#in a familiar setting and plot line but it's like

[ghostedgwen]

marauders band au, hear me out: established relationship with Remus - he writes her a song they were first dating (band is not that known yet) then fast forward to years later (band is now famous), he uses same song when proposing to reader

fade to nothing | r.lupin

note : FINALLY! omg Gabi ilysm I wanna keep writing for band au marauders after indulging in this one holyyy, thank you thank you for this amazing request! I had the best time writing 4.8k words of this absolutely amazing plot

warnings : some angst and falling out, breakups, situationships almost, fame and all the angst that comes with it, angst with comfort, hurting and healing, a happy ending

You were there from the beginning and Remus happened to lose sight of you and everything that mattered when fame came and the songs played louder, but surely if the love is strong you can fix what isn't entirely broken?

You find him backstage after the set, crouched on a flight case, tuning the same string on his guitar for the third time. The venue's still buzzing behind the curtain - voices raised, laughter echoing, cheap beer sloshing in plastic cups - but Remus looks like he’s somewhere else entirely.

He doesn’t look up when you call his name, so you try again, a little softer this time. "Remus."

His head lifts, slow, like he’s wading through a fog, and when he sees you, the line of his shoulders eases just slightly. "Hey."

You sit beside him. The flight case creaks under your weight, and he shifts his guitar to make room. The body of it knocks gently against your knee. You let the silence settle between you. It’s familiar by now - actually comfortable, in that uncertain, almost-there kind of way.

The set had gone well, you thought. Not perfect - James missed a cue in the second verse of their opening number, and Sirius got too excited with his distortion pedal halfway through the closer. But the crowd had been decent, the applause warm, and no one had stormed off stage or broken anything vital. By the Marauders’ standards, that was a win.

You glance over at him. His hands are still on the strings, but he's not really playing. Just touching, like he needs something steady to keep from drifting.

"You alright?" you ask.

He shrugs. "Yeah. Just tired."

It's not a lie, not exactly. But it's not the whole truth either. You know him well enough by now to hear the things he doesn't say. The tension in his jaw. The way his foot taps against the floor, subtle and uneven.

You nudge his arm gently. "You were good tonight. The new bridge on ‘Smoke Signals’ worked. People liked it."

He exhales a soft laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "You think?"

"I know."

Another beat of quiet. Then, with a sort of resigned breath, he sets the guitar aside and runs a hand through his hair. "I, uh... I have something. If you want to hear it."

Your eyebrows lift. "Something?"

He nods toward his worn-out rucksack, half-zipped and slouched against the wall. "It’s not finished. Just a rough demo. I haven’t even played it for the others yet."

You wait, unsure.

Remus has always been the most reserved of the four. James is bold and loud, Sirius even louder, and Peter - well, Peter tries. But Remus hangs back, watching, writing, always half somewhere else. His songs come out of nowhere sometimes, all tension and feeling and quiet devastation.

And he never shares them unless they matter. So when he pulls a battered cassette recorder from the bag, your heart skips.

He presses play before you can say anything. Just static, then the soft scrape of fingers on strings.

It starts tentative. A delicate picking pattern that feels like it could fall apart any second. His voice enters like he’s afraid to hear it back - low, fragile, like something said in the dark.

You walked in like a whisper / I wasn’t ready to be seen / In a room full of noise and flash and smoke / You looked right through the screen.

You blink.

The song is quiet and quite simple. But it holds a weight you feel inyour chest.

I’ve been running half a lifetime / Hiding all the parts I hate / You didn’t ask for pieces / But you stayed, anyway.

He doesn’t look at you while it plays. He stares at the floor, hands in his lap, thumb twitching.

The song winds through verses that feel like journal entries, private and unpolished. There’s a moment in the middle where the guitar falters, like he nearly lost the thread. But then he finds it again, voice steadier.

So if I fall apart tomorrow / And I can't find my way through / Just know there was one clear moment / When everything felt true.

And then the refrain, soft like a promise:

I think I found something real / In the middle of the noise / In the quiet after the soundcheck / In the tremble of your voice.

When it ends, the silence feels heavier than the music.

You don’t say anything at first, and neither does he.

It’s like something raw hangs in the air, and touching it might make it vanish. You could almost feel your heart melt out of your chest and spill to the floor.

He clears his throat. "It’s not done. Still needs work."

You shake your head. "Remus."

He glances at you, eyes guarded.

"That was..."

But you don’t have the word. Stunning? Moving? 

He waits. "You wrote that? For me?"

His mouth quirks, nervous. "Yeah. I mean. I didn’t know if I should. Or if it was weird. But I couldn’t stop thinking about... that night after Camden. When we walked back to the station. And you said you didn’t know what we were, but you didn’t want to stop finding out."

You remember it was raining. You shared an umbrella, not hands. You both pretended it wasn’t a moment. You look at him now, the real him, sitting there with his heart practically in your hands. And it hits you how rare this is. How brave.

"It’s beautiful," you say. "And it’s not weird. It’s... it means a lot."

He heaves a sigh, it was long and relieved.

"I’m not great at saying things straight," he murmurs. "But I meant all of it. I think you know that."

You do. Which is probably what makes this so much more magical, because you understood him so well like he was made for you to decipher, a poem just for you to get.

You reach over, lacing your fingers with his. His palm is calloused from strings and stress. He grips you gently.

"So what are we, then?" you ask.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at your joined hands like they might vanish if he breathes too hard. Then: "We’re figuring it out. Together."

It’s not a love song, not really quite there yet, but it’s something real. And in the backstage quiet, long after the music fades, it feels like a beginning.

The nights blur together. A haze of rehearsals, takeout containers littering the floor, cheap beer, and the low hum of amps that never fully shut off. Sometimes you're there with them in the thick of it - perched on the arm of a threadbare sofa while Sirius knocks over mic stands and James tunes his guitar by ear, stubborn and sharp. Other times you're in the background, notebook in hand, watching Remus quietly untangle melodies the way other people breathe.

Your role in The Marauders was more behind the scenes than on-stage with them. You helped get their name around, found gigs for them and even helped get them together at times. You were almost the anchor that held the band together, without them even declaring it, they knew. So did you.

Your relationship with him unfolds not in declarations, but in passing touches, exchanged glances, the brush of his shoulder against yours when he walks past in a narrow hallway. It isn't defined, not in the way others might need it to be. But you know the shape of it, and so does he.

Sometimes you sleep tangled in his sheets, half-covered in lyrics scribbled on the backs of setlists. Sometimes you fall asleep to the scratch of his pen, the low murmur of him humming a chorus to himself. There are no promises made, just moments. But they were more than enough.

The Marauders are starting to pick up steam.

Small shows turn into bigger ones. The crowds are still half friends and drunk uni students, but there’s talk now. About their sound, about the way James can work a room. About Sirius, magnetic and manic on lead guitar, playing like his life depends on it. Peter holds it together more than he doesn’t. And Remus - Remus writes like he's bleeding onto paper.

You catch Remus late one night, alone in the tiny kitchen of the shared flat the band uses as a crash pad. He’s nursing a cup of tea that’s gone cold, staring at the yellowing wallpaper like it just told him a secret only he can unfold.

You lean on the doorway. "You okay?"

He startles. Then gives a tired smile. "Didn’t hear you."

You cross the room, brush your fingers over the back of his neck. He leans into the touch without thinking. "You're in your head again," you murmur.

He shrugs. "Just thinking."

"About?"

He hesitates. Then, "About what happens if this actually works. If we make it."

You frown. "Isn't that the goal?"

He nods, but there's something unreadable in his eyes. "Yeah. But you don’t get to stay invisible when it happens. People look closer at everything."

You know what he means. About the scars that don’t fade, the nights he still wakes up clawing at himself. About the part of him he’s always tried to keep hidden beneath dry wit and harmonies.

You slide into the chair next to him. "You’ve never been invisible. Not to me."

He looks down, smile faint. "I know."

You rest your head on his shoulder. "Then what are you scared of?"

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, quietly: "That I’m not built for this. That if they see too much, they’ll leave."

You sit with that for a while, letting the softness of the silence wrap around you two. Then, just as softly, "They won't. Not if they have any sense."

He huffs a laugh. "You always think the best of me."

"I know the best of you."

He kisses your temple and whispers a thank you he probably doesn’t think you hear. But you do, you just smile through it as you knew he never needed to thank you.

A week later, you catch him slipping the demo cassette you remember into his pocket before rehearsal.

You arch a brow. "Finally going to share it?"

He looks caught. Then shrugs. "Maybe."

You grin. "Do it. You know it’s good."

He gives you a look like you’ve just dared him to jump into fire. Still, that night at the studio (more like the Potters’ spare room they never use), when the rest of the band is messing around with ideas for their next set, Remus clears his throat.

"Got something new. If you want to hear it."

Sirius pauses mid-riff, James turns down his amp, and eter puts down his half-eaten sandwich. Remus slides the tape into the player. Hits play and your song - his song, your song - fills the room.

No one speaks until it's over.

James is the first to break the silence. "Shit. That’s... damn."

"That chorus," Peter breathes. "It got me, mate."

Sirius whistles low. "Didn’t know you had that in you."

Remus looks stunned. Maybe a little terrified, but he nods. You catch his eye, and then you smile. It felt good to be someone’s muse, to have art made just for you that you knew would mean so much to you than anyone else could possibly understand.

Later, when you’re walking home under the quiet sky, his fingers brush yours.

"Thanks," he says.

"For what?"

"Pushing me."

You squeeze his hand. "Any time."

It starts small, that song. Tucked into the middle of a chaotic setlist. But people start to notice, and even ask about it. The quiet one, they say. The unusually quiet and comforting love song that was a nice surprise to end their sets on.

Remus hears that and flushes pink. You hear it and just smile, it was always your job to talk to people while the band either prepared to start or to leave. Remus always claimed you had a way with people and perhaps he was right.

You often find yourself chatting with the audience as they enjoy the show the band put on. They’d ask you about the band, about the members and you’d entertain them all. You even got the boys gigs as you made your rounds through the night.

James swears you are the best addition to the band, without actually being in it. He would go as far as to sar you are also a Marauder, as much as they are and you’d laugh, heart swelling with joy.

You were the one who sent the emails, made the calls, chased the bookings. You built their early buzz from scratch - wrote press blurbs at midnight, talked your way into indie zines, begged that one radio host to give them a spin. You did it because you believed in them. Because you believed in him.

And it worked.

One day, the email came. A scout from a mid-size label. He’d caught a set at one of the East End dives and saw something. A few meetings later, they had a deal.

Everything shifted after that.

More shows. Bigger venues. Studio time, and even interviews. The rush of something real, finally. You should’ve been thrilled. Part of you was. But the rest - the rest started to feel like a background player in a story you used to help write.

The label brought in producers. Real ones, with real opinions.

They listened to the demo, the song. Your song.

Then they tore it apart. “We need more drive.” / “Strip it down, rebuild it with a cleaner hook.” / “This bridge isn’t radio-friendly.”

Remus was quiet during the meetings. Didn’t fight them, not really. You tried. Brought up the emotion. The intimacy, claiming it was the point and tried to plead your case that the audiences back in their smaller gigs loved it.

One of the execs waved you off. “It’s got potential. But the personal angle - it doesn’t scale.”

You could see it on Remus’ face. The way his shoulders hunched in. The way he stopped meeting your eyes, and then the new version hit the speakers. Louder and way shinier. But hollow.

You didn’t say anything. Not then.

Tour started two weeks later.

You were there at first. Helping with the logistics. Keeping things steady. But there were new people now - tour managers, stylists, publicists. The chaos turned professional. Your place among the crew grew uncertain. No one asked you to leave but no one asked you to stay, either.

Remus was always moving. Always being pulled to the next thing. Photoshoots, interviews, soundchecks.

He kissed you when he could. Touched your hand when he passed. But the quiet space you’d shared - those slow nights and whispered mornings - vanished under flashing lights and back-to-back obligations.

The night of the London gig, it all boiled over.

They played the reworked version. The crowd loved it. Cheered like mad. You stood in the wings, watching Remus smile, watching him hold the mic like he was born for it. And all you could think about was the first time he played it for you, nervous and raw and perfect.

Backstage was a blur of congratulations. Champagne flowed in celebration. Flashes from press cameras. Laughter was overlapping as the cheers and applause echoed in the background.

You waited until the others filtered out before catching him in the hallway, breathless and golden with adrenaline. “You didn’t even look at me during the set,” you said.

He blinked. “What?”

“The song. It used to be ours.”

His smile faded. “Don’t do this now.”

“Why not? Because we’re backstage at a real venue, and you’ve got an image to keep?”

“That’s not fair.”

“No? Because I fought for you. For all of this. I believed in that song when no one else did.”

He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “And now it’s out there. Isn’t that what matters?”

You stared at him. “You didn’t write it to be out there. You wrote it for me.”

It was deafening silence after that. You could feel the cracks appear in the glass then, how the quiet settled between you to make you realize of the distance that had been there. He didn’t deny it, but he didn’t step closer either.

You nodded. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You walked away before he could answer, and for the first time since this all began, he didn’t follow.

Tour season continued with a vengeance. Venues booked back-to-back. Interviews, press junkets, photo ops. The Marauders were no longer the scrappy underdogs playing pub basements. They were headliners, and it was loud, so loud it drowned out everything else.

You made your choice before the second leg kicked off. You weren’t going to follow this time. Not because you didn’t care. But because somewhere along the line, you’d forgotten how to care for yourself.

You took the foundation you’d built - the networking, the hustle, the branding knowledge - and pivoted. Found work consulting for other rising acts. Wrote press copy, coached new managers, ran social strategy. You had your own projects now. Your own calendar. Your own name in someone else’s liner notes.

But some nights, you still kept tabs. You’d see grainy photos in tabloids. Headlines swirling with speculation.

Remus Lupin spotted leaving afterparty with model—sources say they’re close. 

Band tension? Lupin’s emotional ballad scrapped from upcoming single release.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you knew him better than some column in a glossy rag. Still, it stung. He never reached out. Neither did you, and the rift between is ever growing.

You got the call on a Thursday, you had been buried deep in some paperwork for another small band you’d found playing at the pub where you used to watch the boys play. You answered without thinking much of it.

Sirius, voice clipped and shaken. "It’s Remus. He collapsed after soundcheck in Amsterdam. Exhaustion, they think. Maybe an infection. He’s asking for you."

You were on a plane within hours.

The hotel suite was quiet when you arrived. Dim. Sirius nodded at you in the hallway, eyes rimmed red. James gave you a tight hug. Peter, leaning in a chair near the wall,greeted you with a small smile, but murmured a low, “He’s down the hall.”

You found him in bed. Pale and almost flushed from the fever. The IV line taped to the inside of his elbow looked wrong. Out of place. You stood in the doorway for a long time before he opened his eyes.

"You came," he said, voice dry and cracking.

You sat beside him. “Of course I did.”

He stared at you, too tired to pretend. “I fucked everything up.”

You brushed sweaty hair off his forehead. “You ran too fast, too hard. Doesn’t mean it’s over.”

He closed his eyes. “It felt easier when you were around.”

That confession broke something between you, like a glass wall that you’d both build around each other. Too stubborn to bring it down and yet you can see each other through so clearly. Your hand stilled at his words.

“I needed space, Remus.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I just didn’t know how to keep going without making it worse.”

You watched him breathe. His breaths came in slowly and they were shallow.

“I read the articles,” you said finally.

He opened his eyes again. “They weren’t true.”

You nodded. “I figured.”

“I missed you,” he said. “Not just at gigs. All the time. In the quiet moments when I had no idea what the hell I was doing.”

“You didn’t call.”

“I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

The space between you was heavy. But not empty. He shifted, wincing as he reached for his bag beside the bed. From the front pocket, he pulled out an old, battered cassette. The label was peeling. Your handwriting still faintly visible.

“I kept it,” he said. “Even when they made me change it. I couldn’t throw this one away.”

He reached across to the small player on the side table, you watched him through his struggle knowing he wouldn’t want help. You swallowed thickly as he pressed play.

That same raw demo from all those nights ago filled the room. Slightly warped now with age. But still clear. Still beautiful.

Still yours.

You listened in silence, your eyes were glossy but tears didn’t actually form. When it ended, he looked at you.

“I never stopped meaning it,” he said.

You reached for his hand.

“I know.”

It didn’t fix everything. But it softened the break.

Sometimes, that’s the first step back.

Post-tour life moved slower. The kind of quiet that felt almost foreign.

Remus came back to London two weeks after they all finished the last two remaining cities from the tour. You opted out of accompanying him, you still had work back home. You met him at the airport, holding a homemade sign that said Marauder Down: Emergency Recovery in Progress. He laughed, tired and soft, and leaned into you like he remembered how to breathe.

You weren’t together again. Not officially but you were… something. Enough to share Sunday mornings and late-night tea. Enough to talk without something heavy hanging in the air for the first time in months.

You sat on the floor of your flat one evening, records scattered around you both.

“I don’t know if I want all of it,” he said, finger fidgeting the sleeve of a Bowie LP. “The touring. The cameras. The curated answers.”

“You don’t have to take it all,” you said. “Just take the parts you want.”

He looked at you then, eyes clearer than you’d seen in ages. “And what if the part I want the most is sitting right in front of me?”

You didn’t answer. You just reached for his hand.

He started spending more time in the small spare room of your flat, hunched over a borrowed acoustic guitar. Said he was just noodling. Said it wasn’t important, but you heard the chords through the wall. The same gentle cadence. The same fragile beginnings.

You didn’t push.

Meanwhile, James invited you to dinner - just you. Which was odd enough to be suspicious. You and James were close as much as you were close with the other boys from the band but you were never out alone with just one of them.

Other than your thing with Remus, you were pretty much a whole group.

“They’re planning something,” he said between mouthfuls of curry. “The next album. It's going to be different.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“Less polish, more truth. Remus is writing again.”

You tried not to let your heart leap.

“But he’s hiding something,” James added. “He’s cagey. Won’t show anyone the arrangement he’s working on. Not even Sirius. That’s when I know it’s serious.”

You smiled, just a little. “I might have an idea.”

The invitation to the televised performance came two months later. BBC special. A full set, plus an interview. Their first major appearance post-tour. By now they have about two to three songs in the top 10 charting and blasting on radio stations.

Remus was quiet the whole afternoon before. Not anxious, just… internal. Backstage was a blur. Techs running lines, makeup touch-ups, nerves buzzing like power lines.

Then it was lights, camera, cue. The band opened strong. A new track. A crowd-pleaser. Sirius was electric, James radiating joy. Peter was somewhat cool and poised. Remus… centered. Like he’d found something he thought was lost.

Then came the last song. He stepped up to the mic alone, guitar slung across his chest.

“This next one’s an old one,” he said, voice steady. “Most of you haven’t heard it like this. Not the way it was meant to be.”

The lights dimmed. Just a single spotlight on him, it felt like the world had slowed down as you heard those first few strum on the delicate guitar strings.

He played the original. Your song. Unchanged, untouched, like that first night he ever let you hear it. When it was quieter, when you were both unsure and the world wasn’t yet looking. 

You felt yourself choke up, hearing that song again like it was a promise being remembered. You couldn’t help the tears from flowing out of you. When the final chord faded, he let the silence sit.

“I wrote this before any of this,” he said, gesturing around the stage. “Back when we were barely getting gigs and figuring out who we were.”

You could almost throw up from the anticipation.

“And I never would’ve kept going if it weren’t for one person. Someone who believed in me when I didn’t. When I couldn’t. Everything I’ve become, everything this band has achieved - it started with her.”

The camera cut to you in the front row. You felt your heart stutter. Remus stepped forward.

“I used to think love had to be earned. That I had to prove I was worth the risk. But she never asked me to be anything other than myself. She just stayed. And helped me find the way back.”

He reached into his pocket, time that was slowing completely stopped. A ring, you could see the stone on it glisten from where the spotlight shining on Remus hit it.

“Come up here,” he said.

Your legs moved before your mind caught up. The stage felt impossibly bright. The crowd quieted. You could hear your pulse as some of the stage crew guided you up, their smiles so wide at you.

When you reached him, he took your hand.

“I don’t need the spotlight. I just need you. Always have.”

You blinked back the blur in your vision. “I’m not asking for perfect. Just for forever. Will you?”

You didn’t even let him finish. You kissed him first. The crowd erupted. It was almost uncharacteristic for someone as reserved as Remus to propose so publicly, but you could see the reason behind it.

He had spent some time too deep in his own head to truly appreciate you, what you meant to him and you both wasted time pretending like you mattered less to one another. With this big, grand declaration of his love, he will silence everything else.

All the doubt, all the whispers. He will close all the distance that had been in between.

Later, offstage, as the noise of the moment faded and the two of you curled into each other in the green room, he whispered: “I kept the song for you.”

You kissed his jaw. “I know.”

It was a beginning. A beautiful one, despite everything it took to get there. He had grown into this person that was no longer the Remus you first knew but you have changed as well, you both have.

Now the rest of your lives will be spent getting to know the new versions of yourselves.

The venue buzzed with the final echoes of the crowd, lights slowly dimming as roadies hustled to pack up gear. You stood just behind the curtain, swaying slightly as the adrenaline of the set faded. Remus walked offstage, guitar still slung over his shoulder, shirt damp with sweat and a wild, boyish grin tugging at his mouth. His eyes found you immediately.

“There’s my girls,” he said, kissing your temple first, then brushing his lips over your daughter’s forehead. “How are my girls?”

He looks at your daughter, all curls and oversized headphones, sat on your hip - wide-eyed and sleepy. “Tired,” you answered with a soft laugh, shifting your daughter to your other hip. “But we loved the show.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, me more than her.”

Behind him, Sirius bounded over and swooped your daughter into his arms dramatically, practically stealing her from you. “There’s my favourite groupie!” he declared, spinning her gently while she squealed.

James wasn’t far behind, ruffling her hair and pulling a face that made her giggle again. “You know, I think we’re the reason she has such great taste in music,” he said to you with mock seriousness.

“You’re the reason she knows how to headbang,” you quipped back, rolling your eyes fondly.

Peter approached a moment later, slightly out of breath from the encore. “Hey,” he greeted you warmly. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“I always do.”

He smiled. “Wish you could keep touring with us.”

“I’d love to,” you said honestly, “but I’m not hauling a three-year-old from city to city every other week.”

Remus laughed and nodded, wrapping an arm around your waist. “She’s got a point. I miss having you out here every night, but this one needs a consistent bedtime.”

“She’s got better tour stamina than you did at twenty,” Peter joked, nudging Remus.

Remus mock-glared. “Yeah, well, she doesn’t drink whiskey like water.”

Your daughter yawned against Remus’ shoulder now, tiny arms curling around his neck. The chaos of the crew and lights blurred around the six of you, like white noise under a melody that only the band - your makeshift family - could hear.

end. masterlist

[ateezlibrary]

cherry blossom (m) • kys

pairing: street racer!yeosang x tattoo artist!reader

tags/genre: smut with plot, strangers to friends(?) to lovers (except there's sexual tension from minute one), sub!yeo x dom!reader, garage sex, dirty talk

word count: 7.8k words

synopsis: when wooyoung comes in for an addition to his sleeve, he brings along a very handsome friend who says he's got a thing for cars. in a poor attempt to stay in touch with him, you suddenly become the victim of so many car troubles. needless to say, yeosang isn't exactly the best on picking up hints ...

notes: 18+ content (mdni!). for funsies, this yeosang had a cameo in mingi's street racer fic and i thought it'd be fun to do a spin-off for him. enjoy!

the shop was quiet, save for the scratch of pencil against paper. you sit cross-legged on the aged leather couch by the front window, neon lights casting a glow around you while you work on the final details of your next client’s design. sharp, jagged outlines surrounded the blooming rose, something that wasn’t in your usual style but you quite enjoyed working on. you lose track of time by the time you’ve made it to the printer, prepping your station with antiseptic and replenishing your vials when the bells perched over the doorframe capture your attention.

“guess who’s here!” a voice sings, shrill and high and all-too-familiar to your ears. you turn to see wooyoung in his grand entrance, arms outstretched as he beams over at you.

“hello there,” you call out to him, laughing as you set aside your tools and tug the gloves off of your hands. “aren’t you a bit early?”

“yeah, i had a friend drop me off since my car’s at the shop,” he answers, settling into the plush armchair beside your station with a dramatic groan. “he’ll pick me up when it’s done.”

“what’s wrong with it?” you ask, nodding your head towards the bench at the center of your space. wooyoung follows, putting his arm out for you to see his previous work you’d completed not long before. the ink has settled well, no bleeds or gaps in the line work. “seems like it healed well.”

he nods, twisting and careening his arm under the overhead lamp for you to see. “engine’s been sputtering more than usual. figure i get friend of mine to fix it for cheap so i can save my money for better use.” wooyoung blinks up at you with a sickeningly sweet smile, one that forces you to roll your eyes with another laugh as you reach for his stencil.

“well, i’d hate to be the sucker you’re taking advantage of.”

“you’d like him! he’s nice.”

“if you say so.”

for the next few hours, you and wooyoung spend time catching up as you begin the outline of his new tattoo. he grimaces under the needle’s pressure, something he does every time as if he’d never experienced it. you smack his arm, scolding him for twitching and yelping so that he would sit still. you tease him for the cliché choice of a rose tattoo while he shares more details about the time he’d been spending at car meets.

“i’ve got to take you to one of the meets soon,” he continues excitedly, “you’d love ‘em.”

“you think?” you replenish the vial in your hand, glancing at the needle under the light as you assess the next steps to begin shading wooyoung’s skin. the outline is clean, just the way you liked it. “i know absolutely nothing about cars.”

