. Like a wall.

And Wonwoo hated it.

He hated the unfamiliar cold that came with your new distance. He hated that you didn’t argue anymore, didn’t nag him over meals or mutter things under your breath that made him stifle a smirk in the middle of a meeting. The version of you that made his world feel a little less mechanical.

He sat behind his desk one evening, watching you through the glass as you stood outside, briefing a junior team member like your voice didn’t used to soften when you spoke just to him.

And for the first time in a while, Wonwoo didn’t know what he was doing.

Because he could face boards, competitors, the press, entire industries with calm precision—but facing this version of you?

He didn’t know where to begin.

The rain was merciless, pounding the windows with a steady rhythm that usually lulled you to sleep. But tonight, it sounded like a warning. Something in the air had felt off since evening fell, like the silence was heavier than it should be.

You had tried to brush it off.

Minjeong had noticed your restlessness, teasing you lightly before retreating to her room. But even she had paused before closing her door, glancing back with a furrowed brow like she sensed something too.

You were just about to crawl into bed, hair still damp from your shower, oversized sweatshirt hanging off your shoulder. The kind of night where you should’ve been half-asleep already, but instead you stared at your phone like it might suddenly buzz.

And then it did.

The name flashing across the screen made your chest tighten instantly

Kang, security detail.

You answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Miss—” the man’s voice cracked slightly, something in it strained. “There’s been an incident. Mr. Jeon’s convoy—on the return from the site. There was an accident. He’s—he’s conscious, but we’re still assessing. Paramedics are on site. We’re bringing him back to the penthouse for further monitoring. Doctor will be on standby.”

You didn’t hear the rest.

Your body moved on instinct—keys, shoes, phone—your sweatshirt was soaked in seconds as you dashed through the rain, adrenaline silencing the voice in your head screaming for answers. You didn’t call anyone. Didn’t text. Didn’t stop.

You just ran.

By the time you got to the penthouse, it was chaos. His head legal counsel was there, murmuring in tight tones to someone from security.

A private doctor stood near the hallway, suitcase open and ready. The elevator dinged softly behind you, someone rushing past with documents in hand. Every face was tense. Quiet.

You stood there, dripping wet, your lungs burning not from the run but from what came next.

“Where is he?” you asked the moment one of the security team spotted you.

“They’re just bringing him in—”

And then the door opened. Two guards came in first, followed by the doctor, and then—

Wonwoo.

He was walking, which gave you the tiniest ounce of reliefmbut barely. His face was pale under the dim light, soaked in rain, one arm pressed tightly to his side, the other bracing against a guard’s shoulder.

His eyes scanned the room and landed on you.

Everything stopped.

You wanted to go to him, throw your arms around him just to make sure he was real, breathing, alive but you froze. He didn’t say anything. Just kept looking at you like you were the only thing grounding him.

And somehow that look alone nearly shattered the wall you had built this past week.

You followed as the doctor led him to the couch, gloves already on, checking his vitals. Someone handed him dry clothes. He didn’t speak through any of it. He just winced when the doctor touched a bruised rib, hissed softly when antiseptic hit a gash on his arm.

Still, his eyes found you again, as if making sure you were still there.

You stood behind the couch, hands clenched into fists. You needed to stay calm. Needed to be his assistant, not this panicked, helpless version of yourself shaking in place.

“How bad is it?” you asked quietly when the doctor finally stepped back.

“He’ll need to rest some bruising. A few minor cuts. Thankfully nothing internal.” The doctor looked to you, then back to Wonwoo. “But he shouldn’t be left alone tonight.”

“I’ll stay,” you said, before anyone else could offer.

Wonwoo didn’t argue. His team slowly began filtering out, murmuring about statements, follow-ups, documents to file. You barely registered them.

When everyone else finally cleared out, and it was just you and him in the dim quiet of the penthouse, you finally moved. Walked to him slowly. Sat down on the table in front of him.

“You’re an idiot,” you said quietly. Your voice cracked.

He blinked. “...You’re soaked.”

“You almost died, and that’s your concern?”

“You’re shaking.”

“I ran here through the rain!”

A pause then he reached forward, slowly, fingers brushing yours. You flinched—not from fear, but from everything inside you that had been bubbling and cracking and breaking since the call.

He didn’t pull away.

“I told them to call you first,” he said.

You swallowed. “You did?”

“I knew you’d come.”

Of course you would. Even if it killed you.

You exhaled, shoulders finally sagging as you leaned your forehead gently against his shoulder.

“Just—don’t ever do that again,” you whispered.

“I didn’t plan on it.”

The tears came before you even realized it. You tried to blink them away, wiped at your cheeks quickly with the sleeve of your hoodie like that would make it less obvious, but it was already too late.

Wonwoo was staring at you with something unreadable in his eyes, something that wasn’t just concern or guilt or pain. Something softer.

“Are you… crying because you almost lost your boss?” he asked, tone dry but quiet, like he wasn’t sure if joking was allowed yet.

You sniffled. “Shut up.”

And he chuckled. That low, rare laugh of his that always caught you off guard. The kind that never lasted more than a second but managed to settle under your skin.

You didn’t pull away when he reached for you. You didn’t step back or pretend to be fine or make another sarcastic comment. Instead, you let yourself be tugged forward, into the warmth of his chest, your knees slipping between his as you pressed your forehead to his shoulder again.

His arms came around you, one a little tighter than the other with the bruised rib, but it didn’t matter.

You melted into him.

“You’re shaking,” he grumbled, voice muffled against your hair. “Why would you run through the rain like that? Do you even know how dangerous—”

“Wonwoo.”

“It would have been better to take the bus than this—”

“You were in a car accident,” you muttered against his shirt, voice hoarse. “You could’ve—”

“But I didn’t,” he said. And his tone dropped, lost the teasing edge. “I didn’t.”

You didn’t answer, just gripped his shirt tighter in your fists.

He sighed softly, adjusting to pull you in closer despite the dull ache in his side. “You’re going to catch a cold.”

“Still your assistant,” you mumbled. “Technically part of my job description to panic when my boss almost dies.”

“That’s not in any contract I’ve signed.”

You scoffed against him. “You bend rules, remember?”

That made him pause. Then he murmured, “Only for you.”

It hung in the air between you, heavier than the silence before it but you didn’t back away. Not this time. You stayed exactly where you were, your cheek pressed to his chest, his arms wrapped around you like he wasn’t planning to let go any time soon.

“Are you seriously doing this right now?” you deadpan, arms crossed as you stand by his office door, glaring at the man who was very much in a car accident less than twenty-four hours ago and now sat at his desk like nothing happened.

Wonwoo didn’t even flinch. He adjusted the sleeves of his dark shirt—he’d forgone the tie today, probably the only concession he made to his condition—and started tapping through emails like you weren’t shooting daggers at him from across the room.

“I already told you,” he said calmly, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, you’re stubborn.” You stomped over to his desk, grabbed the edge of it like you might flip it just to make your point.

“Your shoulder’s bruised. You’ve got stitches on your hand. You limped into the building this morning, and you have a team of people who can handle things for you while you rest.”

“Yet here you are,” he replied, not looking up. “Still here. Still managing my schedule.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Because I knew you’d pull this.”

“Sit down,” you said, exasperated, reaching over to grab his laptop. “You’re getting too comfortable pretending you’re indestructible. I should start locking your office when you're not fit for duty.”

Wonwoo leaned back in his chair slightly, wincing just a little. “That would be an abuse of power.”

You raised a brow. “And giving yourself a concussion from working too much isn’t?”

He blinked slowly. “It was a collision, not my laptop falling on my head.”

“Same difference.”

That made him laugh—quiet but real—and you hated how your heart did a stupid little stutter at the sound.

“Fine,” he said, finally closing the laptop. “An hour. Then I’ll rest.”

“You said that two hours ago.”

He huffed a soft laugh again behind you, then called your name, quietly.

“You didn’t have to stay last night,” he said.

“I know.”

“And you didn’t have to come running when they called.”

“I know.”

“And you still did.”

You shifted slightly under his gaze, biting your lip. “Don’t make it weird, Jeon.”

His eyes softened just enough. “I won’t. Not today.”

“Don’t say it,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper.

Wonwoo doesn’t reply, just tilts his head slightly, waiting. You glance down, hands gripping the edge of the file you’re holding like it might anchor you to the ground.

“I—I don’t know what this is,” you say, finally meeting his eyes. “What we are. And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just… blurred lines. But I’m not going to do something that can put your position at risk.”

There’s a flicker in his expression. A faint crease between his brows. Like something in your words bruised a part of him.

He still doesn’t speak. Doesn’t try to convince you, doesn’t argue or joke or push.

But what you don’t know—what he doesn’t say out loud—is that the moment you stepped into his life, everything shifted. He’s not just willing to bend the rules anymore. No, in his mind, he’s already rebuilding the whole system. Brick by brick. Quietly, meticulously.

If the rules don’t allow room for you, then the rules need to change. Simple as that.

To him, it’s never been about risk.

It’s about you.

You, who showed up through every storm. You, who know how he takes his coffee better than the barista at his usual café. You, who still argue with him about cufflinks and vitamins and going home at a reasonable hour.

You, who looked like you were going to fall apart when you saw him after the accident—and then pulled yourself together for his sake anyway.

So no—he doesn’t speak. Not yet. But as he watches you retreat across the room, back to your usual spot like nothing just passed between you, he knows.

This silence won’t last forever.

The summons came just after you got back to your desk. A message from him

JWW: Come in. Now.

You groan quietly and bang your forehead lightly against your desk twice before pushing yourself up. Of course he found out. Of course someone from HR opened their mouth.

You tried to handle it discreetly, but nothing ever stays secret for long in this building. Especially when it comes to you and Jeon Wonwoo. When you enter, he’s behind his desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, glasses on, the expression on his face unreadable.

That’s somehow worse.

“Sit,” he says simply.

You do, because what else can you do? You sit, and the air feels a little too heavy for your liking.

“So,” he starts, folding his hands together on the desk. “Are you going to tell me what this is about or are you planning to run away without saying anything?”

You blink. “Define ‘run away’ because technically I didn’t quit—yet.”

His jaw ticks. “You went to HR.”

“I was just exploring options,” you say quickly, too quickly. “I wasn’t resigning or handing in a letter or—you know, flinging myself dramatically off the metaphorical cliff. I was just—curious.”

“Curious about replacing yourself?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again and sigh.

“Okay. Fine. Look. I am at the point where I’m tired, okay? Tired of pretending I don’t like you more than I should. More than I will ever admit again after this, by the way. Because I can’t—we can’t—this whole thing, it’s just—”

You stop for a second, gesturing vaguely at him like he’s part of the problem (he is), then at yourself (you are), then just give up and drop your hands on your lap.

“I don’t know how we got here,” you mutter. “One minute you’re just Jeon Wonwoo: Scary CEO, walking PowerPoint presentation, likes black coffee and dark suits and the sound of his own silence. And the next minute, you’re showing up in my brain in the middle of the night like—like some tragic K-drama male lead with a concussion and tailored pants.”

You inhale sharply. “And do you know how annoying it is that you're actually nice underneath all the CEO brooding? I was fully prepared to keep ignoring my feelings for the rest of my life. I had a plan! I was emotionally repressed and everything!”

He just watches you, still too quiet, still too calm. That, more than anything, starts to unravel you.

“I thought if I started the process of finding a replacement, I could… create some distance. I mean, if I’m not your assistant anymore, then maybe—maybe I’ll stop being the person who knows what color your mood is just from how you set your coffee cup down. Or the person who notices every time you look for me in a meeting. Or—God—forgets to breathe every time you wear those damn glasses—”

Wonwoo finally stands.

You freeze.

Oh no. You crossed a line. Several lines. You practically did the tango over them.

But he doesn’t speak. He just walks around the desk and stops in front of you.

“I wore the glasses today on purpose,” he says, voice lower than before.

You blink up at him, stunned. “What?”

“I knew you’d be avoiding me. I figured it’d be the fastest way to get your attention again.”

“You—” You gape. “You manipulative, calculating—glasses-wearing menace!”

A corner of his mouth twitches.

“I told you once I don’t bend the rules for anyone,” he says. “But I would for you. I already have.”

Your breath hitches. He kneels slightly to be at your level.

“If we’re really doing this…” you start, voice quieter now, softer after all the chaos you just unloaded.

Wonwoo’s still crouched in front of you, looking like he’s got all the time in the world. His eyes haven’t left yours once. You try not to fidget. Fail. Fidget anyway.

“…And the past few minutes, days, moments weren’t just my imagination,” you continue, “then I think I want to… I mean, I would like to… resign.”

His eyes narrow a little, and you raise a hand fast.

“Not like that! I don’t mean…” You inhale and press your palms against your knees, steadying yourself. “I mean, if we’re actually doing this, the… you and me thing, or whatever this is, I don’t think I can keep working for you.”

You rush on before he can interrupt, knowing that look on his face is the quiet before the storm. “I’m serious! If it turns out we’re just a momentary cliché, if something blows up, if we break up—”

“We haven’t even started,” he says dryly.

“Exactly!” you say, flailing slightly. “And still I’m spiraling. Imagine what I’d be like if we actually dated. I’d be hiding under every Monday morning or sobbing in the elevator and calling HR with a fake voice—‘Yes, hello, it’s not me, but I think Jeon Wonwoo is dating his assistant.’”

His lips twitch. “You’d sabotage yourself?”

“In a heartbeat,” you admit shamelessly. “And then I’d call myself to schedule the investigation.”

That earns a short laugh from him, low and warm.

“I’m not saying this like I want to end anything before it starts,” you say. “But I want to keep the work stuff clean. I don’t want you to have to explain to the board or media why your assistant gets heart eyes during your presentations.”

He’s quiet again.

Still.

Too still.

“Say something. Please. Or blink. You’re staring like you already have my resignation letter drafted.”

Wonwoo finally stands. Walks around his desk. You watch, thinking he’s about to sit. He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls out a drawer, retrieves a black folder, opens it slowly… and pulls out a paper.

Your paper. Your résumé. The one you handed in three years ago, now carefully stored in his private drawer.

Your eyes go wide. “You kept that?”

“I keep records,” he says calmly.

You sputter. “Is that romantic or terrifying?”

“Both.”

“If you want to resign,” he says, voice steady but a little rough around the edges, “I won’t stop you. But not because you’re afraid of being a cliché.”

“Then why?”

“Because I want to ask you out,” he says plainly. “Not as my assistant. Not as part of work. Just you.”

“You said you don’t know what we are,” he says, “but I do. I’ve known for a while.”

Your heart is hammering in your chest.

“So,” he says, walking over and placing the folder on the coffee table in front of you. “Take your time. Think about it. Resign or don’t. But I’m not letting go just because this is complicated.”

You stare at the folder, then up at him. He looks impossibly calm, like he’s already built a ten-year plan around whatever your decision ends up being.

“…So,” you say weakly. “If I do resign, does this mean I can start sending flirty emails to your work account?”

His mouth twitches again. “You already do.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yesterday’s ‘Don’t forget to eat or I’ll come drag you out of that meeting myself’ email? Very romantic.”

You gasp. “That was threatening! That was a threat!”

“Exactly,” he says smoothly. “Romantic.”

God help you.

You’re falling in love with a terrifying CEO and apparently… he’s already ten steps ahead.

The days that followed felt both painfully normal and wildly new. You still arrived before him, arranged his schedule, reminded him of appointments, sent out emails like clockwork, and somehow anticipated every unspoken instruction without skipping a beat. You were still you, still the best assistant he’s ever had—and both of you knew it.

But now, tucked between all the efficient workflow and clinical professionalism, you were also… interviewing your potential replacements.

“I’m not saying she wasn’t qualified,” you muttered once, shuffling candidate files across your tablet as you stood beside him during a short elevator ride, “but she called you ‘Mr. Jeonwoo’ twice, and I refuse to subject the office to that level of chaos.”

Wonwoo didn’t even look up from his phone. “So you’re screening for people who can pronounce my name?”

“I’m screening for people who won’t accidentally get fired on their first day.”

That earned a glance. A small smile.

He didn’t say it out loud, but you could see it in the way his jaw tightened every time you walked into his office with an updated shortlist.

You also learned very quickly that flirting from Jeon Wonwoo was dangerous because it didn’t come in loud declarations or showy gestures. It came quietly, smoothly, when you least expected it.

You didn’t even glance up from the stack of resumes in your hand when you spoke, but your voice was quieter this time. Less joking. “You hate it, don’t you. Interviewing my replacements.”

There was a beat of silence, just the sound of a soft sigh and the scratch of his pen stopping against paper.

Then, low and almost reluctant, he mumbled, “I do.”

That made you look up.

“I hate it. Every time I sit across from them and they talk about time management and efficiency and how good they are at color-coding calendars, I just—” He paused, jaw tightening. “—I want to ask them if they’d know to cancel a meeting just from the way I shift in my seat. Or if they’d remember I like my coffee black when the forecast says rain.”

You stared.

He finally looked at you then, straight in the eye.

“But,” he continued, quieter now, “if that’s what it will take for us to work… if you think I’m worth the risk… then I’m okay with it.”

You felt your heart thump once—loud and sharp—before catching in your throat. There it was.

That steady, no-nonsense Wonwoo voice. The one he used when finalizing major business deals. The one that didn’t entertain doubt.

But this time it was about you.

Your hands folded the resume in your lap without realizing, and you whispered, “That’s not fair.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What’s not?”

“You saying stuff like that—” You gestured vaguely at him, at the air, at the space between you. “—like you didn’t just casually drop an emotional landmine across my perfectly organized work brain.”

Wonwoo almost smiled. “So now I’m a distraction?”

“The biggest one.”

A beat. Then a low chuckle.

“Then it’s only fair,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

“You’ve been distracting me for years.”

You groaned, tossing the resume at the table like it offended you. “You were supposed to be emotionally constipated, not—whatever this is.”

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, the edge of his mouth tugging up just a little. “Surprise.”

You blinked at him, unsure if you wanted to slap his shoulder or kiss him.

Probably both.

“I still don’t know if this is smart,” you muttered. “We’re walking a very thin line, you know.”

“I know.”

“It’s going to be messy.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“And if we crash and burn, I’m not just risking my job, I’m risking my pride. And I have a lot of pride.”

He leaned in a little closer. “I know.”

“You’re really not going to try and talk me out of this?”

“Why would I? I’ve waited long enough.”

That shut you up. Completely.

Finally, you mumbled, “You should come with a warning label.”

“I do,” he said. “You just ignore it.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile. “You’re annoying.”

“Still worth the risk?”

You glared.

He smirked.

He stood up slowly, smooth and deliberate, walking around the table until he was in front of you. You tilted your head back slightly to follow his movement, heart ticking up a notch when he crouched down at your side, eyes leveled with yours.

“I don’t want you to give up anything for me,” he said, voice low and steady. “Don’t choose between me and your career if that’s what’s happening here.”

You opened your mouth. Then shut it. Then tried again.

“But…” You hesitated, the word hanging on your tongue like it weighed more than it should.

“But that’s the thing,” you said, voice quieter now. “I’d choose…”

His gaze didn’t move. Didn’t push or pressure. Just waited. Calm. Patient.

“I’d choose you,” you finally said, barely louder than a whisper.

Wonwoo didn’t move at first. Just blinked—slow, like he had to take in every word. Then his mouth lifted at the corner, the smallest, softest smile.

You added quickly, “But I’m still finishing this project, okay? Don’t get all weird and noble. I’ve worked too hard to leave everything half-done.”

His brow arched in amusement. “So you’re choosing me but with conditions.”

You scowled. “Obviously.”

A soft laugh escaped him then, low and genuine. His hand reached out, carefully, fingers brushing yours before curling around them. “Okay,” he said. “Conditions accepted.”

And there, in the middle of your chaotic work desk, his knees probably going numb from crouching and you blinking back whatever overwhelming feeling was trying to crash over your chest—you smiled.

Really smiled because you knew this wasn’t just about choosing him.

He was choosing you, too.

You were half-kneeling by the side cabinet in his office, going through the rack of emergency suits and coats he kept in there. As usual, muttering to yourself as you folded one of the sleeves more neatly.

“Who just shoves an Armani jacket like this? The hanger is right there—why do I even bother—”

You were so caught up in your organizing and light scolding that you didn’t hear him approach. Didn’t notice the soft thud of his polished shoes on the carpet.

Until you felt arms slowly wrap around you from behind.

You froze.

Completely, utterly froze.

“Jeon Wonwoo,” you said slowly, voice already filled with warning, “what do you think you’re doing?”

He didn’t let go. In fact, he just rested his chin lightly on your shoulder and sighed. “It’s after hours,” he mumbled, voice lower, deeper, rougher from fatigue. “And I’m tired.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Blinked.

“Okay, first of all,” you started, heart beating way too fast for your liking, “you can’t just sneak up on people and hug them like that—this is still your office. Technically still a place of work.”

He didn’t budge. Just nuzzled a little closer and sighed again.

“Wonwoo,” you said, more breathless this time. “Let go.”

“No.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Neither am I.”

“This is not professional,” you tried.

“Good thing it’s after hours,” he replied easily.

“I could file a complaint.”

“You could,” he said, finally leaning back just a little—but his hands stayed firmly on your waist. “But you won’t.”

You turned around slowly to face him, hands still awkwardly stuck between you and his chest. He looked tired, yes, but there was something else in his eyes. Something soft. Something dangerous.

You swallowed. “Why are you doing this now?”

“Because you’re leaving soon,” he said simply. “And I… don’t want to miss any more moments I could’ve had.”

“So this is your plan? Surprise-hug me into staying?”

He smirked, just a little. “You always did respond to blunt gestures.”

You laughed despite yourself, pressing a palm to your face. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re still here,” he said.

You scowl at him, cheeks burning as your palms press lightly against his chest, trying—and failing—to keep some kind of distance.

"Once I’m not your secretary," you mutter, almost too fast, your eyes darting everywhere except at his, "I can be… I don’t know. Whatever you want me to."

Wonwoo blinks, caught off guard—but only for a second. Because then, he smiles. That rare, boyish smile. The one that softens every sharp angle of his intimidating face. The one you’ve only seen a handful of times and never this close.

Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he pulls you into an even tighter hug. His arms wrap around you securely, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head gently.

You immediately panic.

"Yah—Jeon Wonwoo!" you squeak, muffled slightly against his chest. "I just said not yet! What are you doing?!"

"You said 'once you’re not my secretary'," he says, completely unbothered, his voice warm and annoyingly smug. "Not that I couldn’t get a head start."

"That’s not what I meant and you know it!"

He chuckles low in his throat. "You're rambling again."

"Because you’re hugging me! Like this!"

"I’m practicing."

"For what, exactly?!"

He leans his chin on top of your head, his voice a low hum. “For the moment I can finally call you mine without crossing any lines.”

You go quiet. Your entire face burns hot, your mind frantically searching for a snarky comeback—but nothing comes. Because deep down, maybe you don’t want to deflect this time.

After a long moment, you sigh, defeated, forehead gently bumping against his chest.

"You’re really good at this, you know that?"

"Only when it comes to you," he murmurs, and now you really want to scream.

But you don’t. Not tonight.

Instead, you let him hold you for just a little longer.

The office is quieter today.

Not because the work has stopped—Jeon Corporations doesn’t sleep—but because it’s your last day, and everyone knows it. People greet you with bittersweet smiles. The ones who have worked closest to you offer their heartfelt goodbyes, some even trying to convince you to reconsider.

But your decision was already made.

You spend the morning tying up the final pieces of the major project you've been overseeing. Your replacement shadows you through the day, still stiff and nervous under Wonwoo's piercing gaze. You catch yourself shooting the poor kid a sympathetic smile more than once.

By lunch, you’ve cleared out your desk. The clock ticks toward the end of the day, and for once, you don’t rush to meet him outside his office when his final meeting wraps. You don’t straighten his tie, or hand him his coffee, or recite the rundown of his next appointments.

You just wait quietly at your desk, finishing the last bit of documentation before sending the final email.

You hear him call for you from his office so you go in.

Wonwoo stands there, in his suit and tie, every bit the composed CEO the world knows him as. But his eyes are different. There’s something quieter in them. Something only you have ever seen.

“So… this is it.”

You nod. “This is it.”

He walks to his desk, pulls open the drawer, and places a sleek black envelope on the table between you. You blink down at it, puzzled.

“It’s a… contract? A letter? A declaration” he says casually. “Nothing official. Just something I’ve drafted. It outlines your new role.”

Your heart stops. “My what?”

He smiles faintly. “Girlfriend. Possibly more later. Benefits included. No office politics. No need to call me ‘sir’ anymore, unless you want to.”

You laugh, a sound that comes out half-hysterical, half-teary. “You made a contract?”

“Would you expect anything less from me?”

You roll your eyes, trying to pretend you’re not fighting the urge to cry again. “This is ridiculous.”

“I wanted to do this the right way,” he says. “I didn’t want to take a single risk with you while we were still bound by titles. But now... there’s nothing in the way.”

You look up at him—your now former boss, the man who made you fall so impossibly hard without even trying.

“I’m off the clock,” you whisper.

His lips curve. “Then I can do this.”

And he kisses you.

No more tension, no more pretending. Just him. Just you.

Finally.

When the two of you break apart, you’re both smiling. This right here should feel scary, stepping into this unknown with the man who knows you best.

You look at the letter again, smiling bigger “You reall drafted a whole contract like this is some business deal?” you tease him

“What? Were you expecting a heartfelt love letter stating every reason why I’m choosing you? I can make a whole book of that if you want”

You laugh at that, Wonwoo watches you like you’re a sight he’ll never get tired watching.

“So let’s say I’m interested in this vacancy… as your girlfriend…” you trail off.

Immediately his arms tightens around you, lifting you slightly off the ground making you laugh again before he settles you back on the ground without letting you go

“You’re overqualified, I’d promote you straight to wife” he says with the kind of seriousness hed use in the boardroom.

You roll your eyes but ending up grinning and blushing anyways. You stand on your tiptoe, your lips capturing his again.

And as the day ends, a new one will begin.

You might not be there beside him during the work hours, but now you’ll be there with him for a lifetime.

2 YEARS LATER

His office looked exactly the same.

Same towering bookshelves, same minimalist elegance, same silent efficiency humming in the walls—but if someone paid enough attention, they’d notice the change. They’d see it in the framed photo on his desk, the faintest hint of a smile that used to never be there, and the soft black velvet box in the drawer closest to him, now empty.

Jeon Wonwoo had just ended another brutal, back-to-back meeting with the overseas partners. He leaned back in his chair, rolling his sleeves up slightly, the sharp lines of his suit jacket discarded on the coat rack. The meeting had run long—again—and now he was due for a dinner event in exactly thirty minutes.

He glanced down at his cufflinks and sighed.

Of course.

He grabbed one, trying to angle it just right, but it slipped from his fingers. The sound it made hitting the desk was soft, but his jaw clenched. It wasn’t about the cufflinks. It was the fact that you used to do this for him—quietly, without asking, without needing a cue.

Before he could try again, his new secretary knocked once and stepped in. “Sir, your—”

He didn’t even look up. “Let her in.”

The secretary blinked. “Ah, yes. Of course.” She stepped back.

And then you walked in.

Not in workwear. Not with your tablet or schedule. But in an elegant blouse tucked into black trousers, a soft leather handbag slung over your shoulder, and a ring—his ring—glinting proudly on your finger.

“Wow,” you said, raising a brow as you shut the door behind you. “Still fighting with the cufflinks?”

Wonwoo didn’t smile, but there was that look—eyes softening just a fraction, the corners of his mouth threatening a curve.

“I had it under control,” he said.

You snorted, crossing the room with the same confidence you had when you worked under him—but this time, it wasn’t duty guiding your steps. It was something else entirely.

“Sure, Mr. CEO,” you teased, reaching for his wrist. “Let me help before you bend another rule and go to a black-tie dinner with rolled sleeves.”

He extended his arm wordlessly, watching the way your fingers expertly slid the cufflink into place.

“How was the meeting?” you asked.

He exhaled through his nose. “I’d rather have been anywhere else.”

“Even stuck in traffic with me singing off-key?”

He gave you a side-glance. “That’s not nearly as bad as you think.”

You smirked, moving to his other cuff. “You’re just saying that because you proposed after one of those car rides.”

“And because you said yes,” he said quietly. Remembering that night just a few weeks ago.

Your hands faltered for a moment, not because you were unsure—never that—but because it still floored you, how easily you could fall for him all over again in small moments like this.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I did.”

The second cufflink clicked into place. You smoothed the sleeves of his dress shirt and adjusted his collar. When you looked up, he was already watching you again.