“it’s more than just looking at the cars,” wooyoung tries to explain. “there’s drinks, usually lots of good music. plenty of people who come that aren’t into cars but want to hook up with people who are.” he raises an eyebrow suggestively, leaning into you as you shove him back down onto the bench with a huff.

“i’m not that lonely,” you scoff, glancing back at your reference before pointing the needle at wooyoung. “now, sit still.”

wooyoung has groaned and whined for another good fifteen minutes when the doorbell signals your attention, the dull hum of your needle coming to a stop as you glance up. you don’t even register that wooyoung has called out to the stranger in his usual high-pitched cry, your eyes fixated on what may have been the most beautiful man you’d ever seen.

he was unfairly handsome in an effortless way—his burgundy hair fell in loose waves around his face, eyes sparkling under the warm lighting in the shop. his beauty was striking, but it was the contrast from his face to his body that left you speechless. he was incredibly built, strong biceps flexing under the tight black shirt he wore that left little to the imagination.

wooyoung calls out your name urgently and you blink, realizing he’d been trying to get your attention. he notices your surprise, stifling a laugh under his breath as he summons the stranger over. you glare at him, ignoring the nerves that prick at your skin as he comes over and settles into the armchair beside your station.

“this is yeosang,” wooyoung introduces, earning a soft smile from the stranger that makes your heart flutter for just shy of a second. “he’s the one that’s working on my car.”

“sounds like you’re good with your hands,” you joke, and yeosang lets out a chuckle. his voice is deep, but there's a richness to it that you want to hear more of.

“you don’t seem so bad yourself,” he replies, eyes traveling to wooyoung’s arm where you were still working on the shading. “really nice line work.”

you feel your cheeks warm at the compliment, meeting his gaze with your own smile. “you got any tattoos?”

“me? oh, no.” yeosang shakes his head, showing you his bare—his broad, sculpted—forearms as evidence. “i think i’m too scared of needles. and i don’t know if i can commit to something i like enough.”

“commitment issues,” you sigh, shaking your head in mock disappointment. “what a shame.”

“enough talk,” wooyoung interjects and you glare down at him. “i don’t know how much longer i can sit in this chair.”

“keep complaining and i’ll make sure to tattoo something across your forehead,” you threaten, the laugh you evoke from yeosang warming you as you focus intensely on the rest of wooyoung’s shading. you can feel yeosang’s eyes on your work the entire time, an uneasy nervousness settling in your stomach. the two of them go back and forth for a while as you shade in silence, listening to them discuss the details of wooyoung’s car repair and how it’d be ready for their next meet.

“you run your own shop?” you ask as you finalize the last of wooyoung’s shading. your eyes flicker to yeosang’s and you swear you see stars in them for a moment. what the hell got into you?

“it’s small,” yeosang replies, his smile humble as he shrugs. “just something to pay the bills and keep these guys on the road.”

“sounds like i know where to go if my car ever decides to act up,” you reply, setting aside your needles and reaching for the cleaning supplies. wooyoung hisses and writhes at your touch, antiseptic stinging his tender skin as you curse at him and wrap his fresh tattoo carefully.

“you know the rules,” you instruct wooyoung, pointing at his new ink. “focus on your aftercare. come back in about a week so i can see how it’s healed and if we need to fix any of your shading.”

“you got it, boss,” he answers, chipper as he offers his payment and turns to yeosang. “now, let’s get out of here. i’m dying to test out the new fuel injector you installed.”

“you’re gonna run her into the ground again,” yeosang sighs, rising from your armchair and offering you a final smile. “it was great to meet you.”

“you too,” you reply softly, mirroring his smile as you turn to tidy your station.

what a beautiful man.

* * *

the next week flies by, your time occupied by a handful of clients and plenty of time to work on new sketches for your upcoming flash sessions. even so, your mind constantly flickered back to yeosang and how he was genuinely one of the most beautiful men you’d ever seen. you couldn’t help but think about what he’d look like under patterns of ink and line work, or what he’d feel like under your touch as you steadied him to run your needle on the surface of his skin.

maybe you just hadn’t gotten laid in a while.

wooyoung shakes you from your thoughts as he bursts in, arm no longer wrapped and tattoo fully healed as he sings your name. you roll your eyes, setting aside your coffee as you glance up at him from your phone.

“i see the pain didn’t take you out,” you mutter, eyes already scanning every inch of his arm to ensure that the work had healed well.

“what pain? i wasn’t even in pain,” wooyoung bluffs as he settles onto the bench across from you. the overhead lamp illuminates the now-healed rose on his forearm, the lines clean and free of any bleeding or blotches. “took this like a champ.”

“sure you did.” you circle him like a hawk, ensuring his skin was no longer tender to the touch as you set his arm down and look up at him. there was a question you’d been dying to ask him, one that gnawed at you as you fiddled with your fingers to think about the best way to bring it up. “so, uh—”

“i already know what i want next,” wooyoung drawls on.

“wooyoung—”

“we should do something that’s like flames. no, no—roman numerals, no—”

“wooyoung!” you shriek, forcing him to jump in surprise as his eyes widen at your sudden outburst. you sigh, shutting your eyes as you regain your composure. “sorry. there’s just something i need to ask you.”

“you want yeosang’s number?”

“huh—? i mean, how did you—”

“you were eye fucking him the entire time he was here with us last week,” wooyoung scoffs. “he’s just a very oblivious guy.”

“i’m sure i can work past that,” you offer, arms folded across your chest as you chew at your bottom lip. wooyoung arches an eyebrow, reaching for his phone with a shake of his head.

“sure. all i’ll say is good luck.”

that night in bed, you scroll through each of your friends’ stories in your usual routine. some are traveling abroad, others sharing their engagements or baby showers. you finally land on wooyoung’s, the bright lights and loud music behind him a clear indication of the car meet he was attending that night. you freeze, thumb glued to the screen as you squint at the man behind him.

there stood yeosang, clad in a muscle shirt and a backwards cap as he leaned against what you recognized only as a gorgeous car that seemed perfect for him. it shone a striking silver under the garage lights, the glow flickering against his skin and making him seem borderline angelic.

“god, he’s so pretty,” you mutter to yourself, shifting your attention to your messages where wooyoung had sent you his contact information. you stare at the number for a long time, pondering exactly how you’d plan to get yeosang’s attention when you were so far removed from his world. it seemed like he lived and breathed cars and you knew better than to have wooyoung of all people try to get his attention for you.

glancing out your bedroom window, you look down at the street where your old honda civic sat. you’d gotten her as a hand-me-down from your older cousin, with a lifetime of mileage and an engine that fought to stay alive beyond a ten-mile radius. your eyes widen as an idea dawns on you, your hands moving on their own to text yeosang.

[new message to: yeosang] hi! this is wooyoung’s friend, the one from the tattoo shop. he gave me your number because i told him i was having some issues with my car. think you could take a look?

you toss your phone aside, adrenaline rushing to your fingertips as you feel yourself grow giddy in anticipation for his reply. you mentally scold yourself for acting as though you were in high school and had never flirted with someone before. nonetheless, there’s little time for you to overthink as sleep takes you for the night.

[new message from: yeosang] hey! yeah, bring it by. i can take a look after i’m done with my regulars today.

blinking the sleep from your eyes the next morning, you squint at your screen as if you couldn’t believe what you were seeing—he replied. he actually replied. you grin as you like the message, praying you would be able to focus for your flash sessions that day before you’d head to his garage. by the evening, you’d spent ample time in the shop’s bathroom making sure your makeup wasn’t smudged, your hair was perfectly blown out still and your perfume still clung to your skin. even your coworkers commented on how good you’d looked when you arrived for your shift, a welcome change from your usual.

your civic hums and sputters as you turn on the ignition, groaning to life. you sigh, knowing she did actually need a bit of work if you’d planned to keep a car around for some time. reaching for your phone, you put in the directions to yeosang’s garage and fight to settle the nerves gnawing at your stomach.

when you show up, he’s under a car that looks well out of your tax bracket with a wild series of mods and accessories you couldn’t even begin to name. the faint clang of wrenches against metal capture your attention and you clear your throat, afraid to tap on the car to get him out as if the jack weren’t holding it up in place. he rolls out with a soft groan, burgundy waves coming into view as he peeks out and sits up with a small wave.

“hey there!” he calls out, gesturing for you to enter. “come on in.”

“hi,” you reply, dumbfounded as you look around at the garage. he’d commented on the shop as if it were a little hole in the wall, nothing more than a small space for rent in a warehouse complex. this was a full-scale operation, several hundred feet wide with intricate technology and equipment connected to the various sports cars. your civic looked like a dumpster fire beside these cars. from the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of the silver car that yeosang had been propped up against in wooyoung’s story and mentally note how much nicer it was in person.

“so, where’s the damage?” yeosang asks, wiping the grease off of his hands with an old rag that he tosses aside. you gesture through the bay doors, out at the beaten gray sedan that sat in the parking lot. “a ’95 civic, nice! she could be a real beast if you ever thought about getting her into street racing.”

you blink in confusion. were you looking at the same car? the one with the dented bumper and the engine that screamed bloody murder at you if you threatened to go above 50 at any given moment?

“this old thing?”

“you’d be surprised,” yeosang smiles, glancing at you for permission to enter the driver’s side to pop the hood. you nod, watching his every move as he looks down at your engine intensely. there’s a deep concentration etched across his face, something that gets lost in his obviously good looks as you lose track of his questions.

“h-huh?”

“what’s the issue you’ve been having?” he asks, still fixated under the hood.

“uh—” you panic, realizing there wasn’t any one problem you could pinpoint beyond making up the excuse to visit yeosang. you glance down at the engine, the myriad of metal and wires foreign to you as you rack your brain for anything you could think of.

suddenly, you remember wooyoung.

“it’s the fuel injector!” you cry out, almost startling yeosang as you clear your throat. “yeah, it’s been bad. my car won’t run that well because of it.”

yeosang furrows his brows, peering down at a particular section of the engine. you watch his every move, as if you were able to tell what he was doing. your eyes travel, down the expanse of his biceps that flexed freely under the muscle shirt he wore. it was slightly cropped, at least enough to where you could see a hint of a well-defined stomach beneath the fabric. he pulls away, folding his arms over his chest as he sighs.

“looks like it’ll need replacing,” he explains, glancing into his shop before turning back to you. “i don’t have this specific model in shop right now. i’ll have to order it and see if i can get it before the weekend. i wouldn’t drive her until i fix that. it’s a miracle you even made it to the shop from downtown without stalling at every light.”

“oh!” you exclaim, unaware that you’d really had such a dire issue with your engine to begin with. you reach for your phone, ready to text wooyoung to see if he were nearby to take you home when yeosang interjects.

“if you don’t mind waiting for me to close up, i can take you home?” he offers shyly, an innocent smile gracing his features. “i have to head into downtown to meet a friend, anyway. least i could do since i kind of dropped it on you that your car is basically out of service for the next few days.”

“oh, i couldn’t,” you reply almost immediately, cursing yourself for trying to turn down an offer to spend more time with him. his smile grows wider as he gestures to the silver car in its bay at the corner of the garage.

“i insist. i’m already going to be heading that way.”

“… well, if you insist.”

the garage is empty aside from the pair of you, yeosang the last to leave as he turns everything off and puts away a wide range of tools that were left out around his work station. you watch the concentration on his face with admiration, thinking of how you must look when you were prepping your own station at work. he’s quiet, but it’s not uncomfortable.

“ready?” he finally asks, changed into a clean outfit no longer covered in grease or sweat. he looks expensive, a faint cologne of spiced woods wafting past your nose as you relish in the scent. he smiles as you follow him to his car, opening the door for you and guiding you in gently. you gasp as you settle into the passenger seat, eyes darting wildly around the interior of his car. the leather was crisp and smelled brand new, with bells and whistles you’d never seen. the dashboard hummed from the vibrations of the engine at the ready.

yeosang slides in beside you, his scent filling the tight space and enveloping your senses for the second time. you swallow, watching as he relaxes in his seat. he has one hand on the wheel, the other shifting the car into gear as you can’t help but wonder what his hand would feel like on your thigh in his passenger seat.

“what kind of car is this?” you ask, finding a poor excuse to make small talk as you struggle to focus on the stretch of highway ahead.

“2020 toyota supra,” he answers, and you nod at the mention of a car you knew very little about beyond its aesthetics. “i got it not long ago and it’s a lot of fun to work on since it’s really built for speed.”

“very cool.”

“do you actually think so?” he asks, glancing over at you ever-so-slightly.

“i do,” you reassure him. “i don’t know a ton about cars. but i can tell you’re really passionate about your work. i get it.”

“well, thank you,” he replies, smile fixated on his face as he turns his attention back to the road. “what about you? what got you into tattooing?”

“i really enjoy the idea of bringing someone else’s vision to life. it’s interesting to hear what they come up with and how i can make that happen for them. plus, i get paid to draw. i think it’s a pretty good gig.” you realize you’ve been rambling for a moment and clear your throat awkwardly.

“that’s sort of how i feel about working on cars,” yeosang comments. “getting to take what people envision for their cars and the limits they can take it to. a lot of the car meet crowd loves the hype but i think it’s just fun to get under the hood.”

wish you’d get under my hood.

“yeah, that makes sense.”

“think you’d ever come out to a car meet?” he asks, and you look over at him in question. “even if you don’t think you know a lot about cars. it can be fun just to get out there for a little. wooyoung said he’s been trying to convince you forever.”

“he has,” you admit. “i’ve thought about it.”

“well, there’s a meet this weekend. by that time i should have your car fixed up. you should come out.”

“i’ll consider it.” anxiety creeps under your skin as you think about wooyoung’s description of the car meets—loud, bright lights, drinks flowing and music blasting. it wasn’t a scene you’d shy away from, but at least this time there’d be good motivation to go.

* * *

“i need whatever is the strongest drink you have tonight,” you grumble to wooyoung as he pulls into the abandoned industrial complex. you could hear the bass resonate from against the concrete pillars from a good half-mile away. neon lights flickered through the openings in the main garage and you could see glimpses of sleek-wrapped cars lined up along the ground floor. wooyoung scoffs, patting your thigh reassuringly as he pulls into the back end of the complex.

“you’ll like it,” he promises, shifting his gear into park and turning to you. “you really don’t need to know a ton about cars. a lot of people come out just to sit and look pretty, which—” he glances at the outfit you’d chosen. wide jeans, sneakers, and a cropped tank top. a bit of a clash compared to the miniskirts, platform boots, and oversized racer jackets that surrounded you. “—you will. you don’t need to fit into some particular mold. just relax."

“if you say so,” you grumble, nerves clawing at your stomach as you step out of wooyoung’s car and into the humid night. you can’t help but admit the anxiety is quickly replaced by a strange rush of adrenaline at the sight. engines rev around you, guys tossing bottles of liquor back and forth as they pop their hoods and comment on all of the technical ins and outs. the girls are nice, a handful of them complimenting your outfit as they pass by and asking where you’d got your shirt.

“here you go,” wooyoung calls out, offering you a red solo cup where you sat perched on the edge of his hood. you take the drink graciously, the warmth of liquor sliding down your throat much-needed as you release a satisfied sigh.

“this is actually pretty sick,” you comment, your voice hoarse as you yell at him over the music pounding against the walls. “the cars are really cool to look at, too.”

“maybe we’ll get you into racing when you finally get rid of your old car,” he suggests, earning a roll of your eyes and a chuckle.

“i wouldn’t say all that.” your attention flickers over the crowd when a familiar flash of silver catches your eye. yeosang’s supra comes into view, through the main path and down to the end beside wooyoung’s car. your heart hammers against your chest as you sit up, praying the perfume you’d picked out for the night was still strong enough over the smell of gasoline.

“you made it!” yeosang calls out as he steps out of his car, waving over at you with a broad grin. god, he’s cute. you smile, tipping your cup in his direction as he approaches. “was planning to text you tonight to let you know your car’s good to go.”

“good to hear,” you reply, a pang of disappointment at the fact that he’d finished the job so quickly.

“has wooyoung shown you around yet?” you shake your head. “let’s go then. i can introduce you to some of our friends.” yeosang rests his hand on the small of your back to guide you off of the hood, his touch gentle as you slide onto the ground beside him. 

he leads you deeper into the garage, weaving through the crowd with a laid-back charm in the way he greets people. you watch the way that he banters with everyone, distracted when someone bumps into him and his fingers brush against yours. he reaches for your wrist, steadying you with a silent glance to make sure you’re alright. you smile, ignoring the thundering in your chest as you keep following him again. the two of you stop by a handful of cars, yeosang commenting on the owners’ mods and the work he could do at his garage if they stop by. you smile beside him, quietly enjoying watching him in his element as you sip on your drink. he’s even so kind as to making sure you’re topped up as you chat with one of his friends.

“is that who i think it is?” a shrill voice interjects, pin-straight, platinum blonde hair and a tight leather fit coming into view as you raise an eyebrow over the edge of your solo cup. yeosang glances over at the girl propped up against the hood of—was it a nissan gtr?—and chuckles under his breath.

“i haven’t seen you since you worked on yeonjun’s engine,” she purrs, leaning over the hood with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “been waiting for you to take a look under my hood.”

oh, brother.

“oh, have you been having trouble? i can take a look,” yeosang offers earnestly, and you almost smack yourself in the face at how oblivious he was to this girl’s obvious attempts at flirting. she catches your eye, in silent disbelief herself as she clears her throat, looking up at him through her lashes with a giddy laugh.

“actually, i think you need to take something off.” she hums, coming over to rest a hand on his shoulder with long claws pressed against his collarbone. he blinks under her touch, wheels turning in his mind as he seems to struggle to make sense of her words. you clear your throat awkwardly, not wanting to be a bystander to this any longer.

“i’m gonna get some air,” you mention to yeosang, not waiting for a response as you hurry back to where wooyoung’s car was parked. he was at the center of the garage with his crew, offering shots of hennessy to a girl that seemed to have just won a race. the crowded garage suddenly felt too expansive, isolating as you tapped against the metal of the hood of wooyoung’s honda.

you don’t know how long you’re lost in thought, fiddling with the rim of your drink when yeosang approaches you with a soft smile. his eyes are sparkling under the neon lights, not a thought behind them as he looks up at you.

“hey! you doing okay?”

“yeah,” you lie, glancing up at the crowd and wondering if the girl had made herself clear enough to earn yeosang’s favor for the night. then again, he probably wouldn’t be standing here talking to you if that were the case. “just a little much for a first car meet.”

“you get used to it,” he reassures, following your gaze before he flashes another smile at you. “would you want to get out of here? i can take you back to the garage to get your car so that i’m not holding it hostage much longer.”

“sounds good.”

the drive back from the garage to yeosang’s shop isn’t quite long, but you still can’t fight off the urge to stare at him and the way he handles his car. the hum of the engine was admittedly addicting on the stretch of highway, his handling of the gear shift and his grip on the wheel almost magnetic as you peeked at him from the corner of your eye. he kept the windows down, cool night air making a poor attempt to calm your unholy thoughts.

there’s a strange sense of comfort as you pull into the bay of yeosang’s garage, his engine slowing to a low purr as you catch glimpse of your old beaten civic. the supra growls beside it and you’re sure you’ll be disappointed with the coughing and sputtering you’re about to hear from your car. yeosang darts out of the driver’s seat to open your door, offering a hand and guiding you to your car where he’s popped the hood.

“so, i installed a new fuel injector and tightened up a few other things that looked concerning,” he explains, not realizing he’s caged you against your fender. his arms circle you, pointing out various parts of the engine he’s worked on as his explanation fades behind the internal screaming in your head at him being so close to you.

“should be running way smoother now,” he continues, stepping back just slightly but still close enough so that you could feel the heat radiating from him. you hum, trying to focus on his work and not the scent of his cologne flooding your senses.

“what are my damages, then?”

yeosang glances down at you, his expression unreadable. “nothing. i just enjoyed working on it.”

“you can’t expect me to walk away with a free repair,” you protest, turning so that you sat against the fender and looked up at him with furrowed brows. “there must be some way i can repay you.”

he blinks, clearly still unfazed by your offer as he shakes his head with a reassuring smile. “no, it’s okay. your injector was shot, it was definitely needed.” his gaze flickers to your arms for a brief moment, as if scanning the maze of tattoos that formed your sleeve. “maybe if i can ever commit to something, i’ll let you tattoo me.”

“that so?” you tilt your head, eyes trailing over the expanse of his broad, sculpted arms that were blank canvases. “i’m sure i can come up with a few ideas.” his hands brace the edge of the engine bay, leaving inches between the pair of you.

“i’ll have to stop by the studio, then.” just as you expect him to take the bait, he pulls away and shifts his attention back to the engine. as if nothing shifted in the tension in the past few seconds. you’re about to throw yourself under the hood and slam it shut out of sheer exasperation. “anyway, you should be good to go. need anything else?”

“no, that’s it,” you grumble, utterly defeated as you snatch your keys from yeosang with your pulse thundering against your ears. “i’ll see you around.”

that night, your hand did little to appease the growing frustration that you desperately needed to release.

* * *

you show up at the garage again a week later—per wooyoung’s advice to get yeosang’s attention with new phantom car troubles—a sheepish smile and keys in hand. he peeks up at you from beneath the hood of another car, surprised but not disappointed to see you as he reaches for a rag to wipe the grease from his hands.

“hey, you,” he calls out, sauntering over to you as you step out of the car. you made sure to wear the shortest shorts you owned, propping yourself against the fender as you nod your head back to your car. his hair is pulled back into a haphazard ponytail that you try your best not to stare at. “everything alright?”

“yeah, but i think something’s off with the alignment,” you lie, as if you haven’t practiced on wooyoung a good handful of times the night before to make sure you sounded convincing. “pulls a little to the right more than usual.”

“you hit a curb?” he asks, tilting his head as his eyes flicker instinctively to your tires.

“huh? no, not that i remember.”

he takes your keys, not questioning it as he hovers over your tires and takes a closer look. you scowl, not getting more than a lingering gaze at your legs as he locks in on the work to be done.

three days later, you’re back.

“i’m positive it’s the brakes this time,” you lie again, popping the hood yourself as if you have any clue what you’re looking for. you hope he likes the scent of orchids and water lilies on your skin as he leans over the engine bay beside you, frowning at the sight in confusion.

“didn’t you mention you got them replaced last month?”

“well.” you bite down on your bottom lip, racking your brain for another excuse. “maybe they were defective.” and then you try again. “maybe my car just likes seeing you as much as i do.”

yeosang chuckles, holding your gaze for a moment before he’s distracted by his inspection of the brake pads. you stare at him, dumbfounded as he begins to ramble on about your rotors that potentially needed replacing.

the fourth visit in two weeks finally does it.

it’s late at night, and you’d gotten on a regular texting basis with yeosang to know he was the only one that would be at the shop. even wooyoung seemed frustrated by this point at his density and had given up on helping you. slamming the door to your civic, you step out onto the asphalt with a huff and storm into the garage.

one last feeble attempt.

yeosang is hovering over the engine bay of his own supra when you walk in. you can hear the clang of wrenches against metal, the only sound over the r&b that hovered overhead from the speakers. you bang your fist against the car’s side door, startling yeosang to drop the wrench as he looks up at you in confusion. you jut your keys out at him, eyes locked on the ground.

“what now?”

“heard a rattle.”

“a rattle?” yeosang scoffs, backing out of the engine bay and folding his arms over his chest as he stares down at you. his expression is blank, his shirt too tight as you meet his eyes. “you’re messing with me at this point.”

“am i?” you laugh dryly, setting your keys on his toolbox as you mirror his stance. “because i’m pretty sure no one is humanly this oblivious.”

“huh?” he straightens, tilting his head.

“yeosang.” you sigh and close your eyes before returning his gaze. “i have been coming in here and flirting with you. for weeks. i’m about to drive over a box of nails for you to look at my tires before you realize that there’s nothing actually wrong with my car.”

“well, there’s still work your car needs,” he answers honestly, and you glare at him.

“forget the car!” finally, finally you see something flicker across his face. not confusion this time, something more like an understanding as the wheels begin to turn in his head.

“are you…” he drawls on quietly, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to make sense of his own question. “are you into me?”

you stare at him in disbelief and throw your hands above your head.

he blushes, actually blushes as he holds your gaze. silence engulfs you, the slow rhythm of the r&b and the faint tick of cooling metal in the supra behind you the only other noise. he reaches for the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but yours as he stammers.

“you could’ve just told me.”

“i’m sorry, the fuck-me eyes weren’t obvious enough?”

yeosang’s lips part in a quiet exhale, unable to defend himself for being so thick as you approach him with renewed confidence. you stop right before him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt to keep him there as he arches an eyebrow in surprise. his hands ghost over your hips, still polite despite the growing tension that surrounded you.

“i’m taking what i came here for,” you order, nails scratching lightly over the skin of his stomach as his breath is caught in his throat. his cheeks are still flushed and he looks boyishly cute despite the fact that you knew you were about to jump his bones.

“here?” he asks hoarsely, as if there were an audience.

“right on the hood of your fucking supra,” you urge in a low voice. a darkness flickers across his eyes, understanding clicking as he shuts the hood and finally rests his hands on your waist. his touch is firm, but gentle. “unless you want to stand here and keep talking about mechanics instead of having me bent over your car.”

yeosang grabs your waist harder this time, determination etched across his face that you ignore as you back him against the edge of the car he’d been working on. his eyes go wide, mouth hanging open in uneven breaths as you ghost your lips over his. you trail your fingers lower, beyond his belt and over where he’s already growing hard. he jerks against your touch and a soft gasp slips past his lips as he presses his forehead to yours.