“I can’t believe it’s been two years,” you murmured, voice almost lost in the room’s quiet. “Sometimes I still feel like I’m going to hear my name called out over the intercom, or get a panicked email because you refused to reschedule three back-to-back meetings.”

“Sometimes I miss having you around the office,” he admitted. “But then I remember I get you all to myself now.”

You laughed, eyes rolling. “Is that your way of saying you miss me managing your life?”

“Maybe,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “But I prefer you managing our home.”

That made your heart skip.

“I’m still adjusting to that,” you said. “Every time I walk past your closet, I think, ‘Wow. The Jeon Wonwoo actually shares closet space.’”

He gave you a dry look. “Barely. You’ve taken over the left half.”

You grinned. “I make you better, admit it.”

He didn’t hesitate. “You always have.”

There was a knock on the door again—his driver this time.

Wonwoo didn’t look away from you. “Give me five minutes.”

The driver left. You turned to grab your bag but paused as he caught your wrist, gently pulling you back to him.

“I have ten minutes before I need to smile for cameras and pretend I care about golf again,” he said, voice lower. “That gives me enough time to tell you something.”

“What’s that?” you asked.

“That no meeting, no title, no company… will ever mean more to me than you.”

You blinked once. Twice.

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours.

“I loved you when you were my assistant,” he whispered. “I love you now. And I’ll still love you when you're yelling at me because I left the fridge door open again.”

“You mean when,” you mumbled, lips curving.

“When,” he agreed.

He kissed your temple. “Now come on, fiancée. You’re making me late.”

“You love it when I make you late,” you quipped.

He smirked. “Only for you.”

And just like that, you walked out of his office—not as the woman behind the CEO, but as the woman beside him.

Jeon Wonwoo was nothing if not sure.

And he was sure of you.

There would be whispers. There always were. To some, this story was a fairytale—the secretary who fell for the CEO. To others, it was scandal—a power imbalance, manipulation, an easy narrative painted by people who didn’t know the first thing about the truth. Some would say he gave you everything.

But they’d be wrong.

Because you were there when nothing was certain. You were the one behind the early days the quiet, ugly, unglamorous chaos no one ever saw. The nights you stayed until 3 a.m. running numbers, making calls, stitching together crises before they unraveled.

They didn’t know that without you, Jeon Wonwoo didn’t function—not the way they knew him.

They didn’t know how many nights you reminded him to eat, to sleep, to rest his eyes. That you were the one who taught him how to slow down. How to feel.

And now, years later, you were no longer the assistant with your name tucked under his email threads. You were the woman standing beside him in a room full of sharks, still the calm at the center of his storm.

368 notes · View notes

deadghosy · 1 year ago

Text

How they would react to teen sinner! Reader getting catcalled/ S/A:

WARNING: long depending on your reading speed, explicit language, uncomfortable themes, read if you don’t wanna read anything you have encountered in life like this. If you are dealing with s/a please call your national hotline. This will be the only time I write something like this cause this is a serious topic.

LUCIFER

It was late in the pride ring as you snuck out of the hotel wanting to get snacks and a drink. I mean shit you died in the late 2010’s, you’re use to this shit. So you went to a store as you didn’t see an older sinner smirk, slowly gazing your body up and down as you grab a pair of chips and energy soda.

“Hey sweetie…” the older sinner says as he slowly appears behind you. You divest even bother to look at him as you felt him get closer. You whipped around and glare at him only to see such an ugly sinner who looks homeless as well.

“Hey now, I’m not gonna harm you.” The man says grabbing your arm and pulling you toward him. “I just wanna see your pretty face little boy/girl.” Your eyes widened shocked. You tried to pull your arm as he tugs tighter. You yelled for him to let you go as he dragged you out the store. You were not gonna let some creep take you! So you bit his arm hard as fuck. He let you go, but not without punching you.

You ate the punch but start to run to the hotel you know and love. You ran as your heart beat for safety and away from anything else. You didn’t think it would be like this, but what could you except. This is hell itself. There’s a lot of ass holes and bastards that deserve to be here.

You ran inside ignoring the look of a certain king who was sitting down in the lounge room, he swore he saw tears fall down your cheeks. He felt his heart ache to know what was wrong with you as he slowly followed after you.

A soft knock was heard as you look up to see the king of hell, the man who always gave you ducks when you first came here. “Kid are you okay? I heard you cry?” He said worried seeing you tear up hearing his worried voice. It wasn’t making it better as you ran into his arms. He was move back a bit at your usually tough attire cracking into a soft and scared one. Now he was concerned.

He set you back in bed as you rant out about what happened, even giving a description of what he looked like. After a bit of comfort in for Lucifer and him petting your back a lot. You sniffled a little, feeling better than what you felt as Lucifer smiled at you sleeping against his lap. He sighs sensing you sleeping as he poofs away from your sleeping body.

“DONT worry kid…that bastard isn’t going to see another hellish day…” Lucifer says walking out of the hotel as his hat overcasted his face.

It was a new day as you woke up to play your regular tv show only for the news to play. “BREAKING 666 NEWS!!! ALLEGED PEDOPHILE DEAD AT GRIMM’S MARKET AS HIS HEAD WAS-” the news was cut off by Lucifer who had a guilty expression as you had a wide eye expression shocked that the bastard got some quick karma.

ALASTOR

You and alastor went on a walk together as he wanted you to get off your pesky small picture rectangle. He’s talking about your damn phone.💀

“And I told the fellow gentleman to make my meat, medium rar-” before Alastor could finish his story about how he went to a restaurant. You groaned tired of this, you wanted to sleep and be on your hell phone since you miss the human world.

Alastor rolls his eyes with a smile, he pinches your cheek making you huff. “No need for an attitude!~” he said in a song tune voice you pushed him away from you embarrassed. “I don’t need to fix my attitude old man..” you say walking a bit forward ahead of the deer demon.

The radio demon chuckles, but the chuckles stops when seeing you immediately get whistled at by a male sinner who eyes you. You flipped the sinner off before going back to Alastor, holding the older’s hand as he slightly move in front of you.

It seemed like this asshole was trying to talk to you, but he couldn’t as alastor smiles down at the sinner. “C'mere sweet thing. Why don’t you come and get a drink with me.” The sinner says. You and Al narrow your eyes at the sinner, you weren’t budging from behind alastor who stands strong and confident

“I don’t think they will be going with you anytime soon my dear fellow.” Alastor says with a strained smile. The sinner was definitely new and didn’t know who was companying you at this very moment.

“I don’t think I give a fuck.” The sinner says teaching his hand out to your frame.

The sinner tried to make an attempt to grab your arm from the radio demon. There was a ring of static in the air whilst making the sinner stop grabbing your arm. Alastor grabs the arm that dares to try and take you from him. Alastor smiles eerily at the sinner.

“I’ll teach you some respect you filthy pest.” He says as static seems to boom the area before he goes full demon mode and drag the filth to the alley to have a nice “talk.”

Their screams were broadcasted on his radio station the day after they whistled at you. Alastor made sure to have his shadow follow you for a few months before he was sure you were fully okay. Harassment towards a minor, is a big no-no.

VAGGIE

You wanted to help her get more flowers for a decoration of a trust exercise, so she let you run the errand.

You ran out the hotel happy and excited. You always weee excited to help the hotel ever since you died. You knew your mom was in heaven so you wanted to be redeemed quickly and possible.

You went to the flower shop smiling which gained the attention of a female who smile sweetly at you. She approached you holding a flower. You knew not to take things from strangers, even demons as Charlie and vaggie told you.

But it’s a flower, what’s the worse that can happen. Plus you need flowers for the event itself. As you grabbed the flower, the flower sprays out this gas that made you feel slight drowsy. You feel your body limp as the woman comes closer to you.

You try to push her off as she caresses your body. With your mustered up strength, you use your sharp nails/claws to stab her eyes and run.

The flower drug was slowly taking affect until you did a few symbols on yourself. You learnt it from Lucifer as he gave you a book. The drug wore off but your mind was scrambling. You felt yucky and violated. As you bursted through the hotel door, accidentally running into vaggie’s arms.

“What the fuck happened!!?” Vaggie says concerned as she sees the bruises on your wrist. Her eyes widen. “What. Happened..” she says seriously.

You explained the situation while sobbing softly. Vaggie comforted you in her hold as she closed her eyes ashamed at how she wasn’t there to protect you. She was suppose to your guarden. Your parental figure.

Vaggie takes you upstairs, run you a bath and just watched you softly. Guilt in her eyes for not being a good parent to you and just follow you to make sure you were okay.

The whole night, she stayed close to you. Not even dropping her guard when it comes to you. You are too precious to go through this. She just hopes you can recover.

She’s not letting you out of her sight ever again. Hell she might teach you how to fight , but might go overprotective on you and keep you in the hotel until she and you were sure to go outside again.

CHARLIE

It was during a trust exercise with one of the new residents…

It was a trust fall activity as Charlie shows the residents how it goes. You say what you have in your mind and do the trust fall. After Charlie does it with vaggie. It was your turn and the sinner’s.

The sinner looked calm and you were anxious as you never done the trust fall game. Even in the human world.

As you stood on the stand talking to every member of this exercise and Charlie. She gives you a thumbs up which made you smile and gain confidence in talking. You fell backwards into the sinner’s hold as they caught you.

But they didn’t let you go. You tried to tell them but they didn’t let go still. You felt their hand travel around you and gr0pe your lower and waist. Your eyes widen as you try to move away from the bastard.

Tears were in your eyes as you hyperventilate at how you feel their touch. It burns, it feels like lit burns. Charlie notices what is going on. She gets up and pulls the bastard from you. She pushes you behind her as she looks behind her to see if you were okay. Whilst she does that, she glares heavily at the sinner.

“WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU CAN TOUCH THEM LIKE THAT?!” Charlie yells as her demon form was slipping out of anger seeing you run towards her. Hell was going loose as the sinner tried to back away from the raging aura Charlie was releasing.

Before Charlie can send hell fire at the bastard who dares to gr0pe you, you grabbed her arm. You know she isn’t really the type to kill someone and might regret it. So while you grabbed her arm, she calmed down and stared at you. Her yellow pupils going back to red as she glares at the sinner.

“Your stay isn’t welcome here..” Charlie says lastly as alastor takes the sinner away, probably to kill them and eat em.

Charlie takes you up stairs as you grip onto her arm. Her gaze on you soften with protectiveness and worry. She can’t believe that happened to you.

She checks on you everyday and has to mane sure you are with a resident before leaving the hotel. She feels guilty knowing she wasn’t there to protect you. Charlie must definitely hands razzle and dazzle to you if you are going out or going to sleep.

HUSK

A drunk resident had walked into your room as you were busy doing art work.

It was a night that you were relaxing in your room just drawing. You always had a passion to draw, maybe even to be an artist.

Your father figure was down stairs tending the bar. Husk was giving drinks to a resident, husk could tell that the drunk bastard has enough. He told the bum to go upstairs as he had enough beers.

Husk watches the person go upstairs, stumbling and staggering. The cat demon rolls his eyes as he hears a door close, assuming the sinner went to their designated room.

You were so busy listening to music you didn’t notice someone enter your room. As you put down your pencil, going for a crayon. You noticed a resident you would see at the bar. Your eyes widen smelling the strong alcohol from their body as they walked closely to you.

A curling scream came from your room making husk immediately drop the glass he was cleaning. He rushes upstairs to see the problem and why you screamed. He sees you being pinned down by the sinner he was tending to earlier.

“GET THE FUCK OF THEM!” Husk yells, eyes filled of anger. All he saw was red as he pulls the bastard off you and starts to beat the person up repeatedly. Their face was bloodied as heavy breathing came out of their face. You stopped husk as you had already been traumatized. Husk stops, breathing heavy before he kicks the bastard all the way down stairs.

You sometimes still relive through that moment as husk stays beside your bed. Husk would have to calm your down from your panic attacks from that night as you lash out at your own “father”

“Kid. Kid! Calm down…it’s okay. I’m here for you..fuck. I’m here for you.” Husk says calmingly while you try to get out of his hold. Still in panic mode. He had to hold you tightly for you to understand that you were now safe.

Hot tears fall to your cheek as you sob painfully at what you just experienced. Your tears made husk’s heart break and shatter. He was just glad you were okay in your room for now.

He holds you to his chest as his fur called you down even more. You sniffled holding him tight as if he would disappear if you let him go.

He felt your heartbeat go slow as you fall asleep in his hold. He stays close to you the whole night as he promises that he will always protect you. You are like his own child since you came to the is shit hole.

He lets you stay by him in the bar as you fall asleep. He grumbles a lot remembering that night as he almost broke a glass in his hand. You are only a kid…

ANGEL DUST

You were sent to find angel dust, only to see him in a bar drunk. So what did you do? Try and drag him out only to drag into trouble

You went into the bar to see Angel drunk, he was also talking to some demons who smirked at his drunken state.

You scoffed going over to grab Angel dust. As you went to grab him, one of the demons made you sit on his lap as if you were ready to meet Santa Claus. But you weren’t as you headbutt the demon and grab Angel dust.

The rest of the demons pull out knives and gun. Your eyes widen as you rushed pout the bar door, sensing the demons on your tail.

You throw a beer bottle at one of the members, the shards went in their eyes. Even if it was a small trick, the screams distracted those asshole as you make a run for the hotel.

You gently laid angel dust in his bed as his eyes tears up, realizing the situation and what could’ve happened if you didn’t take advice from Vaggie about combat.

“Shit…I’m sorry for getting you in this shit.” Angel dust says as he looks away with a drunk shamed look. You sighed, you’re just a kid looking after a drunk adult.

Angel sobered up a bit after you left him in his room. His memory fuzzy, but it was clear that you were uncomfortable with those damn demons that were eyeing you. Even if you got pulled into someone’s lap, that made him disgusted.

He promised you when you first came here that he would protect you. You was like a little sibling to him. He couldn’t believe how he was a drunk asshole who couldn’t even protect someone he cared about most.

Angel was actually sober for months after that encounter. Worried you would run into those demons he was with that night. He would also make you more like force you to watch fat nuggets while he is at work.

He would probably make a deal with Valentino or probably mostly alastor to make sure you were safe since that day.

SIR PENTIOUS

You were trying to find Frank, one of the egg boiz in the pride ring only to run into trouble.

You found Frank being ganged by some sinner who looked from the modern era you are from. You looked around for something, and you found an old computer. Mustering up your strength, you threw that bitch at their head.

Frank runs to you, holding your leg tightly. He was happy to see you were okay with him. You and the egg right here was like family as you smile at how cute he was happy to see you. Pentious would be happy to see Frank is in good condition

You left the alley way and start to chat with the egg boy by your side. It was have been obvious that you were being watched as a female sinner stared at you and your body. You felt the gaze and scoff making Frank raise a brow until seeing the sinner. The sinner seemed scary for poor Frank.

A whistle was made towards you, you flipped them off as you picked up the poor egg who was trembling. He obviously was trying to seem strong for you but it fails as he holds tightly to you. The sinner lady smirks as she follows you. You felt more uncomfortable with Frank as Frank was trying to warn you that she was gaining speed for you. But you already knew.

You made a circle with your hand, a portal opened and it closed immediately when you entered it. The portal sent you to the hotel in one piece with the adorable egg boy.

Your face was stoic with some disgust in your eyes. Eyebrows furrowed on your face as you entered Pentious’s room with Frank.

“Ssssweetheart? What happened? Whatssss wrong?” Pentious says as he notices your disgusted look. "Nothing nothing. Here you go penny." You said brushing off the feeling on your shoulders. But it still noticeable in your body language.

Before you could walk out of the room after putting Frank down. Frank just had to open his eggy mouth. The egg confessed that you were catcalled and almost followed to the hotel until you did your powers you have conquered in hell.

“Why that behavior is not acceptable to a minor!! That bunch of filth shall learn to never mess with my dear friend.” Pentious says as he forces out of his room so you can get a fresh start on a new days and this time he is making baby gates for his eggs so they will not bother you anymore

He was planning all night to see what he can use as a revenge for the cat calling you had experienced. Frank was also giving sir Pentious ideas also. It seemed they both agreed on one plan to have your get back.

He used his machine weapons to destroy that monster who catcalled. He was definitely making sure the laser was fast so he can come back to you and make you cookies so you could feel better. For the rest of the week and probably month.

CHERRI BOMB

You wanted to grab a snack out for Cherri and you. You left the hotel as she started to stay, as you left you didn’t notice of couple of shark demons. The leader smirked flicking a cigarette from his mouth eyeing you. They whistled at you making you scoff and keep walking.

The leader nods his head at you as the sharks move towards you snickering. You felt their presence, luckily you brought your…damnit you left your pepper spray.

The leader grabs you trying to pull you into an alley as your eyes widen. In a heap of panic you screamed for help, that only made it worst. Next thing you felt was a slap to your cheek as you sobbed.

The leader and the members chuckle grabbing your hair. With one final effort your screamed, but it wasn’t an ordinary scream. It was a sonic one that blew them away (a/n: sorry if it sounded corny😕) With that you left in a hurry inside of the hotel. Tears running down your eyes, you ran upstairs passing Cherri who looked shocked to see you run pat her like nothing.

“Sweetie?” Cherri says softly, her Australian accent showing her absolute worry for you as she followed you into your room. She sees your face in your pillow. Softly sobbing, scared as your adrenaline was still high. She sat next to you softly holding you in her arms hoping you would open up. And you did after calming down.

After explaining what happened with a tired and broken voice, you couldn’t believe that this would happenu to you. You felt kinda yucky being touched but you felt safe with Cherri.

“What a fuckin' asshole. I bet his dick is small…don’t worry honey.” She says caressing your back as you sniffled before falling asleep.

In the aftermath, she blowed up their house in honor for you.🔥💗 no witnesses either.

HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED IT!

Remember that my requests are closed, so please if you are new to my blog check out my other work as I am currently working on other requests‼️ THAT ARE IN MY DRAFTS, not the ones people are asking me. So please don’t DM me and respect that please.

And mostly, please seek help if you are going through any abuse or assault related issues. Everyone needs to speak up in their own experiences. ❤️

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azrielbrainrot · 9 months ago

Text

Haunted

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Kinktober 2024: Prey/Predator

Description: You and Azriel play a not so innocent game of hide-and-seek.

Warnings: Smut, vaginal sex, rough sex, sex in the dungeons, bit of fingering, dirty talk, bit of cum play, slight (almost non existant) dom/sub dynamics, tiny bit of degradation and a praise kink

Word Count: ~2,1k

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

The silence was deafening in between the stone walls, making you far too aware of the sound of your own breathing and how hard your heart was beating. You wouldn't be surprised if he could hear it through your chest even if he was on the opposite side of the dungeons, it was certainly loud enough in your ears.

Moving was difficult as well since you were terrified of alerting him with every step you took, making you move even slower than probably necessary. Not to mention the darkness that set in the dungeon, the moonlight filtering through the small windows not nearly enough to allow you to see even the end of the hallway.

Azriel's dungeon wasn't entirely unknown to you, having been here on multiple occasions for work or even to come find him when he got too immersed in his duties, but you definitely should have prepared better before asking him to hunt you here. It should have been the least you could do after daring the Spymaster of the Night Court to a game of hide-and-seek.

“I have to say I'm impressed, princess,” his deep voice calls out, making you freeze, heart dropping onto your stomach. It takes you entirely too long to realize his voice sounds far away enough, echoing through the walls. “Seasoned assassins haven't managed to hold out this long.”

When the shock dies down a bit and you regain control of your body once again, you keep walking down the hallway slowly, carefully setting one foot in front of the other. As far as he sounded just now, you knew he could walk through these walls effortlessly without making noise and if you stood in the same place, he would catch you before you'd even get the chance to run.

The sound of his knuckles knocking against the wall as he walks makes you jump out of your skin again, and you almost want to curse out at him, knowing he's having entirely too much fun while you sit close to a heart attack.

“Maybe I should have you work for me. You could still be a great spy.”

The relaxed tone of his voice only worsens your nerves. It also annoys you, which you know is his objective, but you won't give him the satisfaction of making a wrong move just so he could find you more easily. You had brought up this game with a clear view of the end, but now your competitiveness wouldn't allow you to simply give up. The reward would be far more delicious if you gave him a good fight too.

Making your way to one of the open cells at the end of the hallway and getting inside, you look for a place to hide. Every cell had been emptied and cleaned before you came, you really wouldn't have expected anything less from Azriel, even during this dirty game of yours he wanted to keep you protected and sheltered.

The room was mostly empty save for a table by the iron bars, a chair and chains on the furthest wall and a box sitting by the side wall. It was full of cleaning supplies by the smell of it which would be perfect since it could mask your scent as well. You quickly duck behind it, sitting on the floor and making yourself as small as you can so you're not visible at all behind it.

A shadow moving in the corner catches your attention, startling you for a second, but with a harsh glare at it you manage to send it away. Azriel had promised not to use them - if he did the game would be over in seconds. His shadows had a tendency to cling to you though, since they were extensions of him and acted on his feelings, so even if they didn't run to tattle on you, seeing them gathering around the box would be like an arrow pointing in your direction.

“How long do you plan on hiding for, my love?” His voice was a lot closer now, it sounded like he was walking down this same hallway. Covering your mouth with your hand, you do your best to calm your heart and not make any noise at all, trying to remember the breathing exercises he taught you. “We both know how this will end.”

Counting down the steps in your mind, you peek out slowly when you're convinced enough time has passed for him to be around the opposite corner of the dungeon. You find the hallway empty and take the moment to start walking in the direction he came from, maybe find another place to hide back there if you're lucky.

“Caught you,” a voice whispers directly in your ear, making you jump and attempt to move away only to be held by your waist against a familiar leather clad chest. Your heart was racing, the sound so loud in your ears that it takes you a moment to remind your body that you weren't actually in danger.

Azriel simply leans into your neck, breathing in your scent, humming into your skin when your body starts relaxing against his. His shadows start crawling up your body as well, happily moving around the two of you after being denied your touch for so long.

“You said you wouldn't use them,” you whisper, scared your voice would give out on you. Fear had fully transformed into desire, the whiplash of emotions and adrenaline running through your veins threatening to make you lose your mind.

“I didn't,” he murmurs, biting into your skin, “I'm a little offended that you think so little of my abilities.” You didn't, not at all, but your next words turn into a moan as he licks at the bite mark. “Now, be good and let me enjoy my prize.”

When his hands reach to the hem of the short dress you wore for the occasion and pulls it off in one swift movement, you thought he would turn you around and finally kiss you, maybe lift you up into his arms and fuck you against the wall, but instead he guides you back to the cell you had been hiding in, letting you know that he had simply been indulging you for a bit longer when he walked away, and bends you over the table you had been eyeing earlier, the cold surface coming in contact with your overheated skin sending goosebumps all over your body.

You can't see him in this position, can't see the appreciation in his eyes as the hazel rakes over your body, or the sick desire when he spreads your legs and finds your underwear soaked through. His thumb delves under your underwear without warning, running it over your folds before tugging at the fabric once, giving you time to stop him if you wanted to, and then tugging harder a second time when you didn't, ripping it clean off your body.

Two of his fingers are inside you before you have a chance to prepare yourself, finding no resistance whatsoever as your cunt greedily sucks them in. Azriel chuckles, a dark sound that makes your toes curl.

“Don't tell me you got this wet running from me,” he muses, fucking his fingers into you faster, “Were you thinking of what I would do when I caught you? Did you imagine me fucking you over this table like this?” The obscenely loud moan you let out is the only answer he needs. “Such a dirty girl, so perfect for me.”

His fingers leave you entirely too soon, prompting a whine of protest out of you, one that gets silenced quickly when he gently kicks your feet apart as you hear him unbuckling the leathers you had specifically asked him to wear. You don't even have time to beg before he enters you in one smooth motion, setting up a punishing pace that has you holding onto the cell bars in front of you.

His hands were gripping onto your hips hard enough to bruise, bringing your body to meet his thrusts. Your moans were echoing around the empty dungeon, leaving your mouth unattended as you got lost in the pleasure, and if it weren't for the spell cast around it to make it soundproof, you would be waking up everyone around.

The feeling of his leathers hitting your naked skin was turning you on more than it should, but seeing him in his Spymaster attire while chasing you around his dungeon could have probably made you cum without him ever laying a finger on you. The thought makes you clench around him, getting rewarded with a deep moan of his own.

Between the adrenaline of the chase and the way he was fucking you so well, you were already impossibly close, trying your best to hold back and enjoy the moment as long as you could, your cunt squeezing around him wildly - you had fantasized about this too many times for it to end so soon. It seemed he had a different idea though, his thrusts hitting all the spots he knew would make you lose control.

“Why are you holding back, my love?” His voice was clearly affected, it sounded like he was holding back himself. “Want to feel you cum on my cock. Come on, show me how good I'm making you feel.”

There really wasn't a chance of denying him even if you wanted to, he was hitting you too deep, too hard, so so good. You were cumming around his cock just like he wanted as soon as the words left his mouth, a silent scream stuck in your throat, entire form trembling against the table as your body struggled to handle the sudden amount of pleasure.

Azriel fucks you through it, his thrusts becoming more erratic and his groans echoing louder around the walls, a telltale sign of how close he truly was. But he surprises you once more, pulling out of you before you even have the chance to really come down from your high, and spins you around, dropping you on your knees. Luckily even through the haze, your body knew what to do, parting your lips and sucking his cock into your mouth just in time for him to cum down your throat, fingers tangled in your hair and head thrown back as he fucks every last drop into your mouth.

It takes him a while to pull out, and judging by the way his cock refused to truly soften, you almost thought he would keep fucking your face, but he does so gently, tucking himself back into his leathers before squating down to your level when you pout up at him, smirking at the mess he made before kissing you, licking any remnants of cum and spit that trailed down your chin.

“Think you can still stand?”

The question makes you take note of the way your muscles still spasmed, but you still nod up at him, albeit a bit confused. He could just winnow you straight to your room, no need to walk all the way back or anything.

“Alright then,” he says with a hint of pride, holding onto your waist and helping you stand, studying the way your legs wobble for a second before letting go and deeming you steady enough on your feet. It's not like he hadn't fucked you way harder before, you were almost a little offended he thought you would be out of commission so easily.

Azriel leans down to kiss you one more time, letting you indulge yourself, hand finding the back of his neck, only to pull away and take a step back, a sadistic smirk playing on his face, sending a chill down your spine.

“Now I want you to run for me again, princess.” His smirk only widens when he sees the excitement replacing the confusion on your face. “Next time I catch you, I'll chain you to the wall.”

A million thoughts run through your mind, one more filthy than the former. He nods his head to the door in encouragement. “Go on, I'll give you a headstart.”

It was going to be a long night.

#azriel x reader #azriel smut #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #azriel fic #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #acotar smut #acotar kinktober #my writing #faves

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uhuhmaries · 16 days ago

Text

What Once Was | H.S.

Fluff/angst. Sorry y’all the horny bomb has exploded and now I’m just sad 😔

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

The first time you met him, it wasn’t fate. It wasn’t stars aligning or time bending. It was a missed bus and a crooked little bookstore tucked away in a narrow alley in Florence.

You were lost—figuratively and literally. The street signs didn’t make sense, your feet hurt, and your phone battery had died somewhere between the Ponte Vecchio and the third scoop of stracciatella. You ducked into the bookstore out of instinct more than intention, the bell above the door a soft chime in the quiet air.

And there he was.

Sitting on the floor, back resting against a shelf marked “Poetry,” legs stretched out long and lazy in front of him. His sunglasses were pushed to the top of his head, curls a little messy, a thin notebook open in his lap. He looked up when you stepped in. Blinked once. Smiled.

That was all it took.

You recognized him, of course. Not in the screaming-fan, heart-palpitations way you might’ve five years ago. But the kind of recognition that slips into your bones. Something softer. Older. He was Harry Styles. And you were just… you.

But in that moment, in that quiet little bookstore in a city that wasn’t home for either of you, you weren’t those things. You were two strangers surrounded by books, and he asked you if you liked Neruda.

You told him you’d never read him.

He raised a brow. “Then I guess I’ve just found my mission for the day.”

The summer unraveled like silk. Days blurred into golden afternoons spent lying side by side in public parks, talking about everything and nothing. Nights spent in dimly lit cafes and under balconies that smelled of roses and cheap red wine. He took you on the back of a scooter through winding roads that made your stomach flip. He laughed when you clung to him too tightly, but didn’t let go.

You never called it love.

Maybe because calling it that would make it real. And real things break.

But he kissed you with the kind of tenderness that lived at the edge of something bigger. He ran his thumb over your bottom lip like he wanted to memorize it. He told you things that made your heart hurt, and listened when you told him things you hadn’t even told yourself.