“fuck,” he whispers, and you scoff against his lips.

“i haven’t even actually touched you yet,” you scold, reaching to undo his belt and the button on his cargos. you wrap your hands around him, warm and hard under your touch as you pump your fist painfully slow to make him twitch in your grip. his eyes flutter shut with a strangled whimper as his hips stagger against your palm, desperate for more. you can see the veins in his arms strain from the way he’s gripping the car beneath him.

“say it,” you whisper, lips trailing from his to the base of his neck. “say you like it.”

yeosang can barely form words, let alone a coherent thought as he throws his head back, his chest heaving in trying to steady his breathing. “i—fuck—i like that.” you laugh against his throat, pleased with the way he shudders under your touch exactly as you’d been imagining from the moment you met him.

just as you’re about to reach for the hem of his cargos and pull them aside, he catches your wrists.

his eyes are fixated on yours, dark and feline as he slowly slides your hand off of his cock and up to his chest. you can feel his pulse thundering against his chest, evidence that he wants this as badly as you do. his other hand comes up, reaching for your jaw and forcing you to hold his gaze as he drags his thumb across your bottom lip. he doesn’t say a word before he spins you around to trap you against the car and press you against the heated metal. you can feel the weight of his entire body on yours, pinning you in place. it’s as if he’s testing you, trying to see if you really were into him.

one hand flattens over your stomach, his breath hot against your ear as the other drifts down to pull your thighs apart just a little further. you writhe under his touch, trying to ease against him for some sort of friction when he tenses, pressing his palm into your skin with a warning.

“easy,” is all he says, and you can hear the low chuckle at the edge of his words. you wanted to fight against his restraint but the heat of his fingers on your skin stole the words from your tongue. he was so deliberately slow in his movements and it drove you insane. he trails his tongue along your neck, catching your earlobe between his teeth and biting down gently. you can feel him smile as he whispers into your ear, “let me take my time with you.”

you gasp, trying to lean further into his touch. his grip on your waist tightens as he reaches the other hand between your legs, fidgeting to unbutton your shorts and slip his own hand in. his fingertips brush against soaked fabric, barely ghosting over them and clouding your mind. every time he presses against your clit, you twitch at the pleasure it sends running down your spine. he pries and prods for a while, refusing to slip his hand past your underwear as he draws tantalizingly slow circles.

“oh, come on,” you whine, your head rolling back and resting against his chest. he chuckles, not letting up on the teasing as he presses a string of kisses along your neck. “don’t make me do your job for you.” out of sheer frustration, you plunge your own hand past your waistband and press against his knuckles, the pressure against you forcing your eyes shut with a satisfied sigh. he groans, forehead resting on your shoulder as he painfully follows your pace in forceful, deliberate strokes.

“that’s it,” you praise, lips brushing against his jaw. “good boy.”

his body tenses at the compliment, breath caught in his chest as his fingers pick up the pace and dip between your folds. he slides two fingers in, knuckles deep as his lips find yours. you reach for his jaw, fingers trailing to his hair as he keeps a steady rhythm pumping in and out of you. a long, drawn-out moan slips out of you and into his mouth, one that he groans at as he moves his hand even faster.

“god,” you moan, head thrown back against his chest as he holds you steady. “you’re gonna make a mess of me, aren’t you, pretty boy?” he curses under his breath, almost like a whimper as his composure slips. you relish in the fact that he’s enjoying the way you talk to him.

“fuck,” yeosang rasps, his fingers working deeper and faster with the sounds of your arousal buried under his shallow breaths. you hum, content as you rock your hips against his hands to meet every thrust of his hand. he groans softly, biting down on your shoulder like it’ll ground him.

before you can tease him again, his hand slips out of you and leaves you empty and aching. he finally turns you, laying you back against the hood as his lips crash into yours. there’s nothing soft or teasing about his movements anymore, his tongue meeting yours desperately as he latches his hands onto your hips. he pulls your shorts off in one swift motion, his knee forcing your legs apart to hold you open for him. you try to reach for his broad shoulders, desperate to sink your nails into them when he pins your hands down for the second time.

“tell me what you want,” he commands, his eyes burning into yours as his hair falls around his face in messy waves.

“you know what i want.”

“i need to hear you say it.”

“i want you to fuck me.”

yeosang lets out a low growl, freeing his cock and sliding his own hand along its length with parted ljps. you look up at him expectantly, looping a leg around his waist and pulling him in so that he’s forced to brace himself on his forearms on either side of you. his eyes never leave yours as he aligns himself with you, sliding in painfully slowly as your eyes flutter shut.

you wrap your arms around him, hands threaded through his hair and pulling him in as he begins to move. his hips rock against yours as he buries his face in your neck, stifling the groans that slip past his lip with every thrust. he trembles under your touch, your nails digging into his back as he begins to thrust harder, deeper.

“fuck, just like that,” you moan, arching your back off of the heated metal and against his chest. he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer against him as he thrusts into you at a steady rhythm. your moans reverberate against the garage walls, the only other sound aside from skin on skin and music blasting through the speakers.

“how bad do you want me, pretty girl?” yeosang asks, lifting himself from your collarbone and wrapping a hand around your neck. his eyes glaze over at the sight of you getting fucked by him, head hanging as he keeps pounding into you. all you can do is moan in response, your stomach tightening as he pushes down on your waist so that you could feel every inch of him.

you can’t form a coherent answer as he wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you from the hood and moving to sit on the edge of his workbench so that you’re firmly in his lap. he drapes his strong arms around you, fingers digging into your skin as he grips your waist. you arch an eyebrow as you look down at him, tugging his head back in a fistful of hair as you begin to grind down on his cock. the sounds that slip out of him are delicious, music to your ears as you rock your hips more intensely.

“i want to feel you come inside me,” you command, watching the way his face twitches in pleasure as you continue to grind against him. you fully lift yourself before slamming back down into his lap, the shock wave of pleasure rocking your entire body as you struggle to stifle your own moans. sweat slicks across his forehead as he squeezes his eyes shut, head thrown back as he begins to meet your pace with thrusts of his own.

with a final jerk of his hips, he releases up and into you and you follow soon after with your own climax. the wave hits in one violent swing, pleasure thrumming against your veins as you collapse against his chest with an exhausted sigh. you drop your forehead against his as you fight to catch your breath.

the two of you sit in silence for a moment, working to steady your breathing as your body temperature begins to cool. yeosang’s eyes evade yours, color still flushing his face as he gently lifts you off of him and hurries into the backroom to collect clean washcloths to help clean you off. you smile up at him silently, adjusting your clothing and watching as he settles onto the edge of his supra once more.

you were never going to look at that car the same way ever again.

“next time, just tell me you want me.”

“you know, i think i’ve learned my lesson.” you roll your eyes, finally able to steady your breathing as you approach him with a gentle nudge. “looks like i’ll have to show up to car meets more often.”

“looks like i’ll finally need to commit to getting a tattoo.”

“you know, i think you’d look good with a cherry blossom branch,” you comment, running your fingertips along his forearm as you illustrate your idea. “right here. i think it’ll look particularly good the next time your hand’s around my neck.”

“…oh.”

[trashytracktales]

teammate!lando x reader where they had a bet and she loses…so he makes her crawl to her, hump the pillow, rub her bare clit against his clothed crotch ALL WHILE HE RECORDS HER (with consent ofc)

Lights, Camera, Action! | LN⁴

🔹️ summary ──── It was supposed to be a joke, then it became everything.

🔹️ pairing ──── Lando Norris x fem teammate!reader

🔹️ rating ──── explicit

🔹️ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, smut, nerdy!Lando, soft!dom Lando, recording (consensual), cushion humping, manhandling, orgasm from external stimulation, swearing, unprotected sex, mutual masturbation, overstimulation, playful teasing, camera kink??

🔹️ word count ──── 6.3k

🔹️ date ──── May 6, 2025

🔹️ a/n ──── How tf do I set my intention to go for PURE SMUT NO PLOT, yet still manage to write over 6k 😀 I don’t even know what’s this, nothing makes sense and we are living on a floating rock.

Hear me out, I usually only link the song, but then I remembered about this music video and I almost had an aneurysm because of how well it fits. I recommend watching it after reading though. Anyway, ENJOY!!

THE LAST RACE before the break fucked them both. Pretty hard. What was supposed to end with another 1-2 finish for the team turned into a disaster of strategy, pace, and pure bad luck.

Since getting back to Monaco, the fallout hasn’t left them alone. It’s pretty hard when everyone is talking about it; it can get lonely, too. Luckily for them, they’ve been texting back and forth for days, laced with sarcasm, blame, and just enough flirtation to keep the tension at its peak. However, neither of them said what they really wanted to say. But it was always there, between the lines as usual, and in the way her name popped up on his screen, making his stomach flip.

Every single time.

The bar is loud enough to blur that tension and even Lando, with his no-alcohol rule, is loose and laughing. They dance and talk about anything but racing, and for a while it feels like neither of them are carrying the weight of disappointment.

Friends come and go through their circle, a few fans spot them and ask for pictures — which they take, grinning too wide and standing too close for their own good. Somewhere between the fourth round of mocktails, a familiar song starts pulsing through the speakers, and that’s when she brings up the bet, half-laughing, stepping in front of him like she did back in the garage when she dared him.

“If I finish behind you, I owe you a private dance,” she said, confidence dripping from every word. She’d qualified ahead of Lando, and was so confident she can finish ahead of him, too. But since every race is unpredictable and full of unknowns, she ended up taking the checkered flag after him.

It was a joke, anyway. But she can’t say with all her heart that she hasn’t thought about it at least a few couple of times. Besides, it’s Lando who’s been constantly reminding her throughout the past few days and, even if it was in jest, the curiosity made her spend hours staring at the ceiling of her room, imagining different scenarios.

Now, it’s late when the door to his apartment clicks shut behind them with a clean, satisfying noise. Lando tosses his keys into the ceramic bowl on the console with more force than necessary, and while the keys clatter, one nearly skids off the edge, forcing him to reach for it instinctively. She doesn’t say anything, although she can’t help but finding amusing that the inanimate objects always decide to act up only when her teammate’s patience seems so fragile.

The sudden movement makes Lando whine in exasperation as she watches him kick off his shoes and drag a hand through his curls.

The place is quiet, as if reflecting their inner agitation, silently burning within. He’s not bothering turning on more than a lamp, but it’s enough to bathe the whole living room in a pale silver glow, making everything seem even more intimate than it should be.

As they step further into the apartment, the same silence hits them both, because it’s not just the sudden absence of noise, but the weight of it. They’ve never been this quiet around each other before. Usually, they’re the chaos in the garage, either laughing too loud or teasing mid-debriefs, always bringing the kind of energy that makes their engineers roll their eyes but secretly love it. Now though, it’s the first time neither of them knows what to say. Or how to act.

“Cute place,” she says, partly to break the silence, but mostly because it really is. Spacious, stylish, not super tidy, but very Lando in that sense.

“You know you don’t have to make small talk, right?” he laughs. “It was a stupid bet to begin with, since I was always going to finish ahead of you anyway.”

Her jaw drops slightly at the cockiness in his tone. This is the Lando she knows and, in other circumstances, she would find his confidence hot, but right now it only makes her want to knock that look off his face. Or sit on it just to shut him up. Either works.

“Always eager to finish first? Got it,” the playful jab lands right where she intended without too much effort; it’s a split-second flicker in his expression, the twitch of his jaw, and the way his arms tense.

That’s the spot, she thinks. That’s where it bruises his ego, not because it’s crude, but because it’s enough to sting. Which only makes her want to push harder.

Lando’s grin flattens a bit. “Well, someone’s gotta lead the way,” he replies casually, even though he caught her double meaning phrase.

“Right. Leading the way because you can’t pace yourself,” she fires back.

He chuckles. “Sounds like an excuse from someone who couldn’t keep up.”

They’re toe-to-toe now, all bite and smirk and so much tension. She’s half a second from throwing a cushion at him just to knock that pretty smile off when she glances past his shoulder and, without another word, she steps forward, fingers brushing lightly against Lando’s arm as she urges him to move out of her way, wandering farther into his apartment like she owns the place.

“Interesting,” she mumbles. “I saw you with the camera before,” the girl continues as Lando turns to follow her silhouette. “How about you film me while I dance? Give you some new material for land0.mov?”

Lando’s expression twitches barely, but she’s still able to notice it. That small flash of disbelief, quickly masked by a half-laugh, like he’s not sure if she’s joking or just testing him.

“No way, mate,” says Lando, but it’s already too late.

She nods slowly, letting the weight of her intention settle in the air they share. His boyish smirk fades into curiosity in an instant. It’s like watching him put a helmet on: composed, dialed in, serious in a way most people rarely get to see.

To give him more space to process, she veers toward the low shelf by his TV, crouching slightly. “Let’s see. Which one’s your favorite?” she asks nonchalantly, running her fingers along the row of cameras lined up like little trophies; old film bodies, modern DSLRs, and a few point-and-shoots with scratched lenses.

Lando stares at her like she suddenly grew two more heads in the meantime. “You play too much, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Which one?” she repeats.

He blinks, opening his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first. After he rubs the bridge of his nose, Lando exhales slowly. “The, uh… the Leica. Second from the left. Black one,” he instructs. “I rarely use it, which makes it special, I guess.”

She lifts it delicately, turning it over in her hands. It’s heavier than she expected, sleek and cool against her skin. “Nice,” she grins. “Bet it makes everything look expensive.”

Lando hums in agreement, “Only shoots what’s directly in front of it. Look,” he says, getting so close to her that he’s now towering over her frame, while pointing at the camera. “Fixed lens, see? No lazy zooming, but the resolution is insane. The tricky part is that you have to move it yourself to get the shot you want,” he continues.

She looks up at him, noticing a slight shy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. And, just when she thought Lando couldn’t get any nerdier, she hears his voice again.

“It’s a twenty-eight millimeter lens. That’s not crazy wide,” he informs her. “If you stay in the middle, the background’s gonna fall off all soft and blurry. Makes it feel…” he trails off, clearing his throat. “Personal. It’s not even about perfect framing or whatever,” he rushes to add. “It just catches whatever’s there, no hiding.”

“Did you use it before?” she asks, curiosity pulling the words out of her mouth without having the time to think them through.

“I did,” he replies with a grin, giving her enough time to come up with her own scenarios before adding, “On my cars.”

She smiles, her eyes sparkling in the dim light of the room. “So. If I move, you have to follow, hm?”

Lando nods.

She sets the camera down gently, then leans against the wall beside the shelf with her arms crossed. She’s aware that what she’s suggesting it’s pure insanity, especially after what’s been happening between them lately.

“Okay,” she finally says, holding her hand toward him, palm open. “Can I see your phone for a sec?”

Lando frowns, trying to hide a curious smile. “Why?” he asks, sliding the phone from his pocket and unlocks it, handing it over with suspicion in his voice.

She only flashes him a smile back, thumbing through his apps until she finds the little Spotify icon. A few seconds later, the speakers come alive with a sultry bassline that wraps the room in a charged ambiance.

The teasing in her voice is easy to catch next time she asks, “You seriously have a sex playlist called sex playlist? Men are so predictable.”

He chuckles, “Yeah? What’s yours called?”

“I’ll send you the link,” she winks at him jokingly, but that still has an unexpected effect on Lando. Maybe because he’s starting to understand that his teammate is hardly ever joking, actually.

For a second that feels like a week, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches her, every muscle in his body taut like he’s holding himself back from something that’s about to come out anyway. It has to. Because everything has a limit, and theirs was crossed from the moment she entered his apartment.

With a quiet exhale, she presses herself lightly against the wall, then pushes off and crosses the living room in steady, cat-like steps, taking his hand in hers, fingers threading through his. Her touch is warm and somehow reassuring, her palm so small and silky against his. She guides Lando toward the couch with intent as if this isn’t his own home, nudging him gently until he sits.

She breaks away then, walks back across the room, and returns with the Leica in hand. “Turn it on,” she says simply, with enough clarity behind her words.

Lando stares at her, dumbfounded for a beat, before the corner of his mouth twitches upward in disbelief. “You’re insane.”

“I trust you to capture the best in me,” she admits.

He lets out a heavy breath, something between a laugh and a groan, and flips the switch at her insistence. The familiar click of the camera waking up is giving Lando chills, but when he glances up again, his hands still adjusting the ISO, she’s already pulling the shirt over her head, revealing a black bra and her toned shoulders dusted in the dim light.

She tilts her head. “Just make sure I look good, Lando.”

With that, she starts moving as slow as possible, every inch of revealed skin feeling like it’s offered, not given.

Lando’s hands are steady on the camera, but for some reason, breathing doesn’t feel automatic anymore, and he’s currently aware of every shaky breath he takes. His fingers work on instinct, dialing the aperture wider, letting in the glow of the cool lighting. His pulse is racing, heavy in his throat, because he can see everything through the lens, but is still not ready to look at her in the flesh.

For her, it’s easy to notice how focused he is, so she glances straight into the camera on purpose, with a spark of mischief in her gaze, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. To him. As a result, Lando’s knee starts bouncing, restless, his breathing too shallow to be subtle. He can’t remember the last time he felt so tightly wound, but it doesn’t even matter because what happens now will stay with him for a long time, and this is all he needs to remember from now on.

And then, it gets worse.

He stares at her while she’s arching slightly as she undoes her bra clasp, letting it slide off her shoulders and onto the floor without breaking eye contact with the camera. At that, Lando looks away out of instinct — out of that last shred of decency clawing at him. But the camera stays trained on her, and when he lifts his gaze again, it’s like a dam breaks inside him. Violently. The hunger that flashes across his face is instant, and impossible to hide. He doesn’t even try, because what fool could ever take his eyes off her?

Lando adjusts himself without thinking, moving in sync with her teasing gestures as she peels her panties down her legs from under her skirt. He tells himself to stay focused and capture the sensuality of her body with the last fragment of professionalism that he possesses. But that’s a losing game when his own body is burning with need, and every subtle curve and line of her turns into a map that he’s desperate to explore as soon as possible.

His focus lingers on the swell of her breasts, her nipples tightening in the open air. It forces him to swallow hard, a deep ache growing both inside him and his pants, knowing how badly he wants to lean forward and suck them into his mouth, to feel the heat of her skin against his tongue.

The camera dips lower as she dances to the hypnotic rhythm of his music, and Lando keeps working with her, baring the elegant slope of her waist and the strong lines of her thighs. The way she stands there, so natural and confident, feels like a direct hit to his chest that he welcomes without hesitation or any intention of dodging. She’s pure femininity, and that throws him into a black hole made only of her, where the gravity is so strong that there’s no escape.

He’s so focused on her that he almost stops breathing in order to make sure he gets the perfect shot, every shot. That makes Lando’s hand tighten around the camera, his knuckles whitening from the pressure. But his body has a mind on its own, apparently, and his thighs flex like he’s one wrong move away from standing. From closing the distance between them. Against his will, though, he sits there, shivering with the effort to stay still.

“Come on, Norris,” she says, and her voice wakes him up from the trance her shapes put him in. “I’ve seen you take tighter corners at Spa with less hesitation.”

Even though he tries to, he can’t stop the throaty laugh that comes out of him. Only for a moment, Lando lowers the camera again, and lets himself, finally, finally, see her. And this time, he doesn’t look away. He watches her shamelessly, while reaching behind him to take a cushion that he ends up tossing onto the floor near his feet, nodding toward it.

“Go on, then. Show me how desperate you are.”

There is something about the way he says it that sends a thrill straight through her. She heard that Lando is direct when it comes to his wants and needs, but to feel it on her skin hits different. Her pulse suddenly stutters with excitement as she lowers herself in front of him, straddling the cushion, her body already anticipating the liberating feeling.

The moment her hips roll forward and her mouth falls open in surprise at the faint pleasure, Lando is right there, capturing every gasp, every twitch, and every sweet reaction like it’s the only thing that matters. His mind runs wild with all the places he aches to touch — his hand curled around her throat, palms squeezing her breasts, fingers digging into her hips to hold her still while he teases her until she begs.

The temptation claws at him, full throttle. But he forces himself to handle the camera like a pro, because more than anything, he wants her to see what he sees: how devastatingly beautiful she is like this, undone and bold. Through his own lens, she’s a vision, and giving her that full picture keeps him going.

From her perspective, noticing Lando’s determination sends a fresh wave of heat throughout her body, making her rock her hips a little harder, and that puts a tension in his shoulders. A type of need he didn’t feel before.

To stop herself from making more embarrassing sounds, she meets his gaze over the camera, mouth slightly open. “Is this good?” she asks, voice breathy and half-mocking, although there’s something real underneath. A dare. A plea.

Lando looks at her again, revealing a flushed face and his blown wide pupils. “Yeah, don’t stop,” he replies hoarsely.

Her thighs squeeze around the cushion from the moment she hears the first note in voice, the soft fabric teasing against her clit with every slow roll of her hips, pulling breathy sounds from her. Behind the camera, Lando tails closely as she grinds back and forth, his jaw clenching at the small sounds slipping past her lips.

“Shit, that’s hot. Are you always this needy?” he asks out of pure curiosity, but the question is mostly rhetorical; of course she is. Judging by the way her chest heaves and how she leans forward slightly to catch as much friction as possible, the answer is obvious.

She wants to push back against the power shift, but she’s too lost in the rhythmic movement of her body. And it’s not as if Lando’s wrong. Every gentle brush gets increasingly out of control, each desperate grind into the cushion sending small waves of pleasure straight to her nerves, making her fingers curl into the couch for balance. For the control she’s rapidly losing.

Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, mouth constantly parting as the pleasure spirals inside her like a coil wound too tight.

Lando’s fingers flex over the shutter release, but he’s barely present anymore. He’s completely absorbed by what is happening on the other side of his lens, and it’s her moan that pulls him out of it, just as the pressure builds. So he reaches out, his hand entering the frame like an unexpected guest. With ease, his fingers grab the edge of the cushion beneath her, and she pauses, blinking up at him, flushed and dazed, breathing heavily like she just stepped out of the car after a last-lap push. With one strong pull, he slides it out from under her, making her gasp in surprise, her body jolting at the sudden loss.

“Lando,” she exhales irritated.

She gets her hands onto his knees to steady herself, thighs still wobbly, but he’s not looking at her anymore. He’s too busy staring at the soaked fabric instead, darkened with heat and want and everything she didn’t say out loud.

“That good?” he asks, but the arrogance in his voice diminished, giving way to his sincere curiosity.

She shakes her head, looking up at him again. “Not faking it, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

The fact that she is as sincere in her statement, encourages Lando to take things to the next level, just to see how much he can push before it’s too much. He throws the cushion aside with a thud, his eyes lit up with need.

“Come here,” he orders in a gentle tone, patting his lap.

She’s stunned at his words initially, and the way they leave no room for teasing. But then she catches the way his tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip, leaving it wet and shining, and something inside her pushes her to get up. She realizes that there’s nothing she wouldn’t do if he asked.

With calculated steps, she climbs him patiently, her thighs spreading over him. They’ve been in each other’s personal space in the past, when they had to do silly challenges for McLaren to entertain the fans. Still, even though there’s a camera between them just like before, the air feels different, charged with desire, unknown, and heavy lust. Because this time, it’s just them.

When her body sinks onto his, the scabrous fabric of his jeans meets the soaked warmth between her legs, the weight making Lando groan silently, his little sound hitting her low in her stomach. His reaction encourages her to continue, shifting on top of him in order to find the best position, enough to grind against his bulge. It’s thick and hard beneath her, and the simple contact is already maddening. Yet not nearly enough, and the realization that he’s just as affected by this makes the coil in her stomach tighten further.

“Keep going,” he speaks again as he lifts her skirt up to her waist, going back to the camera and angling it to capture the way she moves against him, right where her skin meets the fabric of his pants.

Her palm comes around his bicep for suport, letting the instincts guide her further. The pressure she chased a moment ago is still there, but it’s different this time around. More intense.

Lando grunts, his free hand gripping her hip to show her the pattern to follow. She whimpers while that sweet ache comes back, her body trembling with need. In no time, she can move on her own, and because she’s such a fast learner, Lando points the camera closer, eager to capture the wetness soaking through.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he says. “You’re making such a mess,” he exhales, bringing his hand between her legs to feel it before he could even process his own action. His thumb finds her clit, rubbing it gently, keeping his eyes on her face the whole time, craving to catch every reaction.

She moans, one hand squeezing his arm harder as her body rocks forward, chasing the release that she hopes it’s not that far into the future, especially if his hips continue to twitch beneath her the way they do, so impatient and reliant on her.

Unfortunately, the time almost stops the moment their faces get close enough to kiss. She can feel the heat of his breath and the pull between them, and she’s sure he can feel it too. Her eyes flick to his mouth, and Lando’s eyes stay on her, but no one dares to close the small gap. Because somehow, that would be more intimate than all of this. Kissing would mean acknowledging what’s been burning between them for a while now. It would mean admitting this is real, and admitting will complicate everything in both their personal and professional lives.

And neither of them are ready to take that chance yet.

With that in mind, she doesn’t lean in. She just closes her eyes and grinds harder, her hips rolling against his hand and the hard line of his cock beneath her. The sensation amplifies fast, and Lando never stops working her with his thumb. Soon enough, her breath comes out in spasms and her thighs start to shake. Her pace intensifies, chasing the high that’s been teasing at the edges of her patience, feeling the mess she’s made slick against Lando’s pants with every desperate press on it. Still, his hand stays steady, rubbing perfectly against her clit, matching the rhythm of her hips like he knows exactly all the ways she wants — and craves — to be touched.