He never mentioned the cameras. The fame. The tours or the plane tickets waiting on him.

And you never asked.

Because some things are too delicate to speak out loud.

You left at the end of August.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no fight, no teary goodbye at a train station. You packed your suitcase in the quiet, the same way you’d unpacked it months earlier. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching you fold your dresses, his fingers twitching like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

“I’ll miss you,” you said, brushing your knuckles against his cheek.

He didn’t say it back. He just kissed your wrist.

And then you were gone.

You thought maybe he’d call. Or text. Or post something cryptic on Instagram that only you would understand. But days passed, then weeks. And life picked up its pace like it always does. You threw yourself into work, into friends, into pretending like that summer hadn’t carved out a hollow space in your chest.

But nothing felt right. Everything was too loud, too fast, too cold. You scrolled through headlines sometimes, glimpses of him walking through airports or smiling on red carpets. You watched from the outside like everyone else.

He moved on.

You didn’t.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

Two years.

That’s how long it took before you saw him again.

It was London. A gallery opening you weren’t supposed to be at. A last-minute plus-one invite from a friend who had no idea what she was walking you into.

You didn’t expect him to be there. But there he was.

He stood near a marble sculpture, a glass of wine in hand, head tilted slightly as he listened to a woman in a green silk dress. He looked the same, but sharper. Polished. The messy curls had been tamed, the rings on his fingers a little flashier, the tattooed arm peeking out beneath his rolled sleeve a little more inked.

He looked up.

And saw you.

It was a second. Less than that. A heartbeat.

Your eyes met, and for a moment, time pressed pause.

He nodded. Just once.

You nodded back.

That was all.

No smile. No wave. No whispered “hey, it’s been a while.”

Just two strangers in a room full of strangers, pretending they hadn’t once made promises in a crumbling Italian apartment at 2 a.m.

He turned away first.

You watched him disappear into the crowd.

And that was it.

You walk home in the rain that night. No umbrella. No jacket. Just the weight of the past two years pressing into your shoulders.

It should be easier by now. You should’ve let go.

But your heart still aches like a bruise every time someone mentions his name. Every time a guitar strums a certain chord. Every time you smell cheap red wine.

You live in that summer still.

He doesn’t.

People say time heals. That you’ll meet someone else. That the right love won’t leave like that. That if it was meant to be, it would’ve been.

But what they don’t say is that some people aren’t meant to stay. They’re meant to change you. To leave you different than you were before. Better. Or maybe worse.

And some love stories don’t end with closure. Or clarity. Or even kindness.

Some love stories end in a nod across a gallery, where he looks at you like he’s never tasted your skin in Florence, like he never whispered your name against your neck or traced poems onto your spine with trembling fingers.

Some love stories end with silence.

You still go to bookstores sometimes.

Not because you think he’ll be there.

But because a part of you is still waiting to walk in and see him on the floor, smiling up at you like nothing ever hurt.

And maybe that part of you always will.

You move on, too. Sort of.

You date. You kiss people who taste nothing like him. You let someone love you. You almost love them back. But it never sticks.

Not because you’re waiting for him. But because you left too much of yourself in Italy.

Years pass.

The ache dulls, but it never leaves.

You learn to live with it the way you live with freckles or old songs—something faded and familiar.

And sometimes, when the sky is a particular kind of gold, and the air smells like summer, you close your eyes and let yourself remember.

How he laughed.

How you felt.

How it once was.

Not because you want it back.

But because it mattered.

And that’s enough.

Even if you’re just a forgotten chapter in his story.

Even if he was your whole book.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

#one direction fanfiction #1d fandom #harry styles #harry fanfic #harry styles x you #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst

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lichenes · 8 months ago

Note

Hey! Ask and ye shall receive! Can you write a silco x reader with young silco? How he would react if reader died during the rebellion and how their relationship with each other was before? I need the angst!

I love seeing my blorpos suffer tbh. SILCO ANGST???? ON THE LICHENES BLOG???? abssolutely mental. Let's do this. CW: description of bodily injuries!!, angst, comfort? kinda? wc: 433 . * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚ . * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚

“Sorry, I wish I could stay for longer.” You said while you were slipping out of bed. In a sleep malaise he reached out to you and grasped your hand dragging you to his level. You stooped lower and got a soft kiss onto your lips. “Have a good day.”

“No- no- no!” He ran up to your limp body. “You said you could do it. You said you’d-” He lifted your body off the ground looking for a good place to hide you for the rest of the fight. Suddenly another bullet from the enemy gun flew by. He ducked and ran behind the nearest cover.

“She’s a lovely girl! You should talk to her.” Insisted Vander. Silco all but rolled his eyes.

Putting you gently on the ground he held both your cheeks in his hands. “Look at me.” He felt his chest tightening up. “Look at me damnit!” He put his head on your chest. You were becoming colder by the minute.

“Silco I swear-” You said laughing so hard your stomach was beginning to hurt. “What is it dear?” He said, smiling slightly. You tried to calm down but your eyes welled up with tears. He gave you a tissue to wipe them away when you stopped laughing still smiling widely at you. He didn’t show this much emotion around anyone. He- couldn’t.

He laid you flat on the ground attempting resuscitation. With tears beginning to spring in his eyes he couldn’t see much beside the outline of your… corpse. He was foolishly trying to convince himself he could save you, like he’d done so multiple times over the years.

“This is the last time I’m taking you home. You need to be mindful of when you start drinking.” He scolded you in a soft tone, enjoying your slightly inebriated presence nonetheless.. Your hand over his shoulder was making his own face a similar shade to the shirt he was wearing.

Images of your smiling face faded in as he collapsed on the ground next to you. He grabbed your hand and squeezed it for the last time.

“We need to rebel. Now. There wasn’t a better time for this and there won’t be a better time!” You said hitting the table with your fist. Silco shook his head. “I can manage fighting for Zaun, for… us.”

Sevika walked into the room unannounced and found Silco holding a picture frame. She immediately recognised the person in the photo and got out quickly so as to not anger him. He was bitter, he was angry, he was… at a loss.

. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚ . * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 masterlist

#x reader #writing #angst #angst and fluff #fluff #silco #silco x reader #arcane silco #young silco

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gaybirdnerd · 3 months ago

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Scenario where when Iceman goes to apologize for what happened with Goose, Maverick just breaks down as he's leaving.

Ice is to the door when he hears a broken whisper of "I'm lost."

He turns around in confusion and watches as Maverick leans his head against his locker, tears slowly dripping off his face as he makes himself impossibly smaller against the locker.

"What?" is whispered between them, met with a shaking of a head and a hand covering a mouth in time to muffle a sob.

Ice walks to Maverick slowly, approaching like he would a wounded animal and stopping short when another sob escapes the smaller man, who simply curls into himself further.

At the next sob, Ice gently grabs Maverick by his shoulders and turns him around slowly, met with the most pitiful puppy eyes he's ever seen as they fill with tears and overflow in the same second.

"I'm lost" is spoken into the air between them as Maverick's face crumples further, any semblance of being put together falling.

In that second, Ice doesn't see the man who has been aggravating him this entire time; he doesn't see the cocksure man who did dangerous maneuvers to prove himself to the Navy. He sees a lost kid whose brother has just died due to an accident neither of them had the headspace to prevent in their competitive games.

Ice doesn't think as he reaches out and brings Maverick-Pete- into his embrace, strong arms encircling the smaller man as he sobs in earnest, his knees nearly buckle with the strength of his grief hitting him.

Pete curls his arms between them, cradling himself as Ice's arms squeeze his shoulders, bringing him impossibly closer as sobs turn into grieving wails, both of them sliding to the floor in the effort it takes Pete to finally let his anger and grief out.

Between the sobs and wails, Pete tries to explain what he means, getting out no more than one syllable as he tries to talk, being shushed by Ice soon after.

When Pete starts to hyperventilate, Ice drags him up off the floor and onto a bench, steadying both of them as he grabs a water bottle from Pete's locker and presses it against the back of his neck. He gets a gasp for his efforts, as the water bottle is still cold from when it was handed to Pete earlier.

Ice coaches Pete through breathing, holding him close, and rubbing a hand up and down his back to comfort him. When his breathing is finally as even as it's going to get while Pete still cries, sobs turning into whimpers as he buries his face in Ice's shoulder and breathes with Ice's coaching.

When his crying finally peters out, he's back to being Maverick, pulling away and wiping his face, reaching into his locker for a box of tissues Ice had not seen before.

"I'm sorry."

Ice startles at the words, staring at Maverick as he blows his nose.

"What for?"

Maverick shuffles and ducks his head, shame written in his shoulders, putting the box of tissues back into the locker. "Breaking down like that. It's not fair to you-"

"Shut up"

Maverick looks at Ice in shock, quickly turning to anger. "I'm trying to-"

"Apologize for being human." A hand lands on Maverick's shoulder as Ice shuffles a little closer to him. "You're trying to apologize for letting out pain and grief, something everyone feels. You two were close, and he was a good man. You're allowed your pain."

Maverick looks at him, puppy eyes still there, confounding Ice as he watches acceptance slowly bleed into the gaze of the man.

Maverick closes his eyes and sighs, another small tear escaping his right eye as he leans against Ice lightly, head thumping on his shoulder with the exhaustion he feels after such a large release of sadness.

Ice lets him stay there for a minute, bringing his head down to rest it on the shorter man's own. After a minute, he opens up his eyes and checks the clock on the wall above the door, sighing. Time to go.

Ice prods the younger man in the side, getting a twitch and a stifled, unidentifiable noise for his trouble.

Both of them stop and stare at each other, mischief lighting up Ice's eyes and distrust darkening Maverick's.

Deciding not to actually do anything, Ice stands up and gathers what he needs. "We should go, it's getting late."

A look at the clock brings Maverick back to the world, standing up quickly enough to wobble, gathering what he needs, and starting for the door.

Ice grabs Maverick's wrist. "Where are you going?"

"To my… bunk?" Maverick looks at the connection between them, then back at Ice's face and raises an eyebrow. "Is that illegal now?"

"No, I just don't think you should be alone." Ice starts gently dragging Maverick through the hallways.

Before he knows it, Maverick and Ice are in a resting room with the rest of their squad, Wolf and Hollywood staring as Ice shoves Maverick down onto a couch next to Slider, who simply glances at Maverick before going back to his book about who knows what. The others in the room simply ignore what's going on.

Maverick goes to say something- probably protest- before Ice sits down next to him with some paperwork pulled off the table, practically sitting on him as he does.

Maverick glares at him, getting a glare and a throat clearing back as Ice pointedly zips his lips and points to Slider, still reading.

In the minutes that follow, Maverick slowly relaxes, his exhaustion hitting him as he slowly drinks the water that had been previously pressed against his neck. As he finishes the bottle, he finds himself slumping into the couch, the calm silence of Slider and Ice combined with the quiet whispers of the others lulling him to sleep.

Ice startles briefly when he feels something against his shoulder, looking over to Maverick dozing on him with his mouth cracked open and his brows still slightly furrowed, the previous tear tracks on his face still visible.

Slider looks over, double-taking as he takes in the situation, opening his mouth before Ice puts a finger to his lips and shushes him. Wolf and Hollywood look over at the soft noise Ice makes, startling at the smallest of them sleeping on their ice-cold friend (pun intended).

"He must be absolutely exhausted if he's sleeping near us," is said, although Ice doesn't know who said it, too busy trying to move Maverick slowly so he's not as shrimp-shaped as he was. Slider reaches over and brings the man's feet to his own lap easily, slowly moving inch by inch so they don't wake the man.

A snuffle from Maverick stops them, the small tear running down his face breaking Wolf's heart based on the noise of hurt he lets out.

Eventually, Maverick is positioned so he's got his head on Ice's lap and his feet on Slider's, his shoes still on because they didn't want to risk it.

It takes hours before Maverick wakes up, a bottle of fresh water and a protein bar shoved in his face as soon as his eyes are open and he's taken in the ceiling above him.

He finds himself unable to be lonely after a small conversation with the others are being a team, his trust growing the more they work together.

After he and Ice save each other, he relinquishes himself to the group. They aren't Goose, Goose isn't coming back and it will always hurt, but they're his brothers. He'll take that over being alone any day.

#pete maverick mitchell #top gun maverick #tom iceman kazansky #Goose's death #ficlet #snippet #birdnerd ideas #semi au #top gun 1986 #top gun fanfiction

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lucy-literates · 1 month ago

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I know in GTWC races there is no media pen but let’s just pretend there is.

There is a new reporter in the media pen and the first time Arthur sees her he loses his mind. He makes a beeline for her intending to be confident, suave and sexy to impress her but as soon as she asks him her first question, his mind goes blank and he ends up stuttering out an answer. Over the next few races, he keeps going to her first, even practicing some flirty lines in advance but every time he is in front of her he either goes off rambling about some aspect of racing she didn’t even ask about or ends up just saying that the car is good, the race was good and then repeating himself until he can escape.

She just assumes that he doesn’t like her, that he goes to her first to get it out the way and then never actually answers her questions properly. But then one day Lorenzo and Charles come to see Arthur race. She is walking behind them and overhears them talking about this reporter than their brother won’t shut up about. So she decides to throw in a couple of flirty lines in her next interview with Arthur and winks at him and he blushes bright red, stumbles over his words even more and then runs away.

Later, she is getting ready to leave the race track and Arthur and his brothers appear. They push him towards her telling her that he has something to say to her. When he eventually stumbles over his words enough to ask her out, she asks him what took him so long and grabs his hoodie to pull him in for a kiss with his brothers whooping and hollering in the background.

A/N: This is so cute!!! Enjoy!

Good Race, Good Car, Good God You're Pretty

The first time you see Arthur Leclerc in the media pen, he walks straight toward you like he’s been waiting all his life for this one moment.

He’s got the walk—confident, calm, like he knows what he’s doing.

Then you ask, “Arthur, how did the tyre strategy affect your mid-stint pace?”

And he… dies.

On the inside.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then somehow blurts, “Yes. The tyres. They were… good. The car… also good. And the strategy. Was… good.”

There’s a long pause. You blink.

“…Right,” you say slowly, smiling to hide the confusion.

Arthur practically sprints away.

The next few races? Exactly the same.

Every time he shows up, it’s you he walks up to first. He even tries rehearsing lines under his breath, trying to sound effortlessly cool. But once he’s in front of you, everything short-circuits again.

Your questions are normal—about racecraft, setups, pace, how he feels post-race. His answers? Rambling nonsense or the same “yeah car was good, race was good” loop on repeat.

You start to assume the worst.

He must hate talking to you. Probably just gets it out of the way so he can move on to real questions.

You try not to take it personally.

Until Monza.

You’re walking behind a trio of familiar voices near the paddock. Two men, deep in conversation—French accents, unmistakable grins.

Lorenzo: “It’s embarrassing, honestly. He runs to her and then turns to jelly.”

Charles: “She thinks he’s not into her. He thinks he’s blowing it. I’m tempted to mic him up for the next one just for entertainment.”

You slow your steps, blinking. Wait—you?

They’re talking about you?

You duck out of sight before they can see you grinning like an idiot.

So at the next race, you decide to have a little fun.

He approaches you again—eyes flicking nervously between your face and your mic.

You smile sweetly. “Arthur, good to see you. Have you finally learned how to talk to me, or should I just ask you how good everything was again?”

His brain fries.

He lets out a laugh—nervous, shaky—and then you wink.

Wink.

He stares at you like you just set his car on fire. And then—mid-question—he stammers something unintelligible, blushes crimson, and bolts.

You try not to laugh. The cameraman definitely does.

Later that afternoon, you’re slinging your bag over your shoulder, about to leave the track, when you hear footsteps—and arguing.

“No, Arthur, go now.”

“I can’t, this is ridiculous!”

“She winked at you, bro, she wants you to!”

“Just tell her you like her, dumbass!”

You turn to see all three Leclerc brothers marching toward you.

Charles and Lorenzo are flanking Arthur like bodyguards pushing a reluctant teenager toward a dance floor. Arthur’s eyes go wide when he sees you.

“Uh—hi.”

You raise a brow, smiling. “Everything good?”

Lorenzo gives him a not-so-subtle nudge. “He has something to say.”

Arthur glares at his brother, then turns back to you—nervous, sweaty-palmed, heart-in-his-throat.

“I… uh… I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d maybe want to… go out sometime? With me. If you want. Because I… really like you. And I’ve definitely ruined every interview, and I’m sorry, but—”

You step closer, tug on the front of his hoodie with a smirk.

“What took you so long, Leclerc?”

Before he can answer, you pull him in for a kiss.

He melts into it. Warm hands at your waist. A quiet, stunned "mmf" against your lips.

Behind you, Charles and Lorenzo explode.

“FINALLY!”

“ABOUT DAMN TIME.”

Arthur pulls away, red-faced but glowing, forehead pressed to yours. “Can we, uh… keep this part off the record?”

You laugh. “Maybe. If you give me a proper interview next time.”

He grins. “No promises.”

#f1 x reader #f1 #f1 imagine #arthur leclerc #arthur leclerc x reader #arthur leclerc x y/n #arthur leclerc fluff

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lucy-verse · 9 months ago

Text

Legolas & Thranduil headcanons because the movies can eat my ass

After his wife died, Thranduil raised Legolas alone - and by that, I mean, he literally refused to let anyone step in and help him, he was a 24/7 dad.

He fed him, bathed him, held council meetings with a baby in his arms, walked around the castle wearing a sling because he wasn’t letting that little nugget out of his sight. Legolas didn’t even sleep in a crib; he slept right in his father’s arms because Thranduil was too scared to be away from him.

An advisor of his once made the mistake of suggesting he let a nanny care for Legolas, and scarcely escaped the conversation alive.

Legolas has always been quiet, but was borderline mute as a kid. Nothing was wrong with him, he just didn’t really feel like talking. Thranduil didn’t care, his baby is perfect.

Mirkwood elves are known for being merry, but Legolas takes the cake. He was a backflipping, tree-climbing, bannister sliding, chandelier swinging firecracker of an elfing who was constantly giving his father mini heart attacks.

A few elves express their concerns about the young prince being too excitable. Thranduil tells them to fuck off, his baby is perfect.

Legolas brings stray animals back from the forest. Said animals range from cute little mice to not-so-cute baby spiders.

On one occasion, he brought home some abandoned duck eggs and kept them in his chambers; when they hatched, Thranduil happened to be the one on egg duty and they ended up imprinting on him.

As Legolas grows older, he becomes restless and wants to see the world beyond Mirkwood. Thranduil is terrified to lose him and can’t help but be an overprotective mother hen. This puts a strain on their relationship.

Only Thranduil is allowed to scold Legolas though, anyone else tries it and they’ll lose an arm because his baby is perfect.

It’s only when Legolas witnesses the horrors of The Battle of Five Armies that he finally understands why his father is so protective. Thranduil also comes to understand that he can’t keep his child under his wing forever.

When Thranduil discovered Legolas had joined the Fellowship, he travelled straight to Rivendell to strangle Elrond with his bare hands. He ends up having a mental breakdown instead. Elrond understands. He’s a good friend.

Legolas returns from the war to find his father on the brink of fading, and he carries that guilt for the rest of his life.

When Legolas sails to The Undying Lands, Thranduil only remains in Middle Earth for a thousand years or so before joining him.

“I can’t believe your son brought a dwarf-”

“Shut up, my baby is perfect.”

“But your majesty-”

“Perfect.”

#lord of the rings #the hobbit #legolas #thranduil #headcanons #sparkle queue

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vaginalvr · 2 months ago

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Hiii I was wondering if you could you do one where bau!reader and Spencer are in a relationship and one day she risks her life to catch an unsub. Spencer gets mad at her and gives her the silent treatment. She gets mad at him as well for his reaction, and they have like a little hate oral sex situation but are still angry afterwards. Then, a couple days later, reader maybe drops a glass and cuts herself accidentally or something of the sort, and Spencer panics and runs to make sure she’s ok, showing that he’s just scared to loose her. They finally open up and have sweet makeup sex. 💕💕

oh how sweet

cw: Smut, oral sex (f/m, angry), arguing, blood (minor injury), angst, comfort, makeup sex, language, creampie, established relationship

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

The jet was quiet.

Too quiet.

You sat on one side, head leaned against the window, watching the ground slowly blur beneath the clouds. Spencer sat across from you, one leg crossed, reading a book but not flipping a single page.

He hadn’t said a word to you in almost five hours.

You knew exactly why.

You’d chased the unsub down a dark alley alone. You’d gone against Hotch’s orders, but you’d made the call when the man ducked into a narrow side street, the kind no backup could reach in time.

You caught him. Tackled him to the ground. Disarmed him even when he pulled a knife and slashed at you.

You came out with a ripped vest, a bruised rib, and a few scrapes. But you came out alive.

Spencer, however, had watched it all from the other end of the alley, frozen, wide-eyed, and terrified.

He’d kissed you when the cuffs were on, held you too tightly in the SUV ride back, then said nothing since.

Now he was silent, eyes flicking over the same line of text over and over again.

You finally broke.

“You’re really not going to talk to me?” you asked.

He didn’t look up. “I have nothing to say.”

You scoffed. “That’s bullshit.”

His eyes flicked up, narrowed, but he said nothing again.

You leaned forward. “I saved a life today. Would you rather I just stood there and let that girl die?”

“I’d rather you didn’t fucking risk yours,” he snapped, voice low and venomous.

A few heads turned. Hotch shot you both a look. You fell quiet again. But you were seething.

And so was Spencer.

Back in Quantico, you barely spoke a word. When you got to your shared apartment, Spencer dropped his bag in the hall and walked straight to the bedroom.

You followed, fury still pumping through your veins.

“You don’t get to punish me for doing my job.”

“I’m not punishing you,” he said, taking off his watch, methodically setting it on the nightstand. “I’m processing.”

“Oh, give me a break. You’re mad, and instead of talking to me about it like a grown man, you're throwing a tantrum.”

He turned, jaw tight. “You almost died.”

“I didn’t.”

“But you could have. You chose to. You didn’t even wait for backup. You—”

“I knew what I was doing!”

“You don’t get to make that call without thinking about what happens to me if you don’t come back!”

You both fell silent again.

Chest heaving. Eyes locked.

The tension cracked, not with peace, but with lust, heat, rage, need.

“I hate when you do this,” you snarled, stepping forward, pushing at his chest. “Act like you care so much, then shut me out.”

“I hate that you think I can just watch you throw yourself into danger and not feel like I’m losing my mind.”

You shoved him. Harder.

He caught your wrist. Gripped it tight. His chest pressed to yours.

“I hate you,” you hissed.

“I hate you more,” he growled back.

Then he dropped to his knees.

“No—fuck you, Spencer—don’t think this fixes anything,” you stammered, heart racing as he shoved your pants down, dragging your panties with them.

His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise. His mouth was hot and angry as it latched onto your clit.

Your hand flew to his hair.

“Oh my God—Spencer—fuck—”

He didn’t tease, didn’t warm you up. He devoured you like he was mad at your pussy for tempting fate. His tongue was relentless, licking and sucking with sharp, precise intent, and his grip didn’t let you move—didn’t let you run, didn’t let you think.

You came too fast, trembling and gasping, thighs clenched around his face.

He pulled back, mouth slick, eyes still burning.

You shoved at him. “Don’t think this fixes anything.”

“Didn’t say it did.”

He stood. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Walked past you to the bathroom.

You stared at the wall.

And hated how wet you still were.

Two days of silence.

You slept on the couch one night. He did the next.

The air in the apartment was heavy, static, thick with everything unsaid.

Until Tuesday night.

You were reaching for a glass in the kitchen, exhausted from a long case debrief, when your grip slipped.

It hit the counter, shattered.

You gasped and jerked back—too late.

A shard sliced across your palm.

Blood welled fast.

“Shit,” you hissed, grabbing a towel, trying to stop the bleeding. It stung, hot and deep, and your knees buckled a little with the sudden pain.

“Y/N?” Spencer called from the study.

You didn’t answer. Just hissed again.

Then you heard footsteps—running.

He rounded the corner, saw the red staining the towel, and panicked.

“Jesus—what happened?!”

“I dropped a glass, I just—fuck, it hurts—”

He was already grabbing your wrist, inspecting the cut with trembling fingers.

“I’m fine,” you tried.

“No, you’re not—God, you’re not—come here—sit—sit down—”

He guided you to the kitchen chair, voice shaking.

“Spence—”

“You could need stitches,” he muttered. “You could pass out from blood loss. You could get an infection—fuck—”

“Spencer.”

He looked up.

You’d never seen his eyes like that before.

Terrified. Raw. Vulnerable.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” he whispered.

And suddenly, it wasn’t about the cut.

It wasn’t about the alley.

It was everything.

“I can’t lose you,” he said again. “I can’t.”

You reached out with your good hand, cupping his cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—about what it would do to you.”

He exhaled, eyes falling closed. Leaned into your palm like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

“I’m scared all the time,” he said. “But that night—watching him pull that knife—I felt it. I felt what it would be like if I didn’t get to kiss you again. If I didn’t get to argue with you, or listen to you snore, or make you coffee. And I—I didn’t know how to come down from that.”

You swallowed hard. “So you shut me out.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was just… scared.”

You nodded. “Me too.”

His hand slid to your knee.

Yours slid into his curls.

He kissed you like an apology and a prayer.

You kissed him back like he was breath after drowning.

He pulled you into his lap right there in the kitchen chair, cradling your bandaged hand gently against his chest as your mouths moved in sync, desperate and soft and slow.

His hands roamed your back. Yours fumbled with his belt.

“I missed you,” he murmured, forehead to yours.

“I’m right here,” you breathed.

He lifted you, carried you to the bedroom with reverence.

Stripped you gently this time. Like you were precious. Like you were made of the most fragile porcelain.

“Do you want this?” he asked, voice breaking.

“Yes. Always.”

He entered you slowly, stretching you with care, making you both gasp at the intimacy of it. There was no anger now. Just love.

His hips rolled into yours, long and deep and rhythmic, each thrust a confession.

“I love you,” he whispered into your shoulder. “God, I love you.”

“I love you too,” you moaned, arms wrapped tight around him.

He made love to you like it was the last time he ever would. Like he had to memorize your body with every motion.

You came around him, clenching and pulsing, and he held you through it, breathing you in like oxygen.

“I’m close,” he warned, breath ragged.

“Come inside me,” you whispered. “Please.”

And he did—shuddering, trembling, heart pounding against yours.

After, he held you close, your face pressed to his chest, your bandaged hand resting over his heart.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised.

He kissed the top of your head. “I know.”

But he held you tighter anyway.

Just in case.

#spencer reid smut #criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds smut #criminal minds x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x fem reader

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starkeymeow · 2 months ago

Text

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter ten, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, reunion with kie and jj, erm KIE DIES sorry, pack mutts, blood, death, me giving the characters no time to process anything LOL no time to waste, me also showing jj and kie’s relationship a bit more, rafe lowk likes y/n

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you and rafe move slowly through the forest. you’re not talking much, just walking, listening. when you do talk, it’s something you usually laugh at. you’re not sure if you’re looking for food or people. maybe both.

“we fought pretty well together, yesterday,” rafe says suddenly like he’s just now thinking it.

you glance over at him. his face is still bruised and he’s walking with a bit of a limp, but he’s got that same confident tilt to his head, like he’s pretending none of it hurts anymore.

you tug a leaf off your jacket sleeve and mutter, “could’ve been better.”

“could’ve been worse,” he counters, stepping over a thick root. “i mean, we’re still alive.”

you shrug, but there’s the hint of a smile on your face. “you took most of the hits.”

rafe huffs, dramatic. “don’t remind me.”

you laugh under your breath as you duck under a low branch. the painkillers helped, at least for a while. they dulled the edge enough that you could sleep without flinching every time you moved. it was a small kind of mercy.

“we just . . . went too hard too fast,” he says. “should’ve had a plan.”

you sigh. “you mean i should’ve had a plan. you were too busy getting kicked in the ribs.”

he snorts, but then he glances at you more seriously. “you were good, though. you were quick. it worked.”

you feel your mouth twitch. “maybe we need something smarter.”

“right,” rafe mutters, nodding. “like maybe this time, you should be the one getting everyone’s attention, and i can be the surprise.”

you glance at him again. “what, like bait?”

“like a distraction.” he shrugs, teasing, still walking. “you’re pretty. they’ll look at you first.”

you laugh once, but then you stop walking.

rafe notices a few steps ahead, turning around. “or—”

“no, that could work,” you say, thoughtful now. your eyes drift to the side as you think aloud. “if i make noise or show up first, they’ll come to me. if they’re cocky, they’ll think it’s an easy takedown. but then you’re waiting.”

rafe stares at you. “. . . i was kidding.”

you look up at him. “but it’s smart.”

he frowns, almost defensive. “you want to be the one people target?”