With Lando’s help, it doesn’t take long until her body finally seizes, hips jerking forward uncontrollably as pleasure crashes over her. He moves with her, a silent apology for stopping her earlier written into every precise touch, making sure this time she falls apart completely. Because of him.

Luckily, the camera captures everything: his hand on her, the wet spot she’s left on his pants, the way her skin flushes and seems to crave more with each passing second, and the way her thighs shake when the aftershocks hit. It catches the way she starts trembling, too, body overwhelmed, aching for something deeper, something only he can give her right now.

Only he gives her time to ride it out instead, feeling all the ways her walls flutter, hungry and empty, and the sound that tears from his throat is nothing but a helpless moan. The sensation alone, even without him inside her, is enough to make his head spin. It wrecks him completely, makes him ache with the violent need to know how it would feel to be buried deep inside her, to have her tight, needy pussy squeezing around him while she comes undone all over again. Because of him.

The girl barely registers the camera being placed in her hands until Lando nudges her chin. “Here. See for yourself.”

Except, she doesn’t want it. Not yet. By her own choice, she takes it gently from his hand, presses RECORD again and turns it around, placing it on the padded arm of the couch. Facing them. Remembering Lando’s voice earlier, casual and offhand when he said that the camera only captures what’s in front of it.

Her fingers move impatiently, drifting to the hem of his shirt, bunching it in her hands. “Since you let me finish first,” she rushes to explain.

With that, she pulls the shirt up, and he lifts his arms to help her, muscles tightening under skin slick with the faintest sheen of sweat. Once it’s off, she tosses it to the side, her eyes drinking him in. Lando is warm under her palms, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath, and she senses the same tension in him that’s barely holding him together.

She studies his face while her hand drifts lower, trailing down the center of his stomach, pausing at the waistband of his jeans. Carefully, she slips her hand inside, where she finds him hot and so painfully hard that it makes her mouth water. Without any instructions, her fingers curl around his soft skin, and the sight alone makes his stomach flip. She starts to stroke him teasing, but before she can go quicker, Lando grabs her wrist, groaning low in his throat.

“Just a sec,” he pants, voice cracking slightly. His hands are already moving, guiding her hips back over his lap with a need that borders on desperation.

This time, there’s no fabric between them, and her soaked heat presses directly against his length, making them both shuddering at the contact; skin on skin and no more barriers, just the unfiltered reality of what they both want. His hands find home on her hips, big and heavy, his control hanging by a thread.

Agonizingly slow, her clit slides along his hardness, slick and warm, sending sharp jolts of pleasure from one body to another. He can barely contain himself at the way she finds it so easy to rock against him, faster when she feels how thirsty Lando gets in a matter of seconds. He’s leaking already, the head of his cock glistening, smearing against her folds as she moves.

Completely flushed and utterly drunk with pleasure, he shifts beneath her, his arms wrapping tight around her waist, pulling her closer, even though there’s no physical space left between them. But it’s useless. No matter how close they are, there is only one way that would truly satisfy his urge.

“Please,” he whispers next to the shell of her ear, desperate and breathless. “Can I slide in?”

She’s a lost cause by now, and her reply is reduced to a broken hum, while she sits up just enough to guide the thick head of his cock to her entrance. Lando’s patience snaps at her quick response, and he thrusts his hips up in one motion, his hands holding her hips and pulling her down onto him at the same time. The stretch is overwhelming and takes her by surprise, knocking the wind out of her and making her vision blur at the edges as she tries to take all of him.

They moan together, helpless, her hands landing on his chest as she laughs shakily. “You trying to break me in half or?”

“Didn’t think you’d be so tight,” he groans in a strained voice.

Lando tries his best to take it slow, but the way she welcomes him, so warm and perfect, nearly undoes him the moment he’s all in. A shudder runs down his spine as he grips her hips with more force, thinking maybe if he doesn’t hold her right, the world will actually end.

And it may, based on how her hands are sliding up, clawing at his shoulders with her nails digging in to anchor herself. Her breath shudders out in short bursts as she does, her body struggling to adjust, to take everything he has to offer. All of him.

To test the waters, she starts circling her hips, hoping she’ll find the angle that makes her breath hitch, and when she does, it’s like lightning strikes between them. He’s impossibly deep, touching places inside her she didn’t even know could feel this good. Her pussy hugs him so tightly that Lando has to grit his teeth to shut himself up. Then she tilts her hips forward just slightly with every grind, rocking her clit perfectly against his pelvis while he’s buried inside her.

The effect she was looking for is instant, and she hears Lando choking on another moan, finally, “Fuck, yeah. Right there,” his fingers dig into her skin, hunger battling in his wide eyes. “Do that again, it feels so fucking good.”

“Shit, Lando,” she breaths out. “So deep, I can feel you everywhere.”

She pulls him in again and again, until he is practically whining beneath her. Seeing Lando so lost inside her makes her losing the rhythm, her breathing turning ragged, thighs ready to give up as exhaustion and pleasure blur into one. It’s messy and greedy on both sides, and when she finally collapses against his chest, she sobs out a cry, her voice cracking with it.

“Need you,” she exhales. “I can’t hold it anymore.”

Lando doesn’t waste a breath. One sharp, hungry movement and he’s planting his feet against the floor for leverage, thrusting up into her with everything he’s got. She gasps at the same time he groans deep in his chest, the sound vibrating between them as he finally takes her the way they’ve both needed.

Her mouth goes dry.

His jaw tightens.

Their breath grows heavier, shared in the tight, sweaty space. Her body tenses, then squeezes around him with such perfect pressure it leaves him breathless. A high-pitched moan spills from her, unexpected and honest, and she slaps a hand over her mouth, biting at it in order to shut herself up.

Gently, Lando catches her wrist, holding it firm. “If you’re gonna bite something,” he tilts his head, offering his shoulder, “Be a good girl and bite me instead.”

Her breathing is too fast and her mind runs at the speed of an F1 car. She can’t think straight and, for a moment, she just stays there, her forehead brushing the curve of his shoulder as she tries to catch herself from falling in too deep. Then slowly, like she’s giving in to something bigger than her, she places a kiss on his skin. Her lips press gently on it, trailing along the line of his neck to the dip of his collarbone. It’s the closest thing she’ll ever give him. The closest thing to letting herself feel for him.

He’s still warm, salty with sweat, and soft under her lips. And he smells so good, like skin and heat and something clean that clings to her nose and settles in her chest like smoke.

It drugs her.

The way his scent mixes with the feel of his breath against her temple, the way his pulse flutters beneath her lips — she has to stop. It’s too much, too close, too real.

“Think we should bet every race weekend, what do you say?” asks Lando, his pace quickening, hands guiding her up and down his cock like it’s the only thing that keeps him sane. “Would die to have you like this all the time, hm?”

“Mhm,” she grinds down until his name is all she can say. “Fuck. I’m so close.”

“Yeah, baby. I feel you.”

Her voice breaks off into a moan right when she’s about to speak again, to tell him not to go there and call her that. But Lando rolls his hips, pushing deeper, filling her inch by inch until there’s no space left, which shuts her up in an instant. They fuck in a rhythm that shouldn’t work, all sweat-slicked skin and shaky breaths. The air fills up with obscene sounds of them, their bodies colliding with enough force to make her whimper and moan his name all over again, each time he thrusts.

To help himself, he spreads her wider, holding her open for him, watching the way he disappears inside her, utterly wrecked by the sight. “Taking me so fucking well,” he says between thrusts, dragging his mouth over her jaw. “Look.”

She whines while looking down at where they’re joined. Lando moves his gaze on her expression with a grin on his face, so proud when he feels every spasm in her body; it’s a total mess. Her slick is all over him, coating his cock, his thighs, soaking through the waistband of his jeans that are still shoved only halfway down his hips. Each time they meet, there’s a wet sound echoing between them, sticky and warm, ricocheting against the walls in Lando’s living room like a drumbeat pulling them closer to the edge.

“You like how wrecked you’ve got me?”

She nods frantically, squeezing him so tight it makes Lando see stars. At that, he reaches up, brushing the strands of hair from her face, tucking them behind her ears with his long fingers. His hand stays there a moment, continuing to slide lower, fingertips skimming her jaw, then wrapping gently around her throat, enough to feel her pulse. To hold her in place.

In a matter of seconds, their eyes lock again. Her chest heaves and her eyes shine, but not just from pleasure. It’s because she wants to tell him that this isn’t what she expected. It’s much, much more, and it will leave a deep mark, no matter which path they’ll choose to take tomorrow morning.

His hands move hungrily, down from her neck to her chest, cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples. He holds them carefully, wanting to memorize the shape, the weight, and the way they fill his palms, to make sure he won’t forget a single detail about her body.

“Lan,” she warns.

Lando hums, “Mhm. Right there with you, beautiful,” he assures her.

Her breathing is jagged, the rhythm of their hips desperate, chasing the edge that’s been teasing them since the moment she sank down onto him. Every motion drives him deeper, sends wave after wave crashing through her, because she’s right there for quite a while now.

“Hi there,” Lando’s voice brings her back. His hand comes up to cradle the back of her head, gently pulling her to see her face. “Look at me, I want to see you. Let me see you.”

Her body tenses, and just for a split second the frantic rhythm stutters, then finds its pace again as the orgasm rips through her with a blinding force. She keeps her eyes on his the whole time, riding it out with her hands burried in the curls at the back of his head. His hips jerk beneath her as he throbs inside her, overwhelmed by the way she fights to keep him in. It drives him crazy, and he moans loudly, trying to pull out, but her thighs close tighter around him.

“Inside,” she rushes to say, unable to form sentences longer than one word.

Lando’s jaw clenches so hard he feels like his teeth might snap from the force, every muscle in his body pulled tight and shivering. He holds on by a thread for half a second longer, but then her body flutters around him again, and with a loud, guttural gasp, he lets go, spilling inside her in thick pulses that only make her hold him tighter. His hands shake where they clutch at her hips, trying to pull her down even harder, like he can’t bear even a sliver of distance between them right in this moment.

None of them knows how much time passes like that, but neither of them moves again. She’s stays slumped against his chest, her face buried in the crook of his neck, while his arms stay locked around her waist, as if letting go might break whatever just happened between them.

Lando presses his cheek on the top of her head, his heart hammering so hard he’s sure she can feel it. But it’s fine, because he can feel hers, too.

His hands drift up and down her back in aimless strokes and, while she starts to come back to herself, she notices the music still playing softly around them, the same sultry beat from earlier floating through the air.

Her brows pinch together in confusion before realization hits. “How the fuck did you time your playlist so perfectly?”

Lando lets out a breathless laugh, “Talent.”

She snorts, dropping her head back onto his shoulder with a groan. “Goodness gracious, it is so hard tolerate you.”

“Liar,” he says, “You wanna kiss me so bad.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes, but the way her cheeks heat up gives her away immediately. Lando laughs under his breath again, cocky and so annoyingly right. She opens her mouth to fire back, to tell him that no, she definitely doesn’t want to kiss his smug ass, but then her eyes catch the little red light blinking from across the couch.

The camera. Still recording.

She nudges him softly, grinning against the flush in her cheeks, and points at it. “Smile and wave, Norris,” she whispers, and Lando immediately flashes the most ridiculous smirk at the lens, making her laugh for real this time.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[alygator77]

༻behind the screen༺

♡ pairing. gojo x fem! reader (au you're coworkers)

♡ summary. when a late-night swipe on an anonymous dating app leads to a sultry phone call, you think it’s the perfect way to escape your work stress���especially your infuriatingly smug coworker Gojo Satoru. but when the man on the other end starts sounding eerily familiar, secrets slip out.

♡ contents. 18+ MDNI, smut, phone sex, mutual masturbation, praise kink, dirty talk, satoru is pining over you.

♡ wc. 3k

♡ a/n this was a request! it became longer than i anticipated hehe. but i had fun writing it nonetheless 💕

Gojo Satoru was used to being in control. Whether it was at work, in social settings, or just walking into a room, he was the guy who turned heads, the one who made people laugh, the one everyone gravitated toward.

Confidence was his currency, and he spent it lavishly. But around you? His brain seemed to malfunction entirely.

It was infuriating, really. He could charm anyone with a single smile, yet you—you—barely spared him a glance. And when you did, it was usually accompanied by a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

But you didn’t hate Gojo Satoru—hate was too strong a word for someone as maddeningly smug as him.

What you felt for him was more akin to the annoyance of stepping in gum on a hot summer day or spilling coffee on your favorite blouse. He was a constant presence in your life, always hovering with his stupidly perfect grin and those ridiculous quips that made your eye twitch.

And yet, to him, you were an enigma. You didn’t fall for his charm, his playful teasing, or his self-proclaimed ‘devastatingly good looks,’ and that made you a puzzle he was desperate to solve.

At first, he chalked it up to frustration. No one had ever resisted him the way you did, and it had to be a fluke. Then, the realization hit him like a freight train: he didn’t just want your attention—he wanted you.

It was a big, messy crush, and he had no idea what to do about it. Gojo Satoru didn’t pine, for god’s sake. So, he acted indifferent.

Unfortunately, his strategy was… suboptimal.

Relentless teasing. Sarcastic remarks. Even the occasional ‘accidental’ brush of his hand against yours. None of it worked. Instead of pulling you closer, it only seemed to cement your belief that he was a certified pain in the ass.

Case in point: last Friday in the break room.

“Still no boyfriend, huh?” he’d asked with a smirk, leaning casually against the door frame as if he hadn’t been plotting that line all day. “Guess guys just don’t appreciate all that… sarcasm. Or is it the constant glaring?”

The flash of irritation in your eyes was immediate and searing. He regretted it the moment the words left his mouth, but instead of apologizing, he doubled down with a cocky grin. That was his defense mechanism—smugness as a shield.

You didn’t even bother to dignify him with a response. You stormed off, brushing his shoulder while your heels clicked against the floor as he stood there, internally kicking himself.

Now, as you lay in bed on a random Tuesday night, those words played on repeat in your head. It wasn’t because they hurt—of course not. But they lingered, burrowing into your thoughts like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

Was that cocky ass, right? No… you could get a boyfriend… if you wanted to.

The thought made you scowl, your finger aimlessly scrolling through your phone as the glow of the screen illuminated your face.

“God, who cares what he thinks…” you groan, tossing your phone aside. But the moment you did, it buzzed, and the glow of an ad caught your attention.

A dating app. Anonymous. Discreet. Perfect for someone who wanted validation… without the strings.

“Why not?” you mutter, tapping the download button.

You didn’t expect much. Maybe a few shallow conversations, something to pass the time and make you feel less… undesirable.

Fuck it.

༻♡༺

Gojo Satoru slouched on his couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest while his other hand flicked mindlessly through his phone.

The TV was on, some senseless drama he couldn’t care less about playing in the background. It was just noise, really—something to drown out the thoughts he didn’t want to entertain. Thoughts of you.

“You’re sulking,” Suguru’s voice cut through the haze, casual and smug as always. Satoru barely looked up as his best friend wandered in from the kitchen, a beer in hand.

“I don’t sulk,” his thumb swipes with more force than necessary, and the pout tugging at his lips, said otherwise.

Suguru snorted, plopping down beside him and cracking his beer open.

“Sure,” he said, leisurely taking a sip. “So, what’s your deal this time? Another tragic failure to get her attention?”

Satoru’s eyes flick up to glare at his friend, but the effect was less menacing and more petulant. He looks back at his phone, refusing to dignify that with a response. Still, his pout said everything Suguru needed to know.

“It wasn’t a failed attempt…” he grumbles after a moment. “She reacts… just… the wrong way…”

Suguru’s brow arches is amusement as he takes another sip of his beer.

“Lemme guess… she glared at you. Again.”

Satoru was silent, staring at his phone like it might provide him with a more dignified answer, but eventually, the admission slipped out, quiet and begrudging.

“Her glare is cute…”

Suguru doesn’t miss the soft pink dusting Satoru’s cheeks, and his eyes roll so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of his head. He sets his beer down with a sigh, leaning back to rest an arm along the back of the couch.

“You’ve got it bad, man. Just confess already.”

“I can’t,” Satoru’s sigh is so dramatic it could’ve won him an award. He drops his phone onto his chest, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the secrets of the universe. “She totally hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Suguru counters. “She just thinks you’re an idiot, which—let’s be real—you kinda are.”

“Wow. Thanks,” Satoru said flatly. “Your support is truly heartwarming.”

Suguru shrugs, unbothered as always. He grabs his beer and takes another sip, eyeing Satoru like he’s both a lost cause and an endless source of entertainment.

“Y’know what your problem is?”

“Oh, please. Enlighten me,” Satoru stretches his legs out on the coffee table.

Suguru sets his can back down with a decisive clink.

“You overthink things with this girl. Maybe you need a distraction. You oughta download one of those dating apps everyone’s obsessed with. Blow off some steam.”

“A dating app?” Satoru’s nose scrunches in disgust, like Suguru had suggested he take up competitive bird watching or something.

Suguru, unperturbed, reaches over and snatches the phone off Satoru’s chest with zero hesitation. “Yep,” his fingers fly over the screen. “You’re clearly incapable of doing this on your own, so I’m doing it for you.”

“Wait, what—”

“There.” Suguru shoves the phone back into Satoru’s hands, grinning like a man who’d just solved world hunger. “All set.”

༻♡༺

That was how Satoru found himself lying in bed, staring at the app now loaded onto his phone—the bright interface practically mocking him.

A dating app? Seriously?

He was Gojo fucking Satoru. He didn’t need help in that department—if anything, people practically threw themselves at him.

And yet, here he was, thumb hovering over the ‘Get Started’ button like it was some kind of nuclear launch code.

“This is so dumb…” he mutters to himself, running a hand through his snow-white hair. But the alternative—sitting here alone and thinking about you—was worse. Much worse.

With a resigned sigh, he taps the button. The setup was painless enough, and he will admit that the app’s anonymity piqued his interest. No names, no faces, no preconceived notions—just bios and conversation. A refreshing change from his usual routine.

But once he started swiping, reality set in.

The profiles were… bland. Painfully so. If he had to read one more line about someone who ‘loves hiking and tacos,’ he was going to throw his phone across the room. Plus, the conversations he’d had were dull at best and unbearable at worst. Small talk wasn’t his thing, and most people just couldn’t seem to keep up with his wit.

Satoru was about five minutes away from deleting the app when your profile popped up. It was short, clever, and witty—his kind of humor. Intrigued, he swiped right and shot you a message.

Hours slipped away like water through his fingers. The conversation flowed so easily it was almost surreal. You didn’t tiptoe around him or try to impress him—you met his sarcasm with your own, and every jab you threw only made him want to know more.

The two of you talked about everything—movies, terrible music recommendations, the absurdity of office politics. The way you called out corporate nonsense had him laughing so hard he had to put the phone down to catch his breath. He couldn’t remember the last time someone made him laugh like that.

God—you were funny, sharp, and quick on your feet in a way that reminded him of—

Nah…

It wasn’t you. It couldn’t be. The universe wasn’t that cruel—or that kind.

He groans, tossing his phone onto the bed and rubbing a hand over his face. His mind was betraying him again, spiraling back to you like it always does.

‘You need a distraction. Blow off some steam.’

Maybe Suguru was right. Maybe he needed a distraction. Something—anything—to get you out of his head.

As his phone buzzes with a new message, his gaze drifts back to the screen.

still there, or did I scare you off?

A slow grin spreads across his face. Whatever. Whoever you were, you had his attention. For tonight, that was enough.

Still here. Hey, can I be honest for a sec?

mmm… depends. how honest?

He smirked, typing quickly.

Well, tbh I’ve been having a tough time. Got it bad for this coworker. Total knockout, but I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m an idiot.

He hits send before he can talk himself out of it, watching the little ‘delivered’ icon appear. Your reply comes after a brief pause.

yikes… sounds complicated.

He chuckles, already typing again.

You have no idea... anyway, I figured I could use a distraction. And if I’m gonna distract myself, I’d rather do it with someone who can actually keep my interest.

There was a beat of hesitation, and then he boldly added:

Wanna have phone sex?

This time, the pause stretched longer. Long enough for him to wonder if he’d blown it. But then, his phone buzzes again.

fuck it... why not?

Grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, he hit the call button through the app. The line rang once, twice, before clicking.

“Hi…” your voice greeted him softly.

“Hey princess,” he drawled. “Thought I might’ve scared you off.”

“Oh… no,” you said, a soft laugh escaping you. “But I will admit, you’re straight to the point, aren’t you?”

“Always.” He leans back further, his free hand trailing lazily over his stomach. “Why waste time, right? Life’s too short for tiptoeing around.”

Ironic, considering how he seemed to do nothing but tiptoe around you—his coworker—at work. You—who always had him second-guessing himself in ways no one else ever could.

However, this wasn’t about you. This was a stranger—right? A voice on the other end of the line. That was all.

But as you laugh through the phone, he closes his eyes, letting the sound settle over him. It was nice… and familiar. Too familiar.

No.

He was imagining things. Again. His brain was playing tricks on him, twisting your voice into something it wasn’t. There was no way it was you.

“So,” he said, steering the conversation back on track. “You’ve done this before?”

“Not really,” you admit, voice dipping slightly. “Actually… no. Honestly, I haven’t. This is my first time.”

His grin widens—the cocky edge returning to his tone.

“First time, huh? Well, you’re in luck. I’m an excellent teacher.”

You let out another soft laugh, nervous but sweet, and it sends a jolt of heat straight through him. What the hell is wrong with him tonight? Your voice—soft, familiar—it feels like a melody he’s heard before.

“Is that so?” you ask, breaking his train of thought.

“Hmm? Oh… absolutely,” he said, shaking his head with a smirk. His fingers drummed against his thigh as he forced himself to focus. “Just relax, princess. Let me guide you.”

“…okay,” you whisper.

He exhales slowly, letting the tension drain from his shoulders as he shifts lower on the bed.

“Now… are you laying in your bed for me?”

“mhmm…” you hum softly.

“Mm, good girl,” he murmurs. “Alright, tell me—what are you wearing?”

“Just… an oversized shirt,” the hesitation in your voice makes him grin. “Nothing else.”

“Yeah?” his hand trails down to the waistband of his sweatpants as he closes his eyes. “That’s perfect. Makes it easy to imagine my hands slipping underneath, right up to that pretty pussy of yours...”

Your sharp inhale crackles through the receiver, and the sound sends a thrill straight to his cock.

“Do something for me,” he begins palming his growing bulge. “Run your hands down your thighs… nice and slow. Tease yourself the way I would.”

There was a beat of silence, and he held his breath, waiting. Then, he heard it—a faint shift in your breathing, followed by a soft, shaky exhale. It was subtle, but it was enough to tell him you were doing exactly as he asked.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his own hand slipping beneath his waistband to wrap around his cock. It twitched eagerly in his palm, already hard and aching as he imagines you following his instructions.

“…you touching yourself, sweetheart?”

“Y-yeah.”

The word trembles on your lips like a secret only he’s allowed to hear, and his grip tightens on his cock as he begins to stroke himself slowly—matching the rhythm he imagines your hand moving in.

“Good girl,” he purrs, the sheets rustling beneath him as his hand glides across his length. “Now slide your fingers inside that tight little cunt… nice and slow.”

Your soft moan spills through the line, and his hips buck involuntarily at the sound—his hand moving faster.

“Fuck… love hearing those pretty little sounds” he groans as his thumb swipes over his tip, slick with pre-cum. “How many fingers are you using?”

“Two,” you gasp as the word breaks into a moan.

“Add another,” he commands, almost a growl.

You hesitate for just a moment, but then your breathy whimper crackles through the line, and he hisses through clenched teeth, his dick twitching eagerly at the sound. But somehow, without meaning to, his imagination betrays him.

He pictures you—his coworker. Fuck, why couldn’t he stop thinking about you?

You—head tipped back; lips parted as your fingers work you open—his cock throbbed eagerly at the mental image.

Fuck… this was supposed to be a distraction, not fuel for his already out-of-control infatuation. He groaned, annoyed at himself but powerless to stop, and his strokes grew faster, more desperate as he surrendered to the fantasy.

“Haa… that’s my girl,” he praises, eyes fluttering shut as his hips buck into his hand desperately. “Stretch yourself for me. Make yourself nice and ready for my cock… nngh… wanna fucking fill you up, princess. Make you take every inch.”

Your soft, choked moan crackles through the phone, and it unravels him further. His strokes grow faster, more erratic—his free hand gripping the sheets as he chases his release.

“Bet you’d look so pretty,” his hand becomes a frantic blur as he loses himself to his fantasy. “All spread out and dripping for me. Taking my cock like a good girl… haaa… gonna fucking stuff you full as you cum all over m’ dick.”

“Fuck… m’ cumming,” you gasp, and as your broken cry crackles through the receiver, it sends him careening over the edge.

“Fuck… yes, good fucking girl… haaa—m’ cumming too.”

He pumps his cock, hips jerking as thick, hot streams of cum spill over his hand and onto the sheets below. His breath hitches in his throat, and before he can stop himself, your name rips from his lips, raw and guttural, a desperate cry he couldn’t contain.

Through the phone, your own gasping breaths mingle with his—the faint sound of your release trembling through the line. Then, for a brief moment, the world was quiet, save for the shared rhythm of your breathing as the two of you come down from the high.

Until, reality set in.

Fuck.

He blinked up at the ceiling, his free hand raking through his hair as his brain scrambled to process what just happened.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He felt like a goddamn asshole. He’d just moaned someone else’s name—your name—while he was supposed to be with someone else.

What the hell was wrong with him?

But then, you laughed—a soft, breathless sound that broke through his spiraling thoughts.

“That was… fun,” you said warmly, slightly teasing. “But, um… how do you know my name?”

His stomach dropped.

“I… what?” his voice cracked slightly as panic clawed its way up his throat.

“You said my name,” you reply, a curious lilt to your tone now. “I don’t remember telling you my name. And, you know, the app is supposed to be anonymous…”

It hit him all at once.

The voice that had been haunting him, the one that felt so painfully familiar, the one he’d convinced himself couldn’t possibly be yours—it was yours.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, his heart pounding in his chest as realization washed over him.

“Wait…” your tone shifts from amused to sharp. “You sound familiar. Like… Gojo?”

His stomach flips, dread pooling in his chest like ice water.

“Uh…” He froze, his mind scrambling for something, anything, that could salvage this disaster. “…hi, princess?” His tone was a weak attempt at his usual cocky charm—it fell flat. “Didn’t expect to find you on this app…”

There was a beat of silence, and then, like the idiot he was, his mouth moved faster than his brain.

“Sooo… still no boyfriend then, huh?”

[orangeblossomsintheair]

ILLICIT AFFAIRS (1/3) | CS55

summary : “Bossy, isn’t he?” The voice is smooth, warm, and laced with amusement. You glance to your left and—of course—it’s Carlos Sainz. You freeze, your brother’s voice echoing in your head like a siren: Run. RUN.

wc : 9k

an : sorry for the lack of updates recently.. ehem.. anyway. rally driver carlos sainz. im making this a thing now.

“You’re staring,” Carlos says, voice low and gravelly. His smile is wolfish, sharp enough to cut through your resolve.

You blink, forcing yourself to focus on something other than the way his fireproofs cling to his frame or how the red of his suit gleams in the harsh light. “You’re filthy.”

“Occupational hazard,” he replies, shrugging. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement? Challenge? It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

Because you’re Charles Leclerc’s little sister, and that means Carlos Sainz Jr. is completely, irrevocably off-limits.

Charles would kill you both if he knew. He’s warned you before, in that brotherly-but-deadly-serious tone only he can manage.

Carlos is reckless, he said.

Carlos is trouble.

Carlos is not for you.

But damned it all, he looks good.

The kind of good that sinks its teeth into your chest and doesn’t let go. Mud-drowned, sweat-stained, grime-smeared.

Carlos Sainz Jr. wears chaos like it’s tailored for him.

By all accounts, you have no business so much as glancing twice at him.

Preciously guarded, perfectly poised, the crown jewel of your family’s otherwise tumultuous legacy.

Carlos doesn’t belong in the world that your family envisions for you. He’s nothing like the men you’ve been told to admire. His name carries weight, but for all the wrong reasons.

His reputation is as red as the suit he wears, all sharp edges and unapologetic flame. A bold, glaring warning sign.

—

The first time you meet Carlos Sainz is at the FIA WRC Prize-Giving Ceremony, a glittering vortex of champagne, sequins, and self-importance. The kind of place where you’d half expect someone to announce their yacht has feelings and everyone to applaud.

You’re standing near the bar, clutching a cocktail that tastes like fruit and regret, watching as yet another impeccably dressed couple glides by, all pearly smiles and whispered deals.

You’ve perfected the art of looking like you belong here. Chin up, shoulders back, face set in that careful neutral expression that says, Yes, I am both fascinated and entirely above this conversation.

Your dress, while beautiful, feels like it’s plotting against you.

It’s a designer masterpiece, sure, but also a silken cage, clinging to you with a vengeance. Moving feels like negotiating with an overly aggressive boa constrictor.

You’re mid-sip when a familiar warmth presses against your side, accompanied by the unmistakable scent of Dior cologne and something ineffably Charles.

He slides into your personal space with the precision of a Ferrari in a hairpin turn, arm looping over your shoulders in a practiced, casual gesture

“Hey,” you murmur, tilting your head just enough to catch a glimpse of him. He’s all sharp lines and understated ease, looking like he belongs here more than you feel like you ever will.

“Hey,” he replies, voice low, steady. You know what that particular combination usually entails.

“Charles,” you start, “why do I feel like you’re about to ruin my evening?”

“Because I probably am,” he says, his tone far too smug. “What’s with the silent brooding act? You’re usually better at pretending to have fun at these things.”

You shoot him a sidelong glance. “It’s not brooding. It’s observational detachment. Very sophisticated.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, clearly unimpressed. “Observational detachment looks a lot like you wishing the floor would swallow you whole.”

You huff. “Look, not everyone thrives in a room full of egos and overpriced cologne. Some of us are just trying to survive without tripping over a waiter or accidentally insulting someone’s investment portfolio.”

Charles chuckles, a low, warm sound that makes you feel both comforted and mildly insulted. “Relax. Nobody’s looking at you.”

“Wow, thanks for that, Charles. Truly, your support is overwhelming.”

“Anytime,” he says, patting your shoulder like you’re a child who just learned how to tie their shoes.

Before you can deliver a properly scathing retort, a ripple of energy rolls through the crowd.

It’s subtle at first, a shift in the air, but then the room practically pivots in unison. You wonder for a second if someone's giving out free caviar.

Instead, you follow their collective gaze to a man.

He strides into the room with the kind of confidence that should be illegal. The tailored suit, the tousled hair, the jawline that could cut glass. It's like someone combined a Greek statue and a high-stakes poker player and gave it legs.

“Man of the hour,” Charles mutters, his voice tinged with something you can’t quite place. Disdain? Wariness? A general sense of foreboding?

You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head toward him. “Friend of yours?”

Charles snorts. “Hardly. That’s Carlos Sainz Jr. Rally royalty. He's won the last 3 seasons. Toyota’s golden boy. Ferrari’s got some partnership thing with them next season, which is the only reason why we’re even here.”

You glance back at Carlos, who’s working the room with maddening confidence. “So, he’s basically Rally’s Verstappen?” you ask, your curiosity slipping out before you can stop it.

Charles gives you a look. “Don’t.”

“What?” you say, feigning innocence. “I’m just asking.”

“You’re not just asking,” he counters, his eyes narrowing. “I know that look. That’s the ‘who’s that guy, and how do I make him notice me’ look.”

“Excuse me,” you scoff, turning to face him fully. “I do not have a-”

“Don’t even try to deny it,” he interrupts, holding up a hand. “I’ve seen you use it. Monaco. Italy. That time in Barcelona with-”

“Alright!” you hiss, your face heating. “Fine. Maybe I’m curious. He’s… magnetic.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, magnets also attract negative things. Stay away from him.”

You smirk, leaning a little closer. “What’s the matter, Charles? Afraid I’ll charm him?”

“No,” he says flatly. “I’m afraid he’ll charm you. And then I’ll have to deal with whatever disaster follows.”

“Relax,” you drawl, giving him a playful nudge. “I’m not that easy to charm.”

“Yeah, sure,” Charles mutters, clearly unconvinced. “Just don’t do that thing where you get all… wide-eyed and clever. Guys like him eat that up.”

You’re about to respond when you feel it— a gaze.

You glance up, and there it is.

Carlos’s eyes are on you. It’s brief, almost imperceptible, but it sends a spark down your spine.

Charles notices instantly. His grip on your shoulder tightens. “Don’t,” he warns again, his voice low and dangerous.

“I didn’t do anything!” you protest, trying to suppress a smile.

“Exactly. And you’re not going to,” he says, steering you toward the opposite end of the room like a bouncer removing an unruly guest. “We’re going to stand over here, away from trouble.”

You laugh, unable to help yourself. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being predictable,” he shoots back, his jaw tight. “Trust me, mon cher, you don’t want to play with fire.”

You glance over your shoulder, catching one last glimpse of Carlos as Charles practically barricades you with his presence. “You know,” you murmur, smirking, “sometimes you’re more fun when you’re not acting like dad.”

Charles glares at you. “And sometimes, you’re less annoying when you don’t flirt with people I don't even want to see once in my lifetime.”

“The fact that they annoy you is half the fun,” you say sweetly, earning a groan from him.

“God help me,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re going to kill me one day, I swear.”

—

“Alright, sœur,” Charles says as he adjusts the cuffs of his tuxedo. “I need to head out for some Ferrari business. Do not make me regret leaving you alone.”

You raise an eyebrow, sipping your cocktail with mock innocence. “Charles, please. What trouble could I possibly get into in a room full of racing legends and corporate sponsors?”

He levels you with a look so sharp it could shave ice. “I have seen you talk your way out of detention, past bouncers, and into a free round of drinks on three separate continents. You are a wildcard, sœur.”

“Flattering,” you reply, setting your glass down. “But seriously, I’ll be fine. I’ll stay right here by the bar, sipping my little fruity drink, not bothering anyone.”

“Promise me,” Charles says, and his tone is so dead serious you have to bite back a laugh.

“Promise,” you reply solemnly, holding up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

Charles doesn’t look convinced. “No cocktails that magically refill themselves.”

“Understood.”

“No sneaking out the back to avoid small talk.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“And absolutely, under no circumstances, are you to talk to Carlos Sainz.”

At this, you can’t help but grin. “Ah, so we’re naming names now.”

“I mean it,” Charles says, leaning in closer, his voice dropping. “He’s not for you. He's the kind of guy that makes people do stupid things.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Are you warning me or complimenting him?”

Charles groans as he steps back, hands on his hips, his expression a mix of concern and mild irritation. If he had a clipboard, you’re pretty sure he’d be writing up a contract for you to sign in blood just so he can rest easier.

“Alright,” he says. “Repeat it back to me. What are the rules?”

You sigh, adjusting the strap of your too-tight dress. “Charles, I’m not five-”

“Rules.” His tone is firm, his eyes narrowing like he’s daring you to argue.

You roll your eyes but indulge him anyway. “I will stay here, I won’t get drunk, and I will absolutely not talk to Carlos Sainz.”

“And?”

You blink. “And… I won’t commit arson?”

He glares at you, unimpressed. “You won’t look at Carlos Sainz.”

“Charles-”

“Not even a glance. Not even one of those polite ‘oh, I accidentally made eye contact across the room’ things. Nothing. He doesn’t exist to you. Got it?”

You try to keep a straight face but fail miserably. “What happens if he sneezes near me? Do I ignore that too? Should I call security?”

“Sœur, this is not a joke,” he huffs, his hands moving to your shoulders like he can physically shake the mischief out of you. “Carlos is… he’s trouble.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Trouble? Or, like, annoyingly charming?”

“Both!” Charles exclaims, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “And don’t give me that look. I’ve seen what happens when you’re around guys like him. You think they’re all charming smiles and nice suits, and then next thing I know, you’re calling me to help you get out of some ridiculous situation-”

“I called you one time,” you interrupt. “And that was because the guy had a pet snake, and I panicked!”

“And who ended up having to rescue you from the snake guy?”

“Okay, fine, you made your point,” you mutter, crossing your arms. “I won’t talk to Carlos. Happy?”

“No,” Charles says flatly. “But I have to leave anyway. Ferrari’s calling.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “Abandoning your defenseless sister in the lion’s den. What a hero.”

He leans in close, his eyes locked on yours. “I’m serious. Stay here, don’t drink too much, and if you see Carlos coming, you run.”

“Run? In this dress? Are you kidding me?”

“Figure it out,” he snaps, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before walking off. He glances over his shoulder twice—twice—as if expecting to catch you breaking a rule the moment he’s out of earshot, before narrowing his eyes at a man who isn’t even Carlos but looked at you for half a second too long.

You wait until he’s fully gone before exhaling in relief.

“Bossy, isn’t he?”

The voice is smooth, warm, and laced with amusement. You glance to your left and—of course— it’s Carlos Sainz.

You freeze, your brother’s voice echoing in your head like a siren: Run.

RUN.

“I was beginning to think he’d never leave,” Carlos adds, a mischievous grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You blink at him, momentarily caught off guard. “You were… waiting for him to leave?”

“Only because he kept looking at me like I’d stolen his wallet,” Carlos replies, leaning casually against the bar. “Or his car. Or his sister.”

You open your mouth to respond but close it again, realizing there’s no good way to play this off. “He’s just… protective.”

Carlos chuckles, his eyes scanning your face with a kind of slow, deliberate curiosity. “I noticed. So, did you make him that promise? No drinks, no sneaking out, no talking to me?”

“Absolutely not,” you say, deadpan. “I told him I’d only talk to the nice drivers.”

Carlos clutches his chest like you’ve just shot him. “Ouch. Harsh.”

“I’m just being polite,” you say, your lips twitching into a smile.

“Well,” he replies, leaning closer, his voice dropping slightly, “if this is you being polite, I think I would very much like to see what happens when you are not.”

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “You’re trouble.”

He grins wider. “So I have heard.”

You glance around, half-expecting Charles to materialize out of thin air and haul you away, but thankfully, the coast is clear. “If Charles sees us talking…”

“I will tell him I was complimenting his suit,” Carlos says, completely unbothered.

“Complimenting his suit?”

“It is the diplomatic approach,” he says with a shrug. “Besides, I am not here to talk about your brother.”

You feel your cheeks heat slightly but manage to keep your tone light. “Oh? And what are you here to talk about?”

Carlos tilts his head, considering. “I was going to ask what you are drinking. But now I am more curious about what it takes to make you smile like that.”

You blink at him, caught completely off guard. “Like what?”

“Like you have just outsmarted someone,” he says, his grin softening.

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

“Likely not,” he admits. Carlos leans against the bar, his grin firmly in place, the picture of someone who knows they’re being just a bit too charming for their own good. “Alright then,” he says, folding his arms casually, “if flattery is off the table, will you take honesty?”

You arch a brow, intrigued despite yourself. “Honesty? Bold move. Let’s hear it.”

He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Honestly… I do not think I have ever seen someone look so uncomfortable in such an expensive dress.”

Your mouth falls open in mock offense. “Excuse me?”

“You look stunning,” he says quickly, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip, “but also like you are plotting the designer’s bankruptcy for making it impossible to sit down without no strategy.”

You try to fight the grin tugging at your lips, but it’s hopeless. “That obvious?”

“Painfully.” He gestures toward your drink. “That is why you are sticking to cocktails, am I wrong? Easier to hold when you cannot sit.”

“First of all,” you say, narrowing your eyes, “I’ll have you know this dress is art. Secondly, yes, it’s also a medieval torture device.”

Carlos laughs, the sound warm and rich. “I knew it. You should have gone for something more comfortable. Like a race suit.”

“Oh, sure,” you say dryly. “Nothing screams elegance like fireproof overalls.”

He raises a brow, amused. “I pull it off, no?”

“Debatable.”

Carlos gasps, hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

“Maybe you deserve it,” you tease, swirling your drink. “Coming over here and making fun of my dress. Bold move for a guy who was scared of my brother five minutes ago.”

“I was not scared,” Carlos protests, though his grin gives him away. “I was being… strategic. Big difference.”

“Strategic?”

“Of course. If I had approached with him still here, I would not have had a chance to make you laugh like this.”

You blink, caught off guard by the way his words land. Playful, sure, but with just enough sincerity to make your heart skip a beat. You glance down at your drink to recover. “You really don’t give up, do you?”

“Not when it is worth it,” he replies smoothly.

You roll your eyes, though you’re still smiling. “You know, Charles warned me about you.”

Carlos leans in slightly, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “Did he, now? What did he say?”

“That you’re trouble.”

He grins, clearly delighted. “Smart man, your brother.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I’m starting to think he undersold it.”

Carlos’s gaze lingers on you for a moment, his smile softening. “And yet, here you are. Still talking to me.”

“Out of politeness,” you counter, though your tone is anything but serious.

“Ah, of course,” he says, nodding solemnly. “Politeness. Nothing else.”

Before you can respond, a familiar figure catches your eye— Charles, weaving his way back through the crowd, his sharp gaze already scanning the room.

Carlos notices too.

He straightens slightly, his grin turning almost boyish. “Looks like the bodyguard is back.”

You feel a pang of panic and glance at Carlos. “You should probably go before he-”

He holds up a hand, cutting you off with a wink. “Relax.”

Before you can protest, he pulls a small card from his pocket and slides it across the bar toward you. “Call me sometime. You know, if you ever need a break from all the rules.”

Your eyes widen, and you stare at the card like it’s going to combust. “Are you serious right now?”

“Deadly,” he says, stepping back with an easy confidence that somehow makes the gesture feel entirely natural.

You glance back toward Charles, who’s getting closer. “You’re insane.”

“Very likely,” Carlos agrees, his grin never wavering. “But you are smiling again, so I will take my chances.”

With that, he turns and disappears into the crowd just as Charles arrives, his expression immediately suspicious.

“You’re… red,” Charles says, narrowing his eyes at you. “Why are you red?”

“I’m not red,” you reply quickly, tucking the card into your clutch before he can notice.

“You are definitely red.” His eyes scan the room like he’s searching for a culprit. “Did someone talk to you? Was it-” He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening. “It was him, wasn’t it?”

“Who?” you ask, feigning innocence.

Charles groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I leave you alone for ten minutes-”

“Nothing happened!” you say, cutting him off before he can spiral. “I stayed in place, I didn’t get drunk, and I absolutely did not talk with Carlos Sainz.”

Charles glares at you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced. “If I find out you’re lying…”

“You won’t,” you assure him, fighting to keep your expression neutral.

Charles mutters something in French under his breath, his protective instincts still on high alert. But for now, he seems to let it go.

You take a deep breath, trying not to think about the card burning a metaphorical hole in your clutch.

Trouble, indeed.

—

The next evening, you’re sitting on the edge of the couch in the hotel you're staying in for the week, the card in your hand like a magnet pulling your thoughts.

Carlos Sainz Jr.

His name, elegant and bold, hovers just above a phone number.

You’ve been staring at it for an hour, maybe two.

It’s reckless. You know exactly where this could lead. But after weeks of licking your wounds post-breakup, maybe reckless is what you need.

You grab your phone, dial the number, and press call before you can second-guess yourself.

The line rings twice before you hear his smooth, amused voice. “Did not expect you to actually call. Could you not resist me after all?”

You snort, leaning back in your chair. “You’re lucky I was bored.”

“Boredom. My favorite reason to hear from someone,” he says, the grin practically audible. “Let me guess, you are curious too?”

“A little bit.”

“Well, what are you curious about then? My irresistible charm? Perhaps my car collection?”

“How you manage to stay humble, obviously,” you deadpan, sinking back into the cushions.

Carlos laughs, warm and easy. “Touché. So, to what do I owe the honor of your time?”

“Honor?” you repeat, grinning despite yourself. “You’re laying it on thick, Sainz.”

“Is it working?” he teases.

“Not even a little.”

“Well that just breaks my heart,” he says, the amusement still lacing his voice. “So, what’s the plan? Coffee? A five-course dinner? A museum? A chess tournament, maybe?”

“Very funny.” You can’t help but roll your eyes.

He chuckles. “Not doing it for you? Then.. how about something a little more… fun?”

You pause, caught off guard by the openness of the invitation. He clearly doesn't shy away from what he wants. “Define ‘fun.’”

“Well, that depends,” he replies. “Do you like questionable choices?”

You laugh lightly, your shoulders relaxing. “That’s vague enough to sound both exciting and mildly concerning.”

“Only if you're afraid of a little adventure,” he says. “So, what do you say? Feel like breaking a rule or two tonight?”

It’s tempting, more than you care to admit. After the mess of your last relationship, something casual, something fun, feels like exactly what you need.

No strings, no complications, just one night where you don’t have to overthink.

“Fine,” you say before you can change your mind. “But if it’s boring, I’m blaming you.”

Carlos chuckles, confidence palpable even over the phone. “Deal. Wear something you can run in just in case.”

“Run?” you repeat, half-laughing. “What are we doing, robbing a bank?”

“Not unless you want to,” he quips. “Pick you at nine?”

“Make it ten,” you counter.

“Perfect,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll see you then.”

At exactly 10 p.m., you step out of your building to find him leaning against a sleek black car, his arms crossed casually over his chest. He looks up as you approach, his grin lighting up the cool night.

“Punctual,” he says, straightening. “I like that.”

“Don’t get too excited. I had to pull some serious James Bond moves just to get down here without getting caught.”

Carlos raises an eyebrow, his grin already threatening to take over his face. “You had to sneak out? Please tell me this involved climbing out a window, a grappling hook, or at least a dramatic roll through the bushes.”

“Dial it back, Hollywood,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. “Charles is in the same hotel, so I had to wait until he was distracted. Then it was all service elevators and a full-on sprint through the lobby. Not my proudest moment.”

Carlos lets out a laugh that’s so loud it practically echoes. “A sprint? In heels? I would’ve paid to see that. Did you also hurdle over a concierge desk? Maybe slap on a disguise?”

“Oh, sure,” you say dryly. “I borrowed a waiter’s tuxedo, grabbed a martini tray, and dramatically whispered, ‘The eagle has landed’ into my nonexistent earpiece. Happy?”

Carlos is practically wheezing now. “God, I love this. The mental image alone is worth every risk of me getting yelled at by Charles later.”

“Glad my suffering is your entertainment,” you grumble, though you can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

“It’s not suffering,” he teases, opening the passenger door with a flourish. “It’s resourcefulness. And it’s sexy, honestly. Nothing like a woman who can evade capture.”

Sliding into the car, you’re greeted by the smell of leather and something distinctly spicy- his cologne, no doubt.

You buckle your seatbelt with a sigh. “Let’s just hope Charles doesn’t find out. I don’t need another lecture about ‘dangerous distractions.’”

Carlos rounds the car and slides into the driver’s seat, shooting you an amused look. “Dangerous distractions? That is what he calls me?”

“Paraphrased,” you say, tilting your head. “But yeah, you’re not exactly his favorite person.”

Carlos starts the car, the low rumble of the engine filling the air. “Dangerous, distracting… mysterious? I mean, he is not wrong, no?”

“Sure, if you consider reckless confidence a mystery,” you deadpan, smirking.

The car glides through the streets, city lights flickering like distant stars. Soft music hums in the background, but it’s the easy rhythm of his laugh that keeps drawing your attention.

“So,” you say, breaking the silence, “do you make a habit of this? Sweeping women off their feet with late-night escapades and mediocre charm?”

Carlos glances at you, his grin widening. “Define habit.”

“Something you do as often as breathing, blinking, or inflating your ego,” you reply, deadpan.

He chuckles, one hand leaving the wheel to gesture grandly. “First of all, I don’t charm everyone. I have standards. Second, I don’t see you as a stranger. More like… a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in—”

“Don’t say mystery,” you cut in, groaning.

“Fine,” he says, smirking. “A challenge. And I love challenges.”

You arch a brow. “So what you’re saying is, I’m a Rubik’s Cube in heels?”

“Exactly,” he says, like it’s the highest compliment he could ever give someone.

“Oh, well, as long as I’m colorful and frustrating,” you reply, rolling your eyes.

Carlos grins. “And completely irresistible.”

“Please tell me that’s not your go-to line,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose in mock despair.

“Of course not,” he huffs, mock-offended. “My go-to line is, ‘Hi, I’m Carlos. Are you French? Because Eiffel for you.’”

You practically choke on your laugh. “That’s horrible. That’s, like, pick-up line rock bottom.”

“Rock bottom?” he echoes, feigning shock. “No way. It works every time.”

“Oh, I’m sure it does.” You shake your head. “On toddlers and tourists.”

“Hey,” he says, pointing a finger at you. “It worked on you, didn’t it?”

“Absolutely not,” you say, your laugh betraying you. “I’m here despite you, not because of you.”

Carlos smirks, his voice dripping with mischief. “Keep telling yourself that, mastermind. But I know the truth- you couldn’t resist the ‘dangerous distraction.’”

You groan, sinking further into your seat. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” he says, shooting you a quick, playful glance, “are having the time of your life, admit it.”

For once, you’re not entirely sure he’s wrong.

The car eventually pulls into the driveway of a sleek, modern hotel, its lights gleaming against the night sky.

You turn to Carlos, raising a skeptical brow, putting on your best impression of someone highly offended as he parks in front of the gleaming hotel. “So, this was the plan all along? Fancy hotel, late-night charm, and then…?”

You don’t even have to finish the sentence because his grin, the one that’s already halfway to insufferable, answers for him.

“And then what?” he fires back, leaning one arm against the steering wheel like he’s posing for a GQ article.

“You know exactly what,” you say, narrowing your eyes dramatically.

Carlos gasps, clutching his chest like you’ve just insulted his entire family tree. “Wow. So that’s where your mind went? I bring you here for the view and the ambiance, and you’re already casting me as the villain? Shame on you.”

“Oh, please,” you reply, fighting to keep your laugh in check. “I’m just cutting to the chase. Save us both the trouble.”

Carlos turns to face you and nothing in his face says he's particularly ashamed to admit his intentions. “Look, I could tell you some noble story about how I just wanted to show you the city from a better perspective.”

“But?” you prompt, raising a brow and you cover a laugh when he tuts at your impatience.

“But, I figured you’re too smart for that,” he admits with a shrug. “So yes, I brought you here thinking we would share a night.”

Your stomach flips at the sheer confidence of his answer, but you force the neutral expression to stay. “Bold of you to assume I’d even be interested.”

Carlos leans in slightly, voice dropping to something softer, teasing. “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I have taken the whole ‘call me’ thing as you wanting to discuss philosophy?”

He leans in, smirk turning positively dangerous. “Plus. Trouble’s half the fun, is it not?”

“Yeah, well, I’m not paying for room service if this whole charade involves a well-rehearsed speech,” you shoot back, unbuckling your seatbelt.

“Speech?” he echoes, already stepping out of the car and coming around to your side. He opens your door with an exaggerated bow that is far too ridiculous to be charming but it manages to be anyway. “If I were planning a speech, it would be Oscar-worthy. Full drama, perhaps a soundtrack. But alas, I left my tuxedo at home.”

“Shame,” you deadpan, stepping out. “A tux might’ve added some credibility.”

Carlos shrugs before gently taking your hand. “M’lady, allow me to escort you to… whatever this is.”

“You’re laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?” you say, stepping out.

“Thick is how I do everything,” he replies. “Thick charm, thick dessert layers.. Thick..”

He trails off, wiggling his eyebrows.

You groan, unable to help yourself. “Are you 13, Sainz?”

“Going on 30.”

The elevator ride is like a high-stakes staring contest, except Carlos is clearly cheating by smirking every time you glance his way.

He leans against the wall like a man who’s never faced consequences in his life, while you remain firmly committed to ignoring him.

“I could get used to this silence,” he finally says, breaking it. “Very... peaceful.”

You don’t even look at him. “If you wanted peaceful, Carlos, you picked the wrong girl.”

His laugh echoes in the small space, low and entirely too confident.

—

The suite is jaw-droppingly beautiful, the kind of place you’d expect to see in a movie where the protagonist definitely can’t afford it.

Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a cityscape so gorgeous it feels like you’ve just walked into a tourism campaign.

Even Charles doesn't splurge this much on hotels. Much less hotels to spend a one-night stand in.

“Alright,” you admit grudgingly as you step onto the balcony. “This is… adequate.”

Carlos sidles up beside you, resting his elbows on the railing. “Adequate? Adequate? That’s like calling the Mona Lisa ‘a decent sketch.’”

“Relax, da Vinci,” you reply. “It’s a view, not the eighth wonder of the world.”

He shakes his head in mock dismay. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to book this place? I practically had to arm-wrestle a guy named Greg for it. Poor man is probably crying into his budget tiramisu right now.”

You snort, folding your arms. “I hope Greg writes an angry Yelp review. ‘Carlos stole my room and ruined my tiramisu dreams.’”

“Hey, I was thinking of your happiness,” Carlos counters, gesturing grandly to the suite. “You should be thanking me.”

“Oh, thank you, generous benefactor, for saving me from the horror of Greg’s tiramisu,” you deadpan, though your lips twitch toward a smile.

Carlos taps his fingers on the table like he’s just cracked the da Vinci code wide open. “Boom! A smile! My evil plan is working.”

You squint at him, feigning shock. “You have an evil plan?”

“Obviously,” he says. “I am a professional at this stuff. There’s a whole spreadsheet.”

“Spreadsheets? Really? What’s in Column A? ‘Step one: tiramisu. Step two: convince her I’m worth her time’?”

“Not quite,” Carlos waves a hand as though dismissing your obvious lack of understanding. “Step two is actually ‘compliment her taste in balcony design.’”

You roll your eyes. “Well, in that case, I’ll have to charge you for emotional damages.”

Carlos grins, taking out his phone with an easy flick of his hand. “No need to worry, it’s all part of the strategy. Tiramisu’s on the way, and my evil plan is flawless.”

You cross your arms and step away from the window, keeping your eyes locked on his. “Define ‘flawless,’” you tease, your voice sharp with mock suspicion.

Carlos steps closer, smirking like a man on a mission. “Flawless enough that it is guaranteed to work on you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

His eyes flicker to your lips, and suddenly the air between you feels warmer. “Really,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, teasing with the kind of certainty that makes your heart do a little flip.

“You’re not really gonna make me wait for that tiramisu, are you?” You ask, leaning in just a little, challenging him with a smile that’s all confidence and mischief.

Carlos doesn’t even flinch.

In fact, he takes a step closer, his fingers brushing your wrist with a too-easy familiarity. “Greg can have it.”

Your breath catches as his forehead comes to rest against yours.

“Do I have your consent to skip to the good part?” he whispers, hand brushing against your waist, lingering for your permission. “I promise I’ll wine and dine you next time.”

You can’t help but smile, and he mirrors it, that same knowing look in his eyes.

Both of you know there's not going to be a next time. This is it.

Carlos leans in, just close enough for you to feel the heat of his breath on your skin. "I mean it. Next time, you get the full treatment.”

You smirk. "No need to get romantic. We both know that's a lie.”

For a split second, he doesn’t answer.

Then he shrugs, as if he’s made peace with the fleeting nature of this whole thing. "Yeah, probably," he admits, not at all shy.

The world is big and messy. Tomorrow, you'll wake up with responsibilities, regrets, maybe even some bruised pride.

But not tonight.

Not in this room.

You lean in, the air thick with anticipation, and that's all it takes.

Carlos surges forward, catching you off guard with how quickly he takes the lead. His hands cradle your face like it’s something precious, his fingers spreading across your jaw with a touch so warm and careful it makes your chest tighten.

For a moment, everything goes still.

The absurdity of it all melts away as you sink into the kiss, soft and electric all at once.

The heat of him consumes you, the world blurring into nothing but Carlos and the way he tastes. Sweet, intoxicating, and just a little messy. Lips collide, teeth graze, and the rhythm is anything but steady, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Carlos moves the two of you toward the bed, gently backing you up until your knees hit the mattress. His dark eyes shine with a playfulness that’s new to you, and he can’t help the grin tugging at his lips when you let out the softest gasp as you fall back against the pillows.

He leans over you, his fingers already searching for the zipper of your dress. His lips brush your ear as he murmurs, “Strip for me, baby.”

You’re hesitant for a beat, cheeks flushing pink, but then you comply, your movements shy but determined as you step out of your dress. Carlos watches, captivated, as if seeing you like this is the most enchanting thing in the world.

“God, you’re so cute,” he says, his voice filled with awe and a touch of amusement.

The moment your bra joins the pile of discarded clothing, his hand reaches behind you, fingers deftly undoing the clasp with a practiced flick of his wrist.

“Done this before?” you tease softly, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

Carlos chuckles, his grin widening. “Maybe once or twice.”

His hands cup your breasts gently, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks. The way your body trembles under his touch makes his chest ache with affection. He dips his head, lips wrapping around a nipple, his tongue swirling teasingly as his eyes meet yours.

The little sounds you make are almost too much for him. Every gasp, every whimper, every squirm beneath him sends his heart racing.

“Still okay?” he asks softly, his voice tinged with concern.

You nod quickly, your expression so earnest and trusting it makes his chest swell. “Yeah,” you whisper, your voice trembling but sure.

Carlos smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead before trailing his hand down your body, his fingertips brushing over your stomach, then your thighs. He hooks his fingers into your panties, sliding them down your legs with an almost reverent care.

“You’re so wet, cariño,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with wonder. His fingers trail through your slick folds, teasing lightly before pressing against your clit in soft, deliberate circles.

The way your body arches, the quiet, desperate whimpers spilling from your lips—it’s almost too adorable for him to handle.

He pauses, bringing a finger to his lips and sucking your taste off it with a hum of satisfaction. “I’m going to go down on you,” he says, his voice steady but tinged with anticipation. “Let me take care of you, hmm?”

You whine, covering your face with your hands, clearly embarrassed, but Carlos just chuckles, his heart melting at how cute you are.

“Look at me,” he coaxes gently, his tone soft but firm.

When you peek at him through your fingers, your nose scrunching slightly, he grins. “Good girl.”

The shudder that runs through you at his words doesn’t go unnoticed, and he files that reaction away for later.

He shifts, settling between your thighs before shouldering your knees apart, taking a moment to admire your glistening cunt, flushed and swollen with desire.

Carlos is aching in the confines of his jeans, hard and dripping precum into his boxers, but that can wait.

It’s going to wait.

"So beautiful," he breathes, his fingertips barely grazing the sensitive flesh as he spreads you open for his hungry gaze. “Mierda..”

His eyes follow a drop of come that escapes your clenching cunt, enraptured. He smears it along your clit, relishing in the way your body jerks up on the bed.

Leaning in, he drags the flat of his tongue up your slit in one slow deliberate lick, savoring.

"Mmmm..I could spend hours worshipping this pretty little cunt.” Carlos hums, his eyes fluttering shut. The taste of you, sweet and heady, has him groaning softly.

Your body responds instinctively, your back arching as you clutch at the sheets, soft cries spilling from your lips.

He repeats the motion before he can even think about it, tongue flicking across your clit.

He does that a few more times before shifting, grimacing as his covered bulge rubs against the mattress.

Carlos flicks over the bundle of nerves, then wraps his arms around your legs, lifting them from where they're settled and placing them above his shoulders. He spreads your lips, and then gets started.

“Fuck!” You gasp, back arching as you scramble for purchase, sanity fraying with every plunge of his tongue inside of you.

He seals his lips around your clit and suckles gently, flicking the tip of his tongue rapidly over the sensitive bud.

“I'm- Ah! Oh god, oh shi-it..- Please..” You're not quite sure what you're begging for. All you know is that you're going to die if Carlos stops.

"I'm gonna put in a finger, okay?" Carlos asks, looking up at you for your permission.

Usually, he’s not big on communication, not because he dislikes it, but because he’s rarely found it to be necessary.

But now, here you are, putting on a brave face and quietly defying your brother for the night.

He finds himself pleasantly surprised to enjoy the opportunity to guide you through it.

He grins when you nearly weep in relief.

"Yes, god yes..”

"Just tell me if anything feels uncomfortable.”

He circles your entrance for a moment, placing a kiss on your clit for the sake of it before slowly sinking a finger inside your slick heat.

He waits till your hips start shifting, seeking some sort of friction, before pumping them in a steady rhythm, his palm grazing your clit with each pass.

You’re tight, walls clenching down on just one of his fingers but your wetness makes it a little more easy to slide inside.

He gives a few slow pumps, checking your reaction, before picking up the pace and licking at your clit again.

You’re starting to make a mess, dripping down onto the sheets, and he wonders just how wet he can get you. Will you drip? Will you leak? Will you squirt?

"There we go.." Carlos praises, his words vibrating against your sensitive flesh.

“One more?”

You nod eagerly.

“Words, cariño,” he chides softly, his lips quirking into a playful smile.

“Y-Yes, please, Carlos,” you manage, your voice trembling but eager.

“There’s my good girl,” he praises again.

A shiver runs through you again and he grins, pushing back in with two fingers. Your face twists at the intrusion for just a moment before your hazy eyes are back on him, nodding as you catch his silent question.

Carlos curls his fingers slightly, stroking that spongy patch high on your front wall, easily finding your g-spot in another second as he tilts the angle of his wrist and your jaw drops, eyes widening.

"Oh mon dieu, don't- don't- stop-” you sob.

He laughs, has half the mind to tease but decides to do as you ask and make better use of his mouth by sucking on your clit again.

Your juices gush around his pistoning fingers as he feels your silken walls clamp down on the invasion, rippling and squeezing him in their velvety grip.

Carlos doesn't let up even as you try to squirm away from him, feet planted on his shoulders and trying to push him off your pussy.

He only growls, drags you closer to his mouth, his wicked tongue working your throbbing clit furiously.

"Yes, yes, that's it, let it all out for me," he coaxes between slurping kisses to your twitching sex. "Soak my face. Come on. Know you're close, baby.”

Carlos massages that spot inside you that has your toes curling, and the noises your wet pussy is making are completely obscene, seem to echo in the room.

“Wait-” a panicked wail leaves your lips but Carlos is too far gone, gulping for air as he replaces his tongue with his hand, the red and swollen bud of your clit rubbing against the rapid back and forth of his palm.

But Carlos doesn’t stop, too caught up in the sudden gush of fluid from your body.

His determined ministrations, almost frantic now, send droplets scattering across the bed and even onto his face.

You gasp at the mess, cheeks flushing as you take in the drenched state of his light blue button-up. "Oh my god, I’m so sorry-"

Carlos pauses, sitting up slightly as he glances down at his drenched shirt. For a moment, you think he might be upset, but then he grins. A slow, lazy, thoroughly pleased grin that makes your heart skip.

“Sorry?” he echoes, shrugging out of the shirt and tossing it aside. “Baby, don’t apologize for that. That was incredible.”

His hand moves to your cheek, cupping it gently as he brushes his thumb over your flushed skin.

Your eyes dart away, but he tilts your chin up, coaxing you to meet his gaze.

“You’ve never done that before, have you?” he asks softly, his voice filled with warmth and curiosity.

You shake your head, feeling a little bashful. “I didn’t even know I could.”

“Well, now you do,” he murmurs, his grin softening into a fond smile. “And it was beautiful. You were beautiful.”

His words make you blink up at him, your lips parting as if to argue, but the sincerity in his gaze stops you. Instead, a small, shy smile tugs at your lips, and you nod.

Carlos leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before his lips brush against yours, slow and tender. “Do you trust me to keep going?” he asks quietly, his breath warm against your skin.

Your response is immediate, a soft and eager, “Yes,” escaping your lips as your fingers thread into his hair, holding him close for just a moment longer.

Carlos groans, before pulling back and sliding off you.

His movements are deliberate, gaze flickering to meet yours as he reaches for the waistband of his jeans.

You can’t help but follow his every move, your eyes heavy with anticipation as he tugs the denim down, revealing inch by inch of him.

He steps out of his pants with a casual confidence that makes your pulse race. His smirk deepens as he notices your unabashed stare, the way your gaze lingers. “Enjoying the view?” he teases, his tone rough but playful.

You bite your lip, a shy but knowing smile creeping onto your face. “Maybe,” you admit softly, your voice laced with just enough mischief to make him chuckle.

“Well, then let’s make sure you enjoy the rest, too,” he says, removing his boxers.

As he does, his erection comes into full view, thick and heavy and already leaking precum at the tip.

Your eyes widen as you take in the impressive sight, a rush of fresh arousal surging through you.

You breathe out, trying to compose yourself. You chance a glance at him and he meets your eyes, nodding his head.

Your fingers wrap around Carlos’ wrist, pulling him back to the bed with a surprising determination that has him raising a brow.

Before he can say a word, you’ve moved between his legs, your intentions clear. Carlos barely has time to process what’s happening before his breath hitches.

“Fuck.”

Your warm, wet mouth enveloping his cock sends a jolt of pleasure straight through him and his eyes nearly roll back.

You move deliberately, letting your tongue glide along his length before pulling back to focus on his tip, swirling and teasing in a way that has Carlos groaning low in his throat.

His hands find their way to the back of your head, resting there more for balance than control, though he murmurs praises that tumble out unbidden.

"That's it, baby, just like that," he breathes, his voice rough with restraint. "Good girl… Fuck, you're such a good girl."

That last phrase draws a muffled moan from you, the vibrations traveling through him like a shockwave, making his stomach clench.

He can’t stop the thought that flashes through his mind— such a good fucking girl.

You find a rhythm, bobbing steadily while your hand works what your mouth doesn’t reach.

Each flick of your tongue over the sensitive underside of his cock has him twitching, a breathy curse escaping when you take him deeper, testing your limits

The warmth and pressure make his head spin, but when your eyes meet his, wide and glimmering with mischief, Carlos feels his control slipping.

"Shit-" he gasps, the sensation overwhelming as he feels the tip of himself graze the back of your throat.

The way your tongue works at the base sends a spike of pleasure so sharp, balls tightening, that Carlos has to act fast, pulling you off with a groan before he cums before even fucking you.

You look up at him, lips swollen and cheeks flushed, a glimmer of satisfaction in your expression.

A thin line of saliva clings to your chin, and you swipe it away casually, your grin both coy and triumphant.

"Holy fuck," he breathes out, running a hand over his face.

It's all the warning you get before he grabs you, flipping your positions in one swift motion so he’s above you again, his body crowding yours.

“Where'd a pretty little thing like you learn how to suck cock like that, huh?”

Your grin doesn’t falter as you murmur, “Wouldn’t you like to know.

Carlos smirks, leaning down close enough that his breath brushes against your skin. He murmurs, voice dark with promise, “let’s see what else you can do."

Carlos leans over you, his hands bracketing your sides as he captures your lips in a slow, heated kiss.

Pulling back just enough to speak, his voice drops to a low, husky murmur. “Dios mío, I can’t wait to fuck you...”

You’re breathless, your lips parted and your gaze heavy-lidded, but there’s a spark of challenge in your tone as you manage to say, “Then do it.”

His eyes darken as he takes in your defiance. “Oh, don’t worry, cariño,” he says. “I will.”

Carlos pulls a condom from beneath the pillow with a sly grin, ignoring your quiet laugh.

He makes quick work of rolling the latex sheath down his length. Making sure you see just so you don't feel uneasy about it.

Reaching for a bottle of lube that he'd asked the hotel staff to leave in the bedside drawer, he opens the cap slowly.

He notices the quizzical look in your eyes and addresses the unspoken question with a shrug. "Just to be safe. Better overdone than under, eh?”

Carlos lubes up his fingers thoroughly before reaching down to massage your slick folds.

His fingers trace teasing circles around your entrance, dipping in just enough to feel you flutter and squeeze, like you’re already trying to pull him closer. It’s almost too cute how your body responds, eager and impatient.

As Carlos begins to press in, the head of his cock breaching your tight entrance, your features twist in the most adorable way, your brows pinching together, lips parting slightly as you adjust. He can’t help but marvel at how perfect you look, even like this.

He exhales sharply, trying to stifle a groan.

Carlos isn’t usually the type to get too vocal, but the way you feel is making it impossible to hold back.

“Shhh, relax for me, amor,” he murmurs, his voice soft and reassuring.

One hand strokes soothing circles on your lower back while the other cups your cheek, his thumb brushing against your flushed skin.

He’s trying to be patient, gentle, because he doesn’t want to rush you, doesn’t want to miss a single moment of this.

He pauses whenever your expression tightens, his eyes fixed on you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen.

The way you wriggle your hips a little, trying to get used to him, only makes his heart clench. You’re trying so hard for him, to take his cock, and it’s impossibly endearing.

Finally, you nod, your voice a soft whisper. “Okay… Okay, you can move.”

Carlos doesn’t need to be told twice.

He starts slow, his movements careful and deliberate, as if he’s afraid of breaking something fragile. Each sound you make, the tiny gasps, the way you breathe his name, sends a shiver through him.

He's going to be obsessed with you if you keep it up.

The way your back arches beneath him, how your hands cling to his shoulders, and the soft “oh” that slips from your lips when he pushes a little deeper. All of it makes him want to be drunk with you.

When he’s as far as he can go, he pauses, watching your face, his voice laced with affection and just a hint of smugness. “Never been this full?”

You shake your head, biting your lip in that shy way, your hips shifting against him instinctively.

He chuckles softly, starting to move again, his pace slow and steady at first. But as you begin to meet his thrusts, matching him perfectly, he picks up speed, his movements more purposeful.

Each deliberate snap of his hips pulls the sweetest, most melodic sounds from you, soft gasps and little whimpers that only spur him on.

You’re perfect. So fucking cute.

The slick heat between you makes every movement smooth, though Carlos slips out a couple of times, only to guide himself back in easily.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving faint marks that spur him on, and your cloudy, pleasure-drunk eyes roll back in the most pretty way, making his chest ache with something more than just lust.

“Do you wanna ride me, baby?” he asks, his voice soft but laced with need.

“Y-yeah,” you stammer, your voice trembling as you nod eagerly.

There’s a flicker of shyness in your movements, a hesitation that only makes you more endearing to him.

Even though your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, you don’t hesitate, shifting so Carlos can lie on his back while you straddle him. He watches you with rapt attention, his lips quirking into a small, affectionate smile as you position yourself over him.

His hand wraps around his length, teasing your folds with the head, and he’s utterly mesmerized by the way your lips part, the way you bite down on them as you begin to lower yourself.

Inch by inch, you take him, and he can’t help but think of how you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

His hands find your hips instinctively, gripping you gently but firmly.

Despite his intention to let you set the pace, his need wins out, and he begins guiding you up and down before you even have a chance to adjust.

A loud, sweet moan escapes your lips as you lean forward, kissing him with an urgency that’s almost too cute for words.

Your teeth tug at his lower lip, making him groan softly, his hands tightening on your waist.

Then you start to move on your own, bouncing on him with a surprising confidence, and your wide, innocent eyes flick up to meet his. Even as the heat radiates from your every motion, there’s something so sweet in the way you look at him, like you’re trying to get his approval.

“Like this?” you slur, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, just like that,” Carlos breathes, his voice thick and low.

The lewd, wet sounds of your bodies moving together threaten to push him over the edge, but he focuses on the adorable way you’re trying so hard to be good for him.

“You’re so good for me,” he groans, his words spilling out without thought, and the way you whimper in response, your lips parting in a needy gasp, makes his heart race.

You sink down fully, grinding against him, and he watches your expression shift. When you find the perfect angle, your eyes widen in a mix of wonder and surprise, locking onto his like you can’t believe how good it feels.

“Keep going, baby,” he murmurs, his thumb finding your clit and circling it gently, his voice filled with awe. “You’re perfect. So perfect. Let go for me.”

Your movements grow frantic, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your body trembles. Carlos watches in utter fascination as your lips part in a choked whimper, and then you cry out, your release hitting you in waves.

Warmth floods over him, soaking his skin and the sheets beneath, but all he can think about is how beautiful, how absolutely adorable, you are in this moment.

The sight, the sound, the feel of you. It’s too much. Carlos’ grip tightens on your waist as he thrusts upward one last time, his own climax crashing into him.

His body shudders beneath you, his head tipping back as he empties himself completely, groaning your name softly.

When it’s over, you collapse onto his chest, your breaths mingling as both of you struggle to steady yourselves.

Carlos’ hands wander to your lower back, tracing gentle circles near the dimples that make you squirm slightly, a halfhearted giggle escaping your lips.

He chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The two of you lie there in the quiet, the warmth of each other’s presence wrapping around you like a blanket.

After a long pause, Carlos speaks, his voice filled with playful affection. “You want tiramisu?”

The sleepy laugh you let out is so cute it makes his heart flip, and he knows he’d do anything just to keep hearing it.

The thought makes him sick.

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: How to Ruin a Plot || Jade Leech

When you end up as the villainess in a story that's hellbent on making her suffer for no reason, you decide to make the main characters suffer just for catharsis. Good thing that your fiancé, Jade Leech seems to like chaos as much as you.

Series Masterlist

Dinner wasn’t much to write home about—a plate of lukewarm spaghetti that could generously be described as "functional," paired with a salad so sad it could star in its own soap opera. But you had something better: entertainment.

And by entertainment, you meant the literary dumpster fire currently sitting in your hands.

This book. This book.

The plot was so catastrophically terrible that it looped around to being hilarious. You chewed your subpar spaghetti and flipped a page, trying not to laugh too hard at the sheer absurdity of what you were reading.

The villainess, a talented duchess and renowned potion maker, was saddled with some of the worst clients in existence. The saintess—of course, she was a saintess, because originality was clearly out of the question—was engaged to the Duke of the North. Why? Who knows. It wasn’t like they seemed to like each other. In fact, she was also having a very public affair with the prince.

And not just any prince. A balding prince.

Because nothing screams “romantic rival” like the slow and tragic retreat of one’s hairline.

They were both the worst. The kind of people who would demand a 12-step skincare routine from their servants but would balk at paying them a living wage. When the villainess refused to make them more potions for ridiculous requests like “immunity to insults” (seriously?), they decided to frame her for crimes and have her executed.

The sheer audacity.

But it didn’t stop there. Oh no. The villainess had a fiancé—Jade Leech, poor guy—who tried his best to help her escape. And what did she do? Sacrificed herself so he wouldn’t get dragged into her mess. Noble, sure, but also infuriating because she died for them.

And then Jade, now heartbroken and understandably bitter, became the main antagonist. Only to be defeated by the same cartoonishly bland protagonists who caused the entire mess.

It was like someone handed a six-year-old a book contract and said, “Go wild, kid. Just make sure it has betrayal and love triangles, and throw in some magic potions or something.”

You forked another sad tangle of spaghetti into your mouth and tried not to choke from laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all. The characters had all the depth of a kiddie pool, the plot holes were big enough to drive a carriage through, and the pacing? What pacing? This story had clearly decided pacing was for cowards.

You flipped to another page, nearly snorting when the saintess justified her affair by saying, “It’s what the goddess would want."

Sure, Jan.

And just as you were about to take another bite of dinner, it happened.

A mushroom. A mushroom.

You didn’t even realize it had slipped into your spaghetti until it was already lodged in your throat. Panic set in as you clawed at your neck, gasping for air while your brain helpfully supplied one last thought:

Can’t believe a mushroom took me out. Goddammit.

And then everything went dark.

The first thing you notice is the carpet: thick, plush, and entirely too luxurious for someone who had been laughing themselves to death over garbage-tier literature just moments ago. The second thing you notice is that you’re alive, which is great. Except you’re no longer in your cozy little living room.

No, you’re in a gothic mansion straight out of an interior decorator's fever dream. Dark wood, brooding paintings, and vials of suspicious liquids lined up neatly on shelves. For a second, you think you’ve wandered into a Dracula fan convention, but then it hits you.

The novel. The Poisoned Duchess and the Frozen Heart of the North.

You scramble to your feet, heart pounding. “No. No, no, no, no,” you mutter, sprinting to the nearest mirror. A familiar (and obnoxiously beautiful) face stares back at you. Elegant curls, piercing eyes, and an expression that could curdle milk. Yep. You’re the Duchess—the villainess who gets executed for daring to have standards.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” you groan, gripping the edge of the vanity. “I was just making fun of this! How did I end up here? Is this karma? Did the mushroom do this?!”

You spend a good ten minutes pacing the room, muttering to yourself like a squirrel with a caffeine problem. “Okay, okay, think. The Saintess and the Prince are nuts, and they’re gonna come here demanding potions for their ridiculous nonsense like ‘immunity to sarcasm’ or whatever. Solution? Close the shop. Sell it. Let some other poor soul deal with their unhinged requests. Genius! But what next? What about the fiancé—oh god, Jade!”

Jade Leech. The fiancé you had casually dismissed in your tirade against the novel. The one who was supposed to be self-sacrificing, and eventually doomed. But now he’s your fiancé, and you’re not about to let him become collateral damage in this flaming dumpster fire of a plot.

“We’ll run away!” you declare, pointing dramatically at an imaginary horizon. “We’ll elope, move to some peaceful countryside, grow tomatoes, and live a happy, Saintess-free life. Screw the plot. Screw the Duke. Screw the Saintess and her balding fiancé—”

You’re mid-sentence when the sound of a door opening interrupts your theatrical monologue. You spin around and freeze.

Standing in the doorway is Jade Leech himself. And oh boy, the novel did not do him justice. His sharp features, soft teal hair, and piercing eyes make your brain short-circuit. The man looks like he walked out of an ethereal fairy tale and promptly decided to make everyone else look like peasants.

He leans casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, and raises a brow. “Well, this is quite the scene to walk into.”

You blink. And then you blink again, because your brain is still stuck on handsome fiancé alert. “Uh…”

Jade smirks, clearly amused. “Is this a private performance, or can anyone join? Because I’m not sure who you’re planning to screw, but it sounds… ambitious.”

You want to die all over again. “I—uh, would you… like to join my plans?”

His eyes gleam with mischief. “Plans, you say? That depends. Do these plans involve anything more exciting than managing a potion shop?”

“Yes! So much more exciting!” you blurt out. “We close the shop, sell it, cause some chaos, run away, and live happily ever after far away from this stupid place! No Saintess. No Duke. Just… us. Tomatoes. Maybe a goat.”

Jade chuckles, the sound warm and entirely too pleasant for your frazzled state of mind. “You’ve certainly caught my interest. All right, I’m in. A little chaos sounds much better than… whatever normalcy is supposed to look like.”

He steps closer, and you swear your brain bluescreens again because wow, personal space doesn’t exist here, huh? Jade offers his hand, his smile sharp but oddly sincere. “So, where do we start, my prodigal Duchess?”

You take his hand, still half-dazed. “Step one: Screw the Saintess.”

He laughs again. “Now that’s the kind of plan I can get behind.”

Meeting Jade's brother was like getting hit by a rogue wave of chaos. You'd thought Jade was the wild card of the family, but then Floyd Leech burst into the room like a hurricane wearing a grin.

He looked at you with an intensity that made you feel like you were being appraised for your entertainment value, then immediately announced, "You wanna screw with the Saintess and the Duke? Oh, I’m in.”

You stared at him for a long moment, then at Jade, who gave you an apologetic shrug, clearly used to Floyd’s… energy. You decided, then and there, that you were extremely lucky to have been paired with the Leech brother who at least pretended to respect social norms.

Floyd, however, was a force of nature and, admittedly, a useful one. He seemed far too enthusiastic about the chaos you were planning, but hey, when life gives you a human typhoon, you use it to wreak havoc.

Then there was Azul Ashengrotto. Meeting him felt less like talking to a person and more like negotiating with an overly polite shark. “I can provide you protection,” he said smoothly, pushing a contract toward you with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You glanced at the contract, then back at him. “And what does this… "protection" demand in return?”

“Oh, nothing too demanding,” Azul said, waving his hand as if it was all very casual. “Just a few favors in return. Small things, really.”

You stared at the fine print and felt your soul start to sweat. This wasn’t just protection—it was a fast track to selling your soul to the fish mafia.

“Tell you what,” you said, shoving the contract back toward him. “I’ll sell the potion shop to you for cheap if you help me with whatever plans I come up with.”

Azul tilted his head, intrigued. “And what’s in it for me?”

“You get to own the best potion shop in the kingdom without dealing with the Saintess and her entourage of entitlement.”

His eyes gleamed. “Done. But if you get arrested, you won’t mention my name.”

“Deal,” you said, shaking his hand. Internally, you made a note to burn the shop down if things went south. Better a pile of ash than Azul owning it and your dignity.

The next day, you decided to drop by a boutique to prepare for the Saintess’s tea party. Not because you cared about the event, but because you cared very deeply about ruining her day.

You knew exactly what she was planning to wear—some pastel monstrosity—and you were determined to outshine her. You’d wear an upgraded version of her outfit, but classier, sharper, and absolutely dripping with pettiness.

The boutique owner was taking your measurements when you told them to send the bill to your butler. That was when Jade, who had been quietly browsing nearby, strolled over. He casually slid his arm around your waist, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and said, “Send the bill to me.”

You whipped around, scandalized. “Excuse me?!”

He leaned in, his mismatched eyes sparkling with mischief. “I just want everyone to know you’re my fiancée,” he murmured, his voice low and entirely too close to your ear.

Your brain promptly blue-screened. He was too close, his scent too distracting, and his hand on your waist was doing things to your equilibrium. The boutique owner pretended not to notice your obvious malfunction, but Jade? Jade looked like he was having the time of his life.

“Fine,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible as you tried to collect the scattered pieces of your dignity.

“Good,” Jade said, his smirk widening.

He didn’t let go of you after that. Oh no, he kept his hand firmly on the small of your back as you left the boutique. Every step was an exercise in not collapsing from the sheer audacity of his touch.

Meanwhile, Jade looked perfectly at ease, as if his sole purpose in life was to see how long it would take you to spontaneously combust.

By the time you got back to the mansion, you were sure of one thing: Jade Leech was going to be the death of you, and he was going to enjoy every second of it.

The tea party was shaping up to be the highlight of your career as a petty agent of chaos. You arrived late, naturally—nothing screams “I’m better than you” quite like waltzing in when everyone’s already seated.

The moment you stepped into the pavilion, a collective gasp swept through the crowd. Your dress—custom-tailored, one-of-a-kind, and effortlessly overshadowing every other outfit there—practically glowed in the sunlight.

The Saintess, perched at the head of the table, turned to greet you, her expression instantly souring when she caught sight of your gown. Oh, you could practically hear the cogs in her head screeching to a halt as she realized you’d completely outdone her.

“Oh my,” you said, offering a demure smile as you made your way to your seat. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” she replied, her voice as sweet as arsenic. “What a… bold choice of dress.”

“Oh, this?” You gestured casually, as though you weren’t wearing something that could stop traffic. “My fiancé picked it out for me. He has such excellent taste, don’t you think?”

You didn’t need to look directly at her to see the way her jaw clenched. You could feel her rage simmering from across the table. After all, her own fiancé, or even the Balding Prince, hadn’t bothered to buy her a dress, let alone one that could compete with yours. You almost felt bad for her. Almost.

From there, the afternoon devolved into a series of increasingly petty power plays.

When the Saintess poured herself a cup of tea, you made a point to remark on how “rustic” her teapot was.

When she complimented the garden’s flowers, you chimed in with, “Oh, are these the same ones you tried to grow last year? I remember hearing how they all died!”

Every little comment was a carefully aimed dart, and she was too polite—or perhaps too afraid of snapping in public—to retaliate. The guests, of course, were eating it up.

The pièce de résistance came when the Balding Prince himself approached you during the party.

“I need a potion,” he said, puffing himself up like a rooster trying to assert dominance. “For my, uh, hair.”

You blinked, momentarily stunned. Of all the scenarios you’d envisioned, this was not one of them.

“Your hair?” you echoed, doing your best to keep a straight face. “What kind of potion are we talking about here? Growth? Volume? Shine?”

The Prince’s eye twitched. “That’s… none of your business,” he snapped.

Before you could respond, Jade—bless him—“accidentally” bumped into the Prince from behind, sending his ridiculous feathered hat tumbling to the ground.

The gasp that followed was deafening.

There it was, in all its glory: the shiny, blinding expanse of the Prince’s balding crown, gleaming like a beacon of despair in the afternoon sun.

For a moment, the pavilion was silent. Then someone coughed. Then someone else giggled. And before long, the entire tea party was a symphony of poorly stifled laughter.

“It’s, uh, a royal tradition!” the Prince stammered, clutching his hat and jamming it back onto his head. “A sign of wisdom and… and…”

He trailed off, clearly out of excuses, and fled the scene faster than you’d ever seen anyone run in formalwear.

The Saintess looked like she was about to implode. Unfortunately for her, the Third Male Lead (Yes, there were 3 of them) chose that exact moment to swoop in, all charm and wit as he began lavishing her with attention. You leaned back in your chair, sipping your tea and basking in the chaos like a cat who’d just knocked over an entire shelf of priceless antiques.

“Nice work,” you murmured to Jade, holding up your hand for a discreet high five.

Instead of obliging, he grabbed your hand and laced his fingers through yours, the smirk on his face practically criminal.

“You’re far more fun than I expected,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You stared at him, your brain immediately short-circuiting. Your default response to most situations was sarcasm or snark, but this? This was uncharted territory.

“Uh… thanks?” you managed, your voice coming out embarrassingly squeaky.

Jade chuckled, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand as if to emphasize just how flustered you were.

“Come on,” he said, his tone far too casual for someone who’d just ruined you in front of an audience. “Let’s go cause more trouble.”

He kept his hand on the small of your back as you walked away from the pavilion, and you were pretty sure your soul left your body every time he leaned in to whisper some biting comment about the Saintess or her rapidly expanding collection of admirers.

One thing was certain: you were having the time of your life, and this was only the beginning.

The day begins innocently enough, which should have been your first warning.

You’re peacefully reading in the library, enjoying the silence, when Floyd barrels in like a hurricane. “Oi, c’mon, you gotta help me!” he hisses, grabbing your wrist before you can protest.

“Help you with what?” you manage to ask as you’re dragged down the corridor, nearly tripping over your own feet.

“It’s Jade,” Floyd says ominously. “He’s made mushrooms again.”

Ah, that explains it. You’ve heard rumors about Jade’s culinary experiments, but you’d yet to experience them firsthand.

“And what does that have to do with me?”

Floyd grins, the kind of grin that promises nothing good. “Well, I told him you love mushrooms.”

You stop dead in your tracks. “You what?”

Before you can bolt, Floyd shoves you through the greenhouse door and slams it shut behind you.

Inside, the room is warm and humid, filled with the earthy scent of soil and plants. At the far end, Jade is bent over a terrarium, meticulously arranging its contents with tweezers.

He looks up when he hears you enter, his expression brightening. “Ah, you’re here!”

Your heart sinks.

Floyd’s words echo in your mind—you love mushrooms. If only he knew. Mushrooms were the reason you got isekai’d in the first place, and the trauma of choking on one is still fresh in your memory. But now, faced with Jade’s expectant gaze and a plate of what looks like sautéed mushrooms on the table, you realize you’re trapped.

“Floyd said you were eager to try these,” Jade says, his tone polite but unmistakably pleased.

You glance at the mushrooms, then back at Jade. He looks so hopeful, like someone who’s spent hours perfecting a recipe and is finally sharing it with someone who’ll appreciate it. You swallow hard.

“Of course!” you say, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “I love mushrooms.”

You sit down at the table, and Jade places the plate in front of you. The mushrooms actually smell... good. Earthy and buttery, with a hint of garlic and herbs.

“Bon appétit,” he says, watching you intently.

You pick up a fork, your hands trembling slightly, and stab a piece. You can do this, you tell yourself. It’s not the mushroom’s fault you died. It’s just food.

With one final breath, you pop the piece into your mouth.

...It’s delicious.

The flavor is rich and savory, perfectly balanced, and the texture is tender without being mushy. You blink in surprise, then take another bite.

“Good?” Jade asks, and there’s a slight smugness in his tone.

“It’s amazing,” you admit, unable to stop yourself from eating more.

Jade’s smile widens, and something in his expression softens.

After finishing the plate, you linger in the greenhouse as Jade continues tending to his terrariums. You watch him work, his hands deft and precise as he rearranges moss, misting the plants with care.

“Need help with anything?” you ask, feeling unexpectedly at ease.

He glances at you, then gestures to a nearby shelf. “If you don’t mind organizing the vials, that would be helpful.”

You nod and get to work, sorting the various bottles of nutrients and spores while Jade hums softly under his breath. The atmosphere is peaceful, the kind of quiet that feels alive rather than stifling.

Once the terrariums are in perfect order, Jade brews a pot of tea, and you both sit at a small table nestled among the plants. The tea is fragrant, its warmth soothing as you take a sip.

Jade sits across from you, one hand resting lightly on the table. Absentmindedly, you reach out and place your hand over his.

He freezes for a moment, his eyes flicking to your joined hands. His usual calm demeanor falters, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “You’re quite bold,” he murmurs, though there’s a hint of nervousness in his voice.

You suppress a grin, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before turning your attention back to your tea. “And you’re holding my hand,” you point out casually.

“I suppose I am,” he says, his voice steady again, though his ears are noticeably red.

The two of you sit there for a while longer, sipping tea and enjoying the greenhouse’s serenity. Jade, ever the polite menace, pretends to be unfazed, but you catch him glancing at your joined hands more than once.

You smile into your cup, the taste of mushrooms and tea lingering on your tongue.

You wake up to the sound of maniacal laughter, the kind that belongs to either an evil overlord or someone who just discovered how to unlock infinite in-game currency. For one groggy moment, you wonder if the devil himself has come to collect you for your sins. But as your eyes flutter open, reality (and dread) sets in.

It’s not the devil. It’s Floyd.

“Why?” you croak, sitting up in your chair and rubbing your eyes. “Why are you like this?”

Jade, ever the epitome of composed chaos, is sitting calmly across from you, sipping tea and looking highly amused. “Ah, you’re awake,” he says with a smile that suggests nothing good is about to happen.

“I had the best idea!” Floyd exclaims, still cackling. “It’s gonna be hilarious!”

Jade gives you a knowing look, the kind that says, This is going to be a disaster, but I want to watch it unfold.

You should probably shut this down. You should. But instead, you wave a hand and mumble, “Sure, go wild.”

It turns out “wild” was underselling it.

Floyd’s “brilliant” idea? Convince the Saintess to organize a grand sword-fighting competition under the premise that the Balding Prince would absolutely win. To no one’s surprise (except maybe the Saintess), she fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

“She’s been gushing about how he’s ‘a natural-born warrior,’” Floyd reports gleefully during the planning phase. “She’s even betting on him!”

You glance at Jade, who is practically glowing with smug anticipation. That should have been your first clue to intervene. Instead, you shrug and think, Eh, it’ll be fine.

It was, in fact, not fine.

When the announcement of the tournament goes public, the Balding Prince—bless his fragile ego—realizes he has a slight problem. Namely, the fact that he’s never held a sword in his life, let alone used one. Naturally, he comes crawling to you.

“I need a potion,” he demands, his tone somewhere between entitled and desperate. “To, uh, enhance my… swordsmanship.”

You lean back in your chair, trying to look unimpressed. “Oh, I don’t sell potions anymore,” you say airily.

The Prince glares at you, his bald spot gleaming under the room’s chandelier. “I’ll pay you.”

“You can’t afford me.”

“How about enough gold to fund your entire territory for the next twenty years?”

You sit up straight. “You drive a hard bargain, Your Highness.”

The potion you make for him is top-notch—for two hours. After that, well, let’s just say it’s going to be a long day for the Balding Prince.

The tournament goes about as chaotically as you expect. Jade, a genuinely skilled swordsman, carves his way through every round with ease. The Prince, meanwhile, is barely holding on, relying entirely on the potion to scrape by. Somehow, by sheer luck and Floyd’s endless meddling, the Prince manages to make it to the final round.

By this point, the Saintess is practically glowing with excitement, convinced her fiancé is about to cement his status as a legendary warrior. “He’s going to win for sure!” she squeals, clapping her hands.

You sip your tea, barely suppressing your smirk. Oh, sweet summer child.

The final round begins with Jade and the Prince stepping into the arena. The crowd roars with anticipation. The Saintess is preening in the stands, while the Empress looks vaguely mortified, as though she knows what’s about to happen but can’t stop it.

And then, right on cue, the potion wears off.

The Prince’s stance falters immediately, his grip on the sword going from “warrior” to “child holding a bat for the first time.” Jade doesn’t even have to try. One expertly placed strike sends the Prince’s weapon flying across the arena, and the match ends with the Prince sprawled on the ground, dazed and defeated.

The crowd erupts into laughter, and you’re pretty sure you see the Emperor facepalm.

To add insult to injury, the Emperor himself has to present the winner’s diadem to Jade. But instead of wearing it himself, Jade turns to you with a wicked grin.

“For you, my dear,” he says, placing the diadem on your head with a flourish.

The crowd loses it.

The Empress looks like she’s contemplating disowning her son on the spot. The Saintess bursts into tears and flees the arena, with the Prince stumbling after her, trying to explain his humiliating defeat.

You, meanwhile, stand in the center of the chaos, smiling peacefully.

“This,” you murmur, “is the best day of my life.”

The market was lively, the kind of lively that felt one loose cart wheel away from utter chaos. You’d gone there to buy something mundane—perhaps herbs, maybe a decorative pot, who even remembered anymore? What you did remember was spotting Azul, impeccably dressed as usual, standing at a stall that sold ornamental quills.

“Azul!” you called out, dragging Jade with you as you made your way over.

Azul turned, one brow arching as he spotted the two of you. “Ah, the duchess and her ever-present shadow. What brings you here?”

“Just window shopping,” you said vaguely, though Jade’s sudden fascination with terrarium accessories suggested otherwise.

One thing led to another, and before you knew it, the three of you were headed to a charming little café. It had the kind of ambiance that said, I’m wildly overpriced, but look at our aesthetic! Jade held the door open for you, and you stepped inside, marveling at the array of desserts in the display case.

You barely had time to settle into your seat when the atmosphere shifted.

There she was.

The Saintess.

You tried to ignore her, truly, but her obnoxious aura was as subtle as a bull in a porcelain shop. She was seated nearby, flanked by her entourage of lackeys. They whispered, they giggled, and they kept looking at you. You rolled your eyes and leaned closer to Jade and Azul, focusing on your conversation.

But peace, as usual, was not in the cards.

One of the lackeys—a girl who had the smug look of someone who thought her two brain cells were revolutionary—approached your table. In her hands was a steaming cup of tea, and the moment you saw it, a sense of foreboding settled over you.

And then, with all the subtlety of a villain in a children’s cartoon, she “tripped.”

The tea flew through the air in slow motion, a graceful arc of impending disaster. You braced for impact, but Jade moved faster. He stepped in front of you, shielding you from the scalding liquid. Most of it missed him, but a splash landed on his hand.

“Jade!” you exclaimed, grabbing his arm to inspect the burn.

Meanwhile, the lackey straightened herself up, not even bothering to fake remorse. “Oops,” she said, her tone so insincere it could’ve curdled milk. “It was an accident.”

“An accident?” you repeated, your voice rising. “You carried a boiling cup of tea across the room, aimed it at our table, and ‘accidentally’ threw it at us?”

She shrugged, her smirk widening. “My dad will pay for any damages. And you’re overreacting. It’s just tea.”

Overreacting? Oh, you were about to react, all right.

Azul, meanwhile, was unusually quiet. His tie had been stained in the splash zone, and his tight-lipped smile was beginning to look like it could crack glass.

The lackey continued, oblivious to the metaphorical storm clouds gathering over Azul. “Anyway, if you keep making a scene, it’ll just look bad for you. My dad’s pretty important, you know.”

“Oh?” Azul said suddenly, his voice as smooth as silk but with an edge sharp enough to cut steel. “And who might your father be?”

The lackey puffed up with pride. “He’s the finance manager for the duchess’s estate!”

There was a beat of silence. You exchanged a glance with Azul, and then your lips curled into a predatory smile.

“Azul,” you said sweetly, “guess whose daddy is about to lose his job?”

The ride back to your estate was tense—for you, at least. Jade sat calmly beside you, his hand resting on his knee, but you couldn’t stop fussing over his burn.

“Stop squirming,” you said, dabbing at his hand with a damp cloth.

“I’m fine,” Jade insisted, though his amused tone suggested he was enjoying your concern far too much.

“You’re not fine,” you retorted. “What if it scars? What if it gets infected?”

“Then I’ll have a mark to remember your attention by,” he said, his lips twitching into a half-smile.

You glared at him, but your fussing didn’t stop. By the time you reached the estate, you were practically vibrating with righteous fury.

The finance manager stood in your office, visibly confused.

“You’re fired,” you said bluntly.

His jaw dropped. “What? Why?”

You crossed your arms, your smile as sharp as a blade. “Ask your daughter.”

“What does she have to do with this?” he demanded, his face turning red.

“Everything,” you replied. “Guards, escort him out.”

He sputtered and protested, but you didn’t care. Justice had been served.

Later, after the physician had checked Jade’s hand and declared him fine, you collapsed onto the nearest couch, your exhaustion finally catching up to you. Without thinking, you ended up sprawled across Jade’s lap.

He stiffened, his hands hovering awkwardly before he cautiously placed one on your back to keep you from sliding off.

“Comfortable?” he asked dryly, though the faint pink on his cheeks betrayed him.

You hummed in response, already half-asleep. Within moments, your breathing evened out, and you nodded off.

Jade, for his part, was thoroughly smitten. His usual composure cracked as he replayed the day’s events—your fiery anger on his behalf, the way you’d fretted over his injury, and now, the way you looked so peaceful resting against him.

His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, and he allowed himself a rare, genuine smile.

“Quite the enigma,” he murmured to himself, already planning how to keep you close.

The ballroom was a spectacle of opulence. Chandeliers glittered overhead, casting soft golden light on the polished floors and the parade of nobles in their finest silks and velvets.

This was supposed to be a night of grand announcements, of declarations of love, and of the start of some “epic romance” that would undoubtedly be inscribed into the annals of history—or, at least, that's what the original novel promised.

But as you stood to the side with Jade and Floyd, it was evident that this version of events was hurtling off the rails.

Enter: the Duke of the North.

The poor man barely stepped into the ballroom before his eyes landed on the prince and the saintess. You could physically see the will to live drain out of him as his shoulders slumped, his gaze unfocused like he was calculating the fastest way to fake his own death and disappear into the wilderness.

It was almost pitiful. Almost.

The prince, meanwhile, had puffed up his chest and was grinning like he hadn’t recently been humiliated in front of half the kingdom. And the saintess—oh, she was trying, bless her delusional heart.

Smiling demurely, batting her lashes, and putting on a performance that might have worked if her reputation hadn’t already been stomped into the dirt by your carefully orchestrated chaos.

You leaned toward Jade and whispered, “I think the Duke’s trying to plot his own escape.”

Jade’s lips twitched in amusement, but he kept his usual calm demeanor. Floyd, however, cackled loudly enough to draw a few stares.

Then, the moment arrived: the prince stepped forward, his cape swishing dramatically as he raised his goblet. “Tonight, I announce my bride-to-be, the one chosen by the heavens themselves—the saintess!”

There was a smattering of applause, mostly out of obligation, but you were too busy watching the Duke. The man visibly sagged with relief, his shoulders dropping like he’d just been unshackled from a lifetime of servitude. You could practically hear the mental thank the gods echoing in his head.

And then, as if shedding the weight of the world, he turned on his heel and made a beeline—toward you.

You blinked, momentarily stunned as the Duke of the North, the supposed male lead, bowed deeply and extended a hand toward you. “Would you honor me with the first dance, my lady?”

You opened your mouth to decline, because this wasn’t in any script you remembered, but before you could utter a word, Jade smoothly stepped in.

“Apologies, Duke,” he said with his signature polite menace, “but she already promised this dance to me.”

Without waiting for a response, Jade’s hand found the small of your back, and he gently yet firmly guided you to the dance floor. The Duke was left standing there, his hand still outstretched, looking mildly bewildered.

“Don’t worry!” Floyd piped up, appearing out of nowhere. “I’ll dance with you!”

Before the Duke could protest, Floyd latched onto his arm and practically dragged him into a lively—and utterly chaotic—dance that looked like a mix of a waltz and a sparring match. The Duke’s expression alternated between horror and resignation, while Floyd grinned like he was having the time of his life.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably as you watched the scene.

Jade glanced down at you, his expression softening as he took in your laughter. His usual cool demeanor melted for just a moment, replaced by something so tender it made your heart stutter.

The realization hit you like a lightning bolt.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

You were in love with him.

And not the “oh, he’s handsome and I tolerate his presence” kind of love. This was the “I want to spend my life laughing and dancing and plotting petty revenge schemes with you” kind of love.

The thought was overwhelming, and before you could stop yourself, you buried your face in Jade’s chest.

He stilled for a moment, surprised, but then his arms encircled you, holding you close as he continued to sway to the rhythm of the music.

He didn’t question it, didn’t tease you, didn’t even comment. Instead, he rested his chin lightly on top of your head, his voice low as he murmured, “Are you all right?”

You nodded into his chest, your cheeks burning as you clung to him like a lifeline.

As the music swelled around you, you felt his hand tighten slightly on your waist. When you finally peeked up at him, his gaze met yours, and there it was again—that look of unguarded adoration that made your knees weak.

It was, without a doubt, the best dance of your life.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the ballroom, the Duke of the North was being spun around like a rag doll by Floyd, who was cackling loud enough to echo off the walls.

You caught sight of the saintess in the corner, her smile strained and her fingers clutching her goblet so tightly it looked like it might shatter.

All was well in the world.

The ballroom was buzzing with conversation, the glittering chandeliers casting light on a gathering of nobles too caught up in their own intrigues to notice the storm brewing in one corner. That is, until a sharp, shrill voice cut through the air.

“You think you can just ruin my family and get away with it?” It was the girl whose arrogance had gotten her father fired. Her finger pointed straight at you, her expression a mix of fury and desperation.

The ballroom stilled as the girl pointed her trembling finger at you, her voice shrill enough to shatter glass. "You think you can destroy my family and just walk away? You're nothing but a tyrant with too much power and zero empathy!"

Her father, standing nearby, was frantically gesturing for her to stop. “D-Dear, perhaps we should—”

“Shut it, Father! I’m handling this!” she snapped, tossing her poorly styled curls over her shoulder. She turned back to you, eyes blazing. “Everyone should know what kind of monster you are. Workplace harassment! That’s right—I said it!”

Before you could even process the absolute absurdity of the accusation, the Duke of the North stepped forward like some knight in an overwrought romance novel.

“You will not speak of her in such a way,” he declared, his voice booming with righteous indignation. “The duchess is a paragon of nobility and grace!”

The crowd collectively oohed, but before you could roll your eyes hard enough to dislocate something, the Saintess shot to her feet, looking utterly scandalized.

“This man,” she hissed, gesturing wildly at the Duke, “didn’t even fight for me, his divinely chosen match, but now he defends her? A woman who flaunts her defiance of heaven’s will? Blasphemy!”

“Blasphemy?” you muttered under your breath. “Blasphe-you, lady…”

Unfortunately, the Balding Prince chose this moment to stumble into the fray. “Uh… Are we…arguing?” He puffed up his chest, desperately trying to seem relevant. “As prince, I demand order!”

You took one look at him, with his shiny scalp gleaming under the chandeliers, and decided he wasn’t even worth the effort.

Meanwhile, Jade, ever the picture of composed menace, sidled up to your side. His eyes locked onto the Duke’s hand, which was still resting on yours. With a polite but firm gesture, Jade brushed the Duke’s hand away as though it carried the plague.

The Duke looked affronted. Jade just smiled. But it wasn’t a nice smile. It was the kind of smile that promised future inconvenience.

You, however, had officially hit your limit. You stepped forward, raising your voice over the din. “Enough!”

The room froze. All eyes turned to you as you launched into your tirade, starting with the Saintess.

“You!” You pointed directly at her, ignoring the way her cheeks flushed with outrage. “Do you honestly think the universe revolves around you just because you’ve got a shiny necklace and a tragic backstory? Newsflash: It doesn’t. The only divine will I’ve seen is everyone’s will to avoid your self-righteous sermons. Go back to your prayer circle and spare us your dramatics.”

Her mouth opened in shock, but you were already turning to the Balding Prince.

“And you! Stop sending letters to my estate asking for potions to grow hair or stretch your bones. I’m a duchess, not a miracle worker, and no amount of magic can make you interesting. Get a personality—or at least a hat.”

The prince turned beet red, his hands twitching as though debating whether to flee or argue. You didn’t care.

You swung your gaze to the girl whose father you’d fired. “And as for you, congratulations. You’ve just confirmed that stupidity really is hereditary. Your dad didn’t lose his job because of me. He lost it because he was stealing more money than the royal treasury had left after your little shopping sprees. You’re lucky I didn’t throw both of you in jail.”

Her father, now sweating through his cravat, looked like he might faint on the spot.

Finally, you turned to the Duke. “And you. I appreciate the effort, really. It’s sweet that you think I need defending. But I’m not a damsel in distress. I don’t need saving. And, oh—” You reached out, grabbing Jade by the arm. “I happen to have a fiancé whom I adore. So maybe put your chivalry elsewhere.”

Jade, for his part, looked smug as he allowed himself to be pulled along, his composure completely unshaken.

The ballroom fell into stunned silence as you swept toward the exit. Then—

Floyd’s laughter broke through like a cannon blast. He doubled over, clutching his stomach as tears streamed down his face. “Oh my god—that was amazing—! Balding prince—hat—”

Azul smirked, hiding his amusement behind a gloved hand. “Well, that was certainly… enlightening.”

You didn’t even look back as you pushed open the grand doors. “Idiots, the lot of them,” you muttered.

As you exited the ballroom, you couldn’t help but glance up at Jade. He looked unusually pleased, his lips curling into a faint, satisfied smile.

“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“Nothing,” he said smoothly, though the twinkle in his eye said otherwise. “I simply find your methods... inspiring.”

The two of you made it past the grand doors before the realization hit you like a carriage with no brakes.

You had just declared, in front of everyone, that you loved Jade.

And he knew it. Oh, did he know it.

He walked beside you, his usual calm and collected demeanor now infused with an insufferable smugness. His smile was the kind that could sell snake oil to a herpetologist.

“Darling,” he said, his voice laced with honeyed amusement, “you’re unusually quiet. Cat got your tongue? Or perhaps you’re shy after your… heartfelt proclamation?”

You refused to meet his gaze. “Shut up,” you muttered, staring resolutely at the carpeted hallway like it held the secrets to the universe.

“Now, now,” he crooned, leaning closer. “Why won’t you look at me? Surely you wouldn’t deny me the honor of basking in the gaze of my beloved?”

Your face burned hotter than the ballroom chandeliers. You covered it with your hands. “Leave me here,” you said dramatically. “Leave me here to rot in peace.”

Jade chuckled, and it was the kind of sound that sent shivers down your spine—warm, teasing, and entirely too pleased. “Why on earth would I do that?” he asked, his tone deceptively innocent. “Especially when my beloved looks so… endearing in their embarrassment.”

You peeked through your fingers, ready to deliver some biting retort, but the words died in your throat.

Jade’s expression had shifted. He wasn’t just amused anymore—he was smitten. The way his mismatched eyes softened as they looked at you, the faint smile that carried more affection than smugness, the subtle tilt of his head like you were the most fascinating thing in the world—it was all too much.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you grumbled, your voice weak.

“Like what?” he asked, feigning ignorance as he gently reached for your hands.

You tried to resist, but he was insistent, pulling them away from your face with a tenderness that made your heart ache. Before you could think to stop him, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t just a teasing peck to rile you up—it was slow, deliberate, and completely disarming. You melted against him, any thoughts of resistance dissolving as you instinctively pulled him closer.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and slightly dazed, you couldn’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—this book wasn’t the irredeemable mess you’d always thought it was.

After all, it had given you him.

The decision to expedite the wedding wasn’t exactly born of romance. It was born of the Duke’s increasingly deranged letters, the last of which included a poem so long and melodramatic it might as well have been a novel in verse.

Jade, to his credit, only raised a single brow at your muttered curses as you ripped the latest letter into confetti. “Darling,” he said mildly, “perhaps this is a sign to finalize our own arrangements before our dear Duke decides to recite his poetry at your doorstep.”

You had agreed, of course, which led to your current predicament: drowning in swatches, floral arrangements, and pamphlets for curtains—curtains, of all things.

“This one feels too garish,” you muttered, holding up a deep crimson drape. “But this one’s too boring,” you added, pointing at a pale beige option. You groaned and flopped back in your chair, glaring at the wedding planner. “Why is there no middle ground? What am I paying you for?”

The poor planner looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and never come out. Before you could unleash more frustration, Jade plucked the pamphlets from your hands with infuriating ease.

“Enough,” he said, his tone firm but fond. “You’ll give yourself gray hairs fretting over curtains. We can always elope, you know.”

You gaped at him. “Elope?”

His smile turned mischievous. “Yes. A quiet ceremony in the woods, perhaps, with only the birds as witnesses. Far from meddling Dukes and curtain debates.”

For a moment, you almost entertained the idea. But then you shook your head, laughing softly. “I suppose I’m being a bit dramatic.”

“A bit,” Jade echoed, though his teasing lilt softened as he leaned down to kiss your forehead. “You don’t have to do this alone, my love. Delegate.”

The wedding planner, who had been cowering behind a stack of color charts, practically lit up. “Oh, yes! Delegate! Please, delegate!”

You sighed, leaning into Jade’s touch. “Fine. You’re in charge now.”

The planner looked as though he might fall to his knees and kiss Jade’s shoes in gratitude. Jade, ever the picture of elegance, merely chuckled.

“Excellent choice,” he said smoothly, guiding you away from the table of chaos. “Now, let’s find something far more enjoyable to argue about—like the wedding cake flavors.”

As you walked away, you couldn’t help but marvel at how easily Jade managed to turn your stress into something almost enjoyable. Perhaps rushing the wedding wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

The room was an over-the-top vision of wealth: chandeliers the size of small planets, flowers flown in from who-knows-where, and a cake so tall you were half-convinced Floyd could climb it and look smug doing it. Every noble in the kingdom was here, decked out in silks and sequins, pretending they weren’t secretly gossiping about you and your eel fiancé.

You barely noticed. Jade was standing in front of you, looking so unfairly ethereal you wondered if the universe had been playing favorites. His mismatched eyes were locked on yours, and his smile was small but so genuine you almost forgot your carefully planned vows.

Then, of course, chaos. Because how could anything in your life go smoothly?

From the back of the ballroom came a loud, wet, obnoxious wail.

“Oh, for the love of God,” you muttered under your breath, and Jade’s lips quirked in amusement.

“I LOVED HER FIRST!” the Duke sobbed dramatically, his voice shaking with the intensity of his grief.

“Shut your mouth before I shut it permanently,” Floyd snapped, his voice cutting through the crowd like a knife.

And if that wasn’t enough, you could faintly hear Azul’s oily, persuasive tone somewhere off to the side. “Yes, Lord Evermore, just a tiny signature on this insignificant little contract. You’re not using your soul for much, anyway, are you?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, biting back a laugh. This wasn’t just a wedding—it was your wedding. Of course it was going to be chaotic.

But when you looked up, there was Jade, his gaze steady and full of a quiet devotion that made the rest of the madness blur into the background. His vows were perfect, as expected, and when it came your turn, you stumbled over the words a little, because how were you supposed to focus when he was looking at you like that?

Then came the kiss.

Jade dipped you in one smooth motion, his lips brushing yours with a tenderness that sent the room spinning. Applause erupted, and you swore you heard someone sniffling behind you.

“Is the Duke crying again?” you murmured against Jade’s lips.

“I believe Floyd threatened him,” Jade replied, far too amused.

“And Azul’s... oh no, is he signing contracts?”

Jade only smirked, kissing you again. “Should I be worried that you’re more interested in their antics than your new husband?”

“I’m not—wait, husband?” You blinked at him, the word sinking in, and for the first time in ages, you felt completely, blissfully happy.

As you stood there with your chaotic, ridiculous found family around you, you couldn’t help but smile. Sure, your life had taken a turn for the absurd, but if it brought you to this moment, maybe that cursed mushroom wasn’t so bad after all.

“Remind me to thank that mushroom,” you said with a grin.

Jade’s laughter was soft, warm, and entirely yours. “If it brought us together, I might build it a shrine.”

You laughed, pulling him closer. You’d faced chaos and conspiracies, chaos and hilarity, but in this moment, you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Trash Novel Masterlist

All Masterlists

[angrythingstarlight]

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DJt1UWoxhCl/?igsh=M3drNndlcTdsYXQy

This is such a Bucky and sweet Bee thing 😂🥹🥰 like did you ghostwrite or manifest this reel 😅

Bucky and our sweet Bee have been co-conspirators since she was born.

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky x Reader, daughter nicknamed Bumblebee

CW: Fluff

WC: 1k

A/N: Part of the Bumblebee series.

You have to keep a constant eye on these two because the second you’re not paying attention, they’re up to something. Running off to some store or looking up how much a baby highland cow costs. And how to sneak said baby highland cow into the house.

Last week, you overhead them plotting ways to get you on the jet so they could spring an impromptu vacation to the Maldives on you. Bucky tossed out the idea of simply tossing you over his shoulder and taking you on the jet. Bee approved. And what Bee wants, Bee gets. Or so Bucky told you as he carried you to the plane.

The next night all of you were at a new restaurant, you wait until the orders placed and the drinks on their way to go the restroom. You leave Bee digging through your purse for her stash of crayons while Bucky places a few cloth napkins in front of her.

You're gone for less than five minutes. Just five.

You come back to an empty table and a wide eyed, slightly nervous waiter telling you that your husband and child will be back soon.

Bucky has Bee answer the phone when you call. The conversation is all too familiar. They’ve done this before.

He listens in, ignoring the salespeople rushing around him trying to locate the exact pieces he custom ordered before the jet landed.

“Hi, mommy. I can’t tells you. It’s our secrets. Okays. Yeah. My favorites too. Okays, I tells you a wittle bit. We gonna gets you—waits. Hi Papa. Okays. Mommy, we—we gonna sees you laters. Bye. Loves you.”

She hangs up, leaving you chuckling into your glass of wine.

In all fairness, Bucky doesn’t make you wait too long. The appetizers arrive just as your mobster strolls back in, everyone watching him make his back to the table.

You can’t blame them for staring. There’s something about him that’s magnetic, drawing attention effortlessly. Maybe it’s because he looks so damn good in his dark grey suit, tattoos peeking past his sleeves, and that signature smirk on his bearded face. Could be the way he’s attentively doting on the little girl in his arms that has every woman in this place swooning. Bee is adorable in her fluffy white and pink striped dress, her head tilted back as she talks, a small white bag with a black logo in her hand.

Bee stops mid-sentence when she sees you, a smile brightens her face. “Hi Mommy.”

“Hey sweet Bee.”

Bucky leans down, setting her on the chair next to you, leaning over to sweep his lips across yours. “Hi Malyshka,” he murmurs with a teasing grin.

“James.” Your eyes roll, but he can read you better than his favorite book, he knows you’re happy to see him and that you’re curious about what they did. He gives you another kiss before he takes his seat. His blue eyes flicker between you and Bee. She’s squeezing the bag between her hands, brimming with excitement, he gives her a brief nod.

Bee empties the bag on the table, two small velvet boxes tumble out, one knocks against your plate with a faint clink. “Oops. I gots it,” she says, picking them up and holding them in front of your face. Little fingers wrapped around cobalt blue cloud your vision. “Prise!”

Leaning back, you take one and pop it open. Your heart melts. Just gone in a puddle of sheer happiness. In your periphery, you see Bucky, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, a pleased grin breaking through.

You want to appear unfazed, tease him a bit, tell him he can’t keep doing this. Can’t keep spoiling you like this.

But you can’t. The words won’t form.

Not when you’re gazing down at a pretty bumblebee locket, your baby’s initials etched into the hand-carved wings. Bee snaps open the other box, revealing a heart-shaped locket, lined with gorgeous pink diamonds.

“Its for us Mommy,” she says, switching the boxes and opening her locket. You gently trace a finger over the photos of you and Bucky. These are from New Year’s, you let Bee use your camera to take pictures of the city before the countdown. It wasn’t until later that you found the ones she took of you two. “You loves it?”

“I do.” Tears prick at your eyes as whatever is left of your melting heart warms your chest.

Bucky’s smirk fades into something softer, sincere. His hand brushes down your arm and he rests his chin on your shoulder. “Look at yours Malyshka,” he asks, voice deep and thoughtful.

The locket opens with a soft snick. You recognize the photos. You have them on your desk. Baby Bee and her toothless grin, the one you could never get enough of. Bucky, the night he proposed, looking up at you, the passionate emotions captured in his eyes always make your breath hitch.

“Its perfect,” you breathe out.

“Always is,” Bucky responds, his gaze drifting across your face. He can’t imagine anything more perfect than you. And little Bee.

“Thank you. This is amazing.”

Bee wiggles in her chair, legs swinging. “You welcomes.”

Bucky says nothing, happy to let his baby take all the credit. He places the locket around your neck and does the same for Bee. Topped off with a kiss on the lips for you, one on the forehead for her.

Dinner goes by too fast. Cherished memories you’re going to store away, right next to all the other incredible moments in your life. You take it all in. The delicious food is made even better by the bite or two stolen from each other’s plates. Excellent wine. Bee’s apple juice. Your hand in Bucky’s. His arm around your shoulders. The sounds of the band unnoticed over shared laughter and Bee’s wildly imaginative stories about Mr. Tato and Elmo.

And the heart-shaped locket warming against your skin as the sun sets.

Life is good.

You’ll never be able to stop these from conspiring against you, but you’re about to one-up them. Give them something that can’t be bought in stores.

[yslgreen]

The Tides Between Us

Part 1 | Part 2 Pairing: dbf!Joel x fem!Reader | dbf!Tommy x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: The Millers’ beach house was supposed to be a fun getaway : a week of sun, drinks, and celebration for Joel’s 50th birthday. But after that night with Joel, everything’s suddenly… awkward. Joel is cold and distant, because Joel knows better. He won’t cross that line—not with his best friend’s daughter, not when you’re half his age. He’s made his share of mistakes, but this won’t be one of them. But Tommy? Tommy’s never been one for restraint, all too willing to take what Joel won’t.

WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI (smut not yet in this chapter, but will happens !), no outbreak au, no ellie, dbf!joel, dbf!tommy, age gap, no use of y/n, angst and tension, forced proximity

A/N : I really wanted to write something with a bit more plot this time, so here we are! This is a multiple-chapter story—probably less than ten chapters. No smut… yet. Don’t worry, there will be. I’m just building up the tension first. The main pairing is Joel x Reader, but there will definitely be some Reader x Tommy moments too because, honestly, I’m greedy like that. I just love both Miller brothers way too much.

Here on AO3 | Wc : 6.4 k

The music in your headphones is loud—too loud, probably. The kind of volume your dad would raise an eyebrow at, launching into that familiar warning about hearing loss and how time has a way of collecting the debts you don’t think about when you’re young. Usually, you’d listen. Not just because he’s right, but because you’re the kind of daughter who tries to be considerate, who keeps him company on long drives, who fills the silence so he doesn’t feel it.

But not today.

Today, you let the music drown everything out. The hum of the car, the crash of the waves in the distance, and even your dad’s occasional small talk that you only half hear. You haven’t spoken much the entire drive. Not because your dad hasn’t tried—he’s been talking on and off for hours about the weather, the beach house, and how crazy it is that Joel’s turning fifty in a few days. You nod when it feels like you should. Offer the occasional "mm-hmm" or "yeah." But you keep your eyes out the window, your fingers curled tight in your lap, and your headphones firmly in place—like they might be enough to block out not just sound, but everything else too.

Your dad, thankfully, doesn’t push. He’s too busy grinning at the open coast, tapping the steering wheel in time with a rhythm only he can hear. He’s excited—really excited—to be here. Like this trip is nothing but sun and friends, and easy laughter. And you? You just wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

“Almost there,” your dad says, glancing over with a smile.

Outside the car window, the coastline blurs past. Blue and white and gold. Waves breaking gently against the sand. You press your forehead to the window, the glass warm against your skin. If you close your eyes, you can almost pretend you're somewhere else. You wish you were. You’d almost asked to stay home. Almost faked a reason. Work, a sudden cold, anything. But it’s Joel’s birthday on Saturday, and this trip to the Millers’ beach house has been set in stone for months. There was no getting out of it.

Not without raising questions.

And the last thing you want is to talk about what happened.

The music shifts, softer now. Your playlist seems to know exactly when to turn cruel. You close your eyes, leaning your head back against the seat, hoping the hum of the road and the thrum of the bass will pull you under. Just for a little while. Just long enough to forget where you’re going.

The gravel under the tires changes the sound of the road, and your eyes open before you even think about it. When you open your eyes, you take in the familiar sight. The beach house comes into view,  just beyond the trees like something out of a postcard: weathered wood, wraparound porch, soft white trim. It hasn’t changed much since the last time you were here. A fresh coat of paint, maybe. Some upgrades—knowing the Miller brothers, they've probably fixed a few things over the years.

You wish your dad would keep driving, just keep going past the house and back to Austin. Anywhere but here. Of course, he doesn’t. Instead, he steers the car toward the driveway, where two trucks are already parked. The sound of the tires crunching on the gravel must’ve reached inside the house, because two figures are already waiting on the porch, silhouettes outlined against the fading light.

For a split second, you wonder just how easy it would be to push your dad out of the car, slam the door, and drive away. How much of a scandal would it cause? How far could you get before you couldn’t hear the waves anymore?

But you don’t. Of course you don’t.

You take off your headphones and dare to look toward the men. You see them—Joel and Tommy—waiting. Joel stands with his arms crossed over his chest, broad and unmoving. Tommy leans against one of the porch railings, more relaxed, smiling. Your fingers twitch in your lap.

The car shuts off. “C’mon, kiddo,” your dad calls, already out of the car and waving toward his old friends with that easy, familiar enthusiasm.

You sit frozen in the passenger seat a moment longer. There’s no going back now. You’re here. You open your door, and the smell of the salty air hits you, sharp and bracing. It feels like it might help you breathe a little easier. You trail behind your dad toward the porch, where he’s already wrapped Tommy in a hug, already launching into a story about the drive down and how damn good it is to finally be here.

You glance at Joel, standing slightly apart, arms still folded across his chest like a barrier. “Hey,” you say, quietly, forcing the word out past the knot in your throat. You try to make it sound casual, normal. Like your skin isn’t prickling. Like you didn’t spend the entire drive rehearsing what you’d say to him, and none of it was that one-word greeting.

His eyes flick to yours. One second. That’s all it takes. One second, and you know you shouldn’t have come.

Because in that second, everything that happened two nights ago is right there in the look he gives you—unspoken, sharp, heavy. It lands like a punch to the ribs. His expression doesn’t change, but it doesn’t have to. You feel it. He gives you a nod, barely a dip of his chin, tight-lipped, polite. Like you’re a stranger. Someone he met once and forgot the name of. No recognition. No warmth.

Just distance. And it was your godamn fault.

You go still, your fingers curling into your palms. You’re not sure if it’s embarrassment or shame or some awful combination of both, but you know you hate it. 

Joel turns to your dad, clapping him on the back, saying something about how good it is to see him. His voice is steady, casual, even warm. Like he didn’t just look at you like he wished you weren’t here. Like he didn’t flinch from the sound of your voice.

You stay where you are, a half-step behind the moment, behind the laughter and ease, suddenly unsure of what to do with your hands or your face or your heart. 

Luckily, you don’t have to think too long—one strong arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into a side hug before you can even react. Tommy smells like sun and cedarwood, familiar and warm.

“There’s my girl,” Tommy says warmly, ruffling your hair with the same easy affection he’s always had. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too, Tommy,” you reply, nodding, grateful for the warmth, for the normalcy, even if it’s only from one of the brothers.

“Been too long,” he says with a chuckle, pulling back just enough to give you a full look. “What’s it been—two years?”

“About that,” you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything.

“Yeah, last time was your college graduation party, right?” Tommy grins, shaking his head.

“Surprised you remembered,” you tease, raising an eyebrow. “You were pretty torched.”

Tommy chuckles, looking at you with mock offence. “Let’s not act like you weren’t taking as many shots as me.”

“Well, it was my party,” you say with a smirk. “Couldn’t let you steal the spotlight.”

He laughs, a warm sound that takes some of the tension out of the air, and you both linger in that easy familiarity you always had.

He glances toward the car. “You got a bag?”

“Yeah, let me grab it,” you reply, starting to step toward the car.

But Tommy, always the gentleman, is quicker. He’s already walking toward the backseat, reaching for the handle before you can even move. “Let me get that for you,” he says with an easy smile, pulling it out before you can even protest. You raise an eyebrow but can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “Least I can do,” he adds, looking at you with that teasing glint in his eyes.

You roll your eyes but smile. “Aw, well, thank you,” you reply, playing into the gesture with a hint of reverence, enjoying the ease of his kindness. “Such a gentleman.”

Tommy shrugs nonchalantly, his grin widening. “Hey, I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” With one hand firmly holding your bag, his other hand gently finds its way to your back, nudging you lightly forward. “C’mon, let’s get inside.”

You step inside, your footsteps muffled by the worn wood floors, and the familiar scent of salt air and pinewood fills your senses. The Millers have had this house for over a decade now, and over the years, they’ve poured their hearts into turning it into something more than just a beach house. It’s a home.

The once rustic, weather-beaten cottage has transformed into a warm and inviting space—still weathered, still with a bit of that old charm, but now it feels polished, lived-in. The wooden beams stretch across the ceiling, giving the place a rustic yet comfortable feel. A couple of large windows allow the sunlight to flood in, casting soft golden hues across the room, making everything feel just a little bit cozier.

You take it all in, feeling that pang of nostalgia as your eyes drift over the old pieces that have remained untouched—the faded armchair in the corner, the rough-hewn wooden table where you remember so many evenings spent laughing with Sarah. 

Tommy sets your bag down on the couch with a gentle thud before heading toward the open space that leads into the kitchen “You want a drink?” he calls over his shoulder, his voice light.

“I wouldn’t say no to a glass of water,” you reply, the heat still hanging in the air, even though it’s mid-September. It’s not the oppressive heat of Austin, but it’s enough to make you long for something cool.

You follow him into the kitchen, but as you step through the doorway, you freeze. Your dad and Joel are standing against the counter, beers in hand. The casual chatter between them is normal, but the moment you walk in, the air changes.

Joel doesn’t look at you. He shifts his weight, takes a sip from his bottle, and stares somewhere to your left—out the window maybe, or at nothing at all. It’s purposeful. Calculated in the way only Joel Miller can be. You see the clench in his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders, the way he keeps his eyes away from yours. And it stings.

Because usually, he’d be the one to welcome you into the house. He’d tease you for probably sleeping the whole ride down, ask what you’ve been up to, and how work’s been treating you lately. He would’ve welcomed you in with his usual