“i already am sometimes,” you say. “i’m shorter, younger. people either think i’m fragile or stupid or both. that’s what they see first. that’s the trap.”

you see the way he stares at you for a moment, his expression unreadable.

“you literally got an eleven in the private sessions. no one’s targeting you.”

you step forward, bumping his shoulder. “what? you don’t like that plan?”

“no, i just . . .” rafe sighs, runs a hand down his face. “you’re right. it is smart. i just don’t like the part where someone tries to fucking kill you.”

“then be faster than them,” you say, grinning. “plus, i can handle myself? how do you think i got that eleven, anyway?”

rafe looks at you, and then he shakes his head. “you’re an idiot, we can try that out though.”

you’re about to say something else, maybe joke again about your new role as tribute bait, when you see it. it’s faint at first. just a wisp, a thin trail of gray curling up through the canopy. it’s smoke.

you stop in your tracks. rafe halts beside you. you both stare. it’s not much yet but it’s too defined to be fog, too slow and rising to be steam. it’s unmistakably fire smoke.

you look up at the sun, still climbing the sky. not even noon. “who the hell lights a fire this early in the day?” you murmur.

rafe doesn’t answer. his eyes stay on the smoke, squinting slightly. you can’t really see what’s burning. it’s stupid, reckless. it screams trap, but it could also scream something else: someone got comfortable.

you glance at him to see what he’s thinking, but he’s already looking down at you. his lips twitch like he’s trying to fight off a grin.

“what?” you ask.

he shrugs, then nods toward the smoke. “you wanna go play bait?”

you huff out a breath, but your heart’s already beating faster, “do you wanna run into an axe again?”

his smile grows. “not really.” you laugh.

you take off first, but rafe follows close, matching your pace. your blood’s humming. the smoke gets darker the closer you get, and there’s something about how bold it is, how careless, that makes your skin itch, and then there’s laughter—yours first, then his.

it’s a terrible sound.

it’s not joyful, not even amused. it’s manic, feral, the kind of laughter that slips through when you’ve been pushed too far and the edge starts to feel like the most stable place to stand. it might be adrenaline, or grief, or both.

you dodge a low branch, leap over a fallen trunk. rafe nearly slips on a slope of wet dirt and laughs even harder.

then your steps slow. instinct kicks in. you hold up a hand, and rafe mirrors you, falling into step right behind as you crouch and creep forward. the flames come into view first. it’s a weak fire, barely controlled. it’s not going to last long.

but that’s not what stops you in your tracks. it’s the voices.

“holy shit, kie!”

jj’s voice is frantic. you hear the slap of palm against fabric. a rapid-fire patting, followed by dying embers.

you freeze behind a tree. rafe’s body is close behind yours, one hand gripping the trunk just above your shoulder. he leans forward slightly, head tilted so he can see too, and you both stare.

it’s not a trap. it’s them.

jj is half crouched, stomping out the last edge of the fire he clearly didn’t mean to make that big. his face is scraped, his hair wild, but he’s alive.

and kie’s standing not far off, but even saying that she’s standing is being generous. she’s barely upright, one leg shaking, face pale as hell.

you don’t even glance at rafe. you just move. you’re gone from behind the tree before you consciously think to run. “are you guys fucking insane?” you hiss under your breath as you break through the smoke.

jj jumps so hard he nearly trips over the smoldering fire. kie gasps, hands going up before she even registers it’s you. relief hits them so fast it’s like someone dumps water over their heads.

“y/n,” kie breathes.

“holy shit,” jj echoes, again, though this time it sounds more like praise than panic. he’s panting, eyes wide, the dirt on his face streaked with sweat. “you scared the hell out of me.”

“you scared us!” you snap, but your hands are already on kie’s arm, gently lowering her onto a flat rock nearby. “what the hell were you thinking lighting a fire this high in the day? are you fucking stupid?”

kie groans softly. “i couldn’t— i can’t walk well. we needed heat. we didn’t think it’d spread like that.”

“clearly.” you glance at her knee and flinch. it’s swollen and red, dried blood crusted on the edge of the pants she tore open. you rip open your pack without thinking. “you’re lucky no one else found you.”

“uh,” jj says behind you. rafe’s standing directly in front of him, just looking at him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. like he’s trying to decide if he should punch him, hug him, or both. “what?” jj raises his hands slightly. “you gonna say something or just stand there judgin’ me?”

“you look like shit,” rafe says flatly.

jj scoffs, offended. “thanks.”

“not a compliment.”

you lean forward with your elbows on your knees, eyes scanning the woods, though your ears are locked in on them now. jj and kie are sitting just a few feet across from you and rafe.

you start to hint toward his death when topper’s mentioned in a brief moment, “so, did you guys . . .”

“we saw topper’s picture the night it happened,” kie says first, voice quiet like it still hurts to say aloud. “was it with you guys?”

you nod. “we were running from a mutt. it got him.”

rafe doesn’t add anything. he’s quiet beside you, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent with an arm slung over it. the bruises on his jaw still peek out under his jacket collar when he shifts. he’s healing, but not fast enough.

“what kind of mutt?” jj asks, cautious. he needs to see if you guys saw the same thing.

you look over at rafe, meet his eyes for a second, then say, “big, looked like a komodo dragon, but . . . wrong? its skin was patchy, like someone stitched it together. it had too many eyes and legs that didn’t even match the body. like . . .” you pause, jaw flexing. “human limbs. twisted. didn’t move like anything that should be alive. and it was fast. nearly got me if rafe hadn’t been there.”

jj swallows. kie looks like she’s holding back bile.

“and it made this clicking noise,” you add, your voice quieter. “like bone against bone.”

“we haven’t seen that,” jj mutters. “thank god.”

“but we’ve seen something different,” kie cuts in, leaning forward slightly. her hand hovers near her thigh like it’s instinct to protect it. “smaller. not as showy, but there were more of them. they hunted in a group.”

“they kinda looked like coyotes,” jj adds, nodding slowly, like he’s trying to piece it together again as he speaks. “but all their limbs were too long. like they were stretched out. and their fur was, i don’t know, patchy. and oily. smelled like wet iron.”

“and their jaws don’t shut all the way,” kie says, lifting her hand now to mimic the way they moved. “it’s like their mouths are permanently open. but instead of barking or growling, they whistle. i started thinking that that’s how they communicate.”

your skin crawls just imagining it. rafe exhales beside you and mutters something under his breath about the gamemakers losing their minds.

“they got kie pretty good,” jj says next, eyes narrowing a bit. “ripped open some of her old wounds.”

kie sighs like she hates having attention on it, but still shifts her leg to the side, carefully unwrapping a piece of gauze that’s already half-stuck to her skin with blood. it’s the gash from the ambush a few days ago. it doesn’t look fresh, but the edges are pink and raw, and the bandaging is stained rusty. it’s not nothing.

you flinch slightly. “yikes.”

“it’s not that bad,” kie says, but her voice is thin. “i got a sponsor right after it opened up again. like bam, there it was. some ointment for infection and healing. it came down fast, almost like they felt bad for me or something.”

there’s something strange about how she says it, awe and bitterness twisted together.

“it’s amazing what they can do,” she continues, her fingers smoothing the clean part of the gauze before she starts to rewrap. “how quick they are when they want to be.”

you glance at rafe and catch the faintest twitch of a smile on his face. and you smirk quietly too because yeah, you both know the feeling.

“this is great and all, but remember that there should only be three others left, guys,” rafe says. he’s crouched down now, back straight, eyes focused somewhere over jj’s shoulder, like he’s drawing a mental map of the arena in his head. “aside from us. seven total. four of us, three of them.”

you glance at him, brows pinched.

“we don’t know who they are,” rafe goes on. “and that means we have to assume the worst. they could be a team. they could be tracking us right now. hell, they could’ve been watching you two light the fire earlier.”

he doesn’t look at kie when he says it, not directly. but it’s there. in the pause. in the slant of his eyes. in the way his shoulders stiffen just slightly as he says, “we can’t afford to be sloppy again.”

kie shifts, jaw tightening. you can see the way her mouth twitches, how fast the reaction wants to come out yet how fast she bites it back.

“are you trying to say something?” she finally asks, blinking. “or what?”

rafe turns his head just slightly. “you’re limping, kie,” he says. “and jj’s the only reason you’re still walking, which means he’s watching your back more than his own. it’s practically two of us against three of them. n’ if they’re smart? they know we’re already down a number.”

she folds her arms tight over her chest, like they’re the only thing keeping her from exploding. “so what, i’m just dead weight to you?”

rafe blinks. there’s not even a hint of apology in his face. “i’m saying you’re hurt. and if you weren’t so caught up in being offended, you’d realize that means we have to play smarter. either jj sticks with you, or—”

“or what?” she cuts in, voice rising. “you ditch me?”

he exhales through his nose, not even flinching. “or we go down because you slowed us all up.”

you’re looking between them now, jaw locked, hands clenched into fists at your sides. jj’s silent, but you can feel the frustration radiating off him. he’s not defending kie, not because he doesn’t want to, but because deep down, he knows rafe’s technically right.

with the fire, there was the noise and the panic. if you and rafe hadn’t been the ones to find them . . .

“jj’s leg was on fire, kie,” he says. “whether you guys meant to or not, you think the others wouldn’t have heard the yelling? seen the smoke? they’ll come looking. if it wasn’t us, you’d be dead already.”

kie just glares, arms crossed so tight they’re nearly shaking. her mouth opens once, twice, but nothing comes out.

“we didn’t ask you to save us,” she spits finally. “we would’ve figured it out.”

“would you have?”

silence again.

you try to be the one to be there to step in between in case you need to, but it doesn’t seem like he’s going to push harder. he said what he had to say. and now he’s just watching.

kie doesn’t back down, but she doesn’t argue more either. she just stares at him like she wants to.

jj finally breaks his silence, muttering low, “we’ll keep up. don’t worry.”

you nod once, quiet. you believe him, but the worry’s already there. rafe was right—it looks like a two and a half against three at this point.

jj scoots closer toward kie, muttering something under his breath, trying to settle her down, but she doesn’t look away from rafe.

rafe doesn’t say anything else. he just gets up. he doesn’t make a show of it either, doesn’t huff or roll his eyes or even glance back. he bends slightly to grab one of their water containers, checks the cap with a flick of his thumb, then starts walking toward a slope a few yards away where a low creek snakes through the undergrowth.

your gaze is somewhere far off, unfocused. your mind is too. you rub the back of your neck, the skin hot, then let your fingers drag down your face. and then you’re on your feet too. you follow him.

rafe doesn’t turn around, but he hears you. he slows a little without making it obvious to let you catch up. you fall into step beside him and peek at his face. his mouth is set, jaw tight. not angry, just braced. like he knew the blowback would come and decided to lean into it anyway.

“you didn’t have to say it like that,” you say gently.

he lifts a brow, doesn’t look at you. “say what?”

“you know what.”

there’s a pause. he exhales slowly, shifting the canteen in his hand. “but i’m not wrong.”

“no,” you agree. “you’re not.”

another pause. the creek’s close now, and you can hear it trickling just ahead.

“she’s probably just pissed because . . .” you trail, “you made it sound like she’s dragging us all down instead of being part of this.”

“she is part of this,” rafe says, sharper this time, finally glancing at you. “but pretending like she’s not hurt doesn’t help anyone. if someone’s gonna get killed because she can’t keep up, i’d rather we talk about it now than deal with it when it’s too late.”

you hold his gaze. there’s something hardened in his eyes, yeah, but there’s worry under it too.

you sigh. “i know. i do too. i’m not saying you were wrong. just . . .” you shrug. “maybe we don’t have to set her on fire the same day she nearly actually caught on fire, you know?”

that gets the faintest twitch of a smile from him. it’s barely there but still. “right,” he murmurs.

you both slow as you reach the creek. rafe crouches down, unscrews the cap, dips the container into the water. you crouch beside him.

“i think they’ll be okay,” you say softly. “jj’s still got it in him. and kie’s not like . . . i don’t know, she’s not useless. she just needs to feel like she matters right now. like she’s not just a liability.”

rafe doesn’t answer right away. he watches the water rise in the canteen, then caps it and shakes off the excess droplets.

“i don’t care if she hates me,” he says after a moment. “i care if she gets you killed.”

your chest aches a little at that. not because it hurts, but because it means something. you don’t say anything. just nudge his arm with your elbow gently, enough to say i know.

he looks at you again. and this time, the edge is gone. there’s just understanding. you can tell he’s tired, but there’s a hint of something almost tender.

“c’mon,” you whisper, standing up. the two of you start walking again. “so there’s seven people left,” you say, mostly to yourself, but rafe hears it anyway.

your boots crunch over the dried leaves as you move through the trees. it’s warmer than it was this morning. the sky’s so bright it almost doesn’t feel real.

he doesn’t say anything right away, one hand loosely resting near the knife at his hip.

you exhale, slow. “i knew i could get this far,” you admit, “but actually being here . . . i don’t know. it’s weird.”

rafe glances at you sideways. “yeah?”

you nod, rubbing your hands together to keep them busy. “it’s like, surreal, knowing that you’re one of the last people left. it messes with your head. i’m like, excited, nervous, anxious. i’m probably feeling it all too early and then i’m gonna fuck it all up.”

he lets out a quiet hum of agreement.

you kick a rock with the toe of your boot. “i wonder what my parents are thinking right now. if they’re watching every second or if they have to look away when it’s me on the screen. do you think about that?”

rafe’s quiet for a beat.

“mine are definitely watching,” he says finally, voice flat. “they’re probably arguing about it, rose telling my dad to shut up and stop pacing. my dad would probably gonna get mad if people didn’t bet more on me.”

you look over at him. he doesn’t meet your eyes, just squints into the distance.

“do you think the capitol likes us?” you ask softly.

he shrugs. “we’re still alive, aren’t we?”

“yeah, but,” you trail off. “that’s not the same.”

he sighs, running a hand over the back of his neck. “i think they like you,” he says eventually.

your brows lift. “me?”

rafe looks at you now, really looks at you. “yeah. you’ve got that hero edit shit going for you.”

you snort. “hero edit?”

he grins a little, crooked. “yeah. you look good when you’re bleeding and killing people. makes for good tv.”

you laugh under your breath, brushing a branch out of your way. “what about you?”

he shrugs again, but this one’s more casual. “they like me enough. probably made me the stoic or something. the one that no one’s sure about.”

“that’s not a bad thing.”

“no,” he agrees. “but it’s not always good either.”

you walk in silence for a few steps. birds rustle somewhere high above, wings flapping.

“we’re really down to seven,” you whisper again.

he nods. “soon to be four.”

you glance at him, and even though he’s staring ahead you know he’s thinking the same thing you are. soon to be four. you, him, kie, and jj unless someone fucks it up.

you swallow hard. your hand brushes his as you walk. neither of you pulls away.

“you think we can actually do this?” you ask, quieter now.

he doesn’t hesitate. “yeah,” rafe says. “we can.”

and somehow, you believe him.

our fingers loop a piece of thin cord through a split branch, while kie tugs on a nearby root to use as tension.

“after we split, we found this hollowed-out ravine. took cover there for the night,” she’d been telling you. “we didn’t stop for long though. those mutts came back. the, uh . . . pack i was telling you about.” she mutters the last part like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. “not even an hour of peace before they were swarming again.”

you glance at her, but she doesn’t look back.

“we ran. again.” she gives a half-hearted shrug. “they scratched jj up pretty bad. and my leg, well, you saw that.” she shifts her weight onto her good foot and grimaces slightly, but doesn’t stop working. “still surprised we made it out without worse.”

you nod slowly, biting down on the inside of your cheek. “at least you did.”

“barely,” she scoffs, and wipes her hands on her pants. “you see anything new out there? anything else we should be watching for?”

you pause. your hands are halfway through tying two sharpened sticks into a hinge for the trap, but your mind shifts back. your eyes flick up for a second, then drop back to your work as you answer.

“yeah,” you say, a little hesitant. “roses, i guess.”

kie blinks. “what?”

you nod slowly, tightening the knot. “i didn’t think much of it at first. just thought they were weird but,” you glance up briefly, then back down, “me and rafe, yesterday, we caught a rabbit for lunch. but it wasn’t moving right. it wasn’t scared of us, didn’t even flinch when we stepped near it. just laid there.”

kie furrows her brow.

“it was in this part of the woods nearby where a bunch of roses were just laid out here and there like decoration,” you continue, “and then later we found this girl, like another tribute. i checked the back of her neck where a few of them were just lodged in her skin, and . . . she couldn’t move. barely blinked. i dont know, i’ll show you tomorrow.”

you finish the knot, pull it taut.

“i think it’s a paralytic or something. whatever’s in those roses.” your voice drops quieter. “i don’t know how it works exactly, if it’s when you touch it or if it just builds up. but it’s real.”

kie whistles low. “sick bastards,” she mutters, then rubs her forehead. “great. add ‘don’t sniff flowers’ to the survival checklist.”

you huff a laugh, even if it’s short-lived. the tension hasn’t gone anywhere. and neither have the boys.

kie sighs as she straightens up, brushing dust from her hands and scanning the trees. “how long does it take to catch a damn squirrel?”

you glance toward the direction they left from too, lips twitching. “think they’re hunting or avoiding us?”

“if it’s both, they better come back with two squirrels.” she grumbles and shakes her head. “unbelievable. we’re out here saving everyone’s lives, and they get to play with weapons.”

you snort and crouch back down to prep the next trap. in a way you’re quietly grateful for the company, for the small moments, for the rare laugh. because even though this isn’t over, not by a long shot, there’s still something about sitting in the woods with kie, bruised and blistered but alive, that makes surviving feel just a little more bearable.

you lean back on your heels as the second snare tightens, wood creaking just slightly as it locks into place. you test the pressure. you tug once, then again, and nod, satisfied. when you glance over, kie’s checking the first trap again, brows drawn together like it’s a test she has to ace. there’s something rhythmic about the way she moves, like she’s done it a thousand times before.

you tilt your head and ask, “so have you always been good at this?”

she flicks her eyes up at you, one brow lifting.

“traps and stuff, i mean,” you clarify, pulling your hands into your lap. “were you a fisher? ‘cause you’re from four, right?”

“born and raised,” she says, relaxing a little, her voice softening. “and yeah. pretty much grew up on the water. my parents taught me everything with fishing, tying lines, mending nets, baiting traps. i was practically rigging snares before i could write my own name.”

you smile at that. it fits her, somehow.

“they were both fishers?”

“yeah. some days we’d be out before the sunrise.” her eyes flick to the sky for a second like she can still see it. “it’s hard work, but i loved it. still do. if i win, i’d still keep doin’ that with ‘em.”

you don’t miss the fond curve of her mouth, the way her shoulders ease just slightly.

“they must be watching,” you say, voice quieter now. “bet they’re proud.”

kie nods. “i think about that a lot,” she admits. “like, if they’re screaming at the screen or covering their eyes. if my mom’s crying. if my dad’s yelling at the tv at home like that’s gonna change anything.” she laughs a little under her breath. “they’re definitely rooting for me, though. i know that.”

you smile softly, then look down at your hands before asking, “and you and jj knew each other before the reaping?”

“kind of,” she says, brushing some dirt from her palms. “we met in school. had mutual friends, same classes, that kind of thing. we weren’t close or anything. but he was loud. and he was always, always joking.”

“sounds familiar,” you say with a small smirk.

kie snorts. “yeah, but we didn’t really start talking until we got stuck in here. and now?” she glances over her shoulder, toward where jj and rafe had wandered off. “i’ve got his back, he’s got mine.”

you nod once, absorbing it. “you’re lucky,” you say.

“yeah,” she replies. “i know.”

kie stretches her legs out in front of her and leans back on her hands, giving you a small, pointed glance. “okay, but what about you and rafe?” she asks, all casual curiosity with the slightest grin tugging at her mouth. “you guys seem really close.”

you pause, fingers reaching to tighten the knot on the last snare just to keep your hands busy. your hands slow, and you glance down at the thread of bark in your grip. “i mean,” you start, “i’ve known of him. not really him, though. does that make sense?”

kie hums like she’s waiting for you to say more, so you do.

“like we’re both from two, but we live on opposite sides. it’s kind of a split district. different zones, you know? i don’t think i ever even saw him at the academy when we were younger.”

kie raises a brow. “so is it, like, tradition for all district two kids to be training that early?”

you shrug. “mostly everyone in two does, whether they want to or not. some are let off, most go because they want to.” you look up briefly, meeting her eyes. “before the games he told me his dad’s a high-ranking officer though. one of the top ones. it kind of made sense.”

kie whistles low, eyebrows lifting. “that explains a lot.”

you smile faintly but don’t deny it. then there’s a pause. you shift back from the trap, brushing your hands off on your pants. “but i think he knew who i was.”

kie turns to face you, curious.

“like, at the reaping, he didn’t need an introduction. it was like he already recognized me. so maybe he’s seen me around more than i thought. or maybe he doesn’t know me at all and he’s just good at hiding it. i don’t really know.”

kie’s silent for a moment, then shrugs. “you could always ask.”

you huff a small laugh. “i could.”

but you don’t sound too sure you will.

“the guys are gonna get back soon.”

you’re on your feet before you fully register kie asking, like something about kindling, or maybe the flint she buried earlier by the log. you hum in response and rise, already halfway turned toward the tree line where you think she left it.

“gotta get that fire going,” you murmur to yourself as you crunch over fallen twigs and loose leaves.

but then there’s a yell that cracks through the quiet. it’s distant, but not that distant. you freeze. completely still.

your breath catches in your throat as the noise fractures the silence, followed by a rush of sound. there’s something barreling through the forest. it’s heavy, too fast to just be a person. it’s not like when jj trips through the woods and curses about it. this sounds like thunder, like hooves and claws and bones cracking under pressure, leaves shaking loose from branches.

your eyes shoot west.

it’s too dark to see anything clearly, just the suggestion of movement in the gaps between the trees. something brushing hard past bark. and it’s not one direction either. it’s . . . everywhere, like the forest itself is coming undone. like something that far is playing tricks in your head about where it’s really coming from.

“no,” you whisper, voice trembling as your hand slowly reaches behind you, searching for kie’s arm without breaking your gaze. “no, no, no, no.”

kie goes stiff behind you. you feel her straighten, catch her sharp inhale. she doesn’t speak, probably because the sound is getting louder, and it’s impossible to tell how far away it is. like now it feels close. it feels like something’s hunting and not trying very hard to be quiet about it.

you know kie can’t run, not well. not with her leg like this. the thought alone turns your stomach into a pit of nerves.

your hand hovers near your belt, fingers finding the familiar curve of your dagger’s hilt. you grip it even as you keep the rest of you still, breathing shallow. you don’t want to make a sound. don’t want to—

to your left.

you yelp, stumbling back a step as your head whips toward the noise. before you can even draw the dagger, a figure barrels out of the dark.

you don’t see a face, at least not at first. all you see is motion, like limbs flailing, arms pumping, a look of blind panic etched into whatever blur of expression this guy has as he slams into you, hard. the impact sends you both flying backward, your back slamming into the dirt and sliding with the force, dry leaves scraping against your skin and getting tangled in your hair.

you hit the ground so fast you don’t even have time to scream. you just feel it. your shoulder knocks against something solid, your dagger ripped from your grip before you could even raise it.

you’re still spinning when you hear kie shout your name in panic, “y/n!”

you try to react, like try to throw your arm up, block whatever’s coming, but it’s a mess of tangled limbs and your attacker’s weight is keeping you pinned. he’s not trying to hurt you, you realize that fast. he’s terrified, panting hard like he’s been running for a while.

you blink, your head snapping back against the ground again as you struggle to get your bearings. the guy’s on top of you, breathing in gasps, shaking so badly it vibrates into your own bones.

that sound hasn’t stopped. it’s still coming.

your fight instinct kicks in like it always does. you twist hard and roll the guy off you with a grunt, your hand flying to your belt, fingers fumbling for your dagger. your heart is pounding in your ears, like it’s trying to drown out the sounds behind you. but it can’t. it can’t mute the noise. but you need to kill him and get to kie.

you don’t even have time to get a full look at him. he’s bloody, barely conscious, his chest heaving as you straddle him. he doesn’t fight you. he’s too exhausted. it’s like he’s already given up.

but you haven’t, especially because you can hear her. you can hear kie.

her voice cracks through the trees like a whip: “jj!!“

your head snaps toward her. but then comes the noise. it’s these awful, guttural, teeth-tearing sounds. there’s another kind after. bones are being crushed. something screaming. someone’s screaming.

is that—?

no.

your gut sinks like a stone as your body freezes. it hits you all at once. kie’s practically left out in the open because this guy tackled you, and now she’s paying the price.

you hear it before you see it. paws pound the ground like hammers. your head snaps toward the sound just in time to see one of them charging at you like a bullet with teeth. you don’t think, you just react.

you grab the guy’s shoulders and shove him to the side with all the force your body can give, rolling the both of you, repositioning until your body hits the ground and his is on top, and then it hits.

the mutt’s jaws clamp down on him first.

there’s no scream at first, just a brutal crunch, then a howl’s yanked from the guys throat as the mutt drags him back. you see the blood spray across the ground like it’s nothing, a slick of it across your arm as you stare, numb, horrified, breath caught in your lungs.

you don’t argue with fate.

you scramble up the second he’s gone, your feet sliding on the dirt as you shove yourself to your feet, and your legs move before your mind does. you’re sprinting away, but your eyes flick toward camp, or what's left of it.

kie is screaming. no, was screaming. now it’s just gurgled cries, half-swallowed. you catch one glimpse of her. she’s blood-slick, reaching, her mouth open but soundless as something claws at her back, another already dragging her leg. you don’t see rafe or jj anywhere. your stomach turns.

you should go to her. you should. but it’s already too late. you can’t die here, and you won’t.

you keep running and you don’t look back because you know exactly what you’d see.

“kie!” jj’s voice eventually cuts through.

you’re already moving the second you hear him. you push past branches, try not to trip on roots, try to keep your head above the fear that’s dragging you under. you don’t even realize how far you've gone until someone grabs you.

“y/n,” rafe breathes, his hands gripping your arms to steady you, eyes wide and scanning your face like he’s trying to piece something together from it.

you barely process it, just that it's him. you’re not alone anymore. jj’s right behind him, pausing just long enough to look around you, looking for her probably. he’s looking for kie. his brows twist the second he realizes you're alone.

“where is she?” he asks, but he's not really asking. he already knows. he turns, about to run.

“no— wait, jj,” you say quickly, spinning around and catching his arm before he can take off. your fingers dig into his sleeve, heart beating so hard you can feel it in your mouth. “please, you can’t—“

“i can’t what, y/n?” jj snaps. he jerks forward, dragging you a step with him, not caring. “i can’t go to her? she could be dying and you want me to just— what? hide?”

he steps closer, jaw clenched so tight his whole body is shaking with it. “i can’t what?”

“she’s dead,” your voice gives out like you don’t want to admit it, but it rips out of your throat before you can stop it. you try to reach for him again as he pulls away. “she’s dead, jj.”

you’re looking at jj but can’t help but notice the way rafe’s face drops beside you. he must feel awful. one of their last conversations was heated, you’re sure he didn’t want to end it like that. jj looks more mad than anything though. he probably doesn’t want to believe you. a part of you even thinks for a second that he’s about to kill you just for saying that kie’s dead, even if it’s true.

the forest is silent for just half a second before the whistles start. your stomach twists. those must be the ones kie and jj talked about, the ones that the mutts use to communicate. you barely turn your head before rafe’s already grabbing you, one arm locking around your waist, the other reaching out for jj as you do the same, clutching him by the back of his jacket.

you all freeze. you don’t move. you don’t even breathe.

you can’t see anything in the dark, but you hear it. it’s fucking awful. can they smell your fear?

it feels like a lifetime before rafe whispers, “come on.” he’s tugging both of you with him. you don’t hesitate. none of you do.

you run behind him, duck low, weave through the trees, staying close but quiet. everything aches. it hurts so bad you want to scream, but you can’t. you just keep moving until rafe slows, his hand up, signaling for you to drop low behind a thicket.

you all pile into a cramp of brush, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, and you curl in on yourself as rafe stays near the edge, watching. your hands shake as they clutch your knees, and eventually you bury your head between them, trying to block out the sound of breathing that isn’t yours.

you don’t even look at jj, but you can hear him. he’s muttering curses under his breath, biting down on something loud and ugly that’s begging to claw its way out of his chest. you can hear him pacing a little, shuffling, then slamming his fist against the ground before quickly pulling it back with a hiss.

there’s nothing you can say.

because she’s gone now too.

and you couldn’t save her.

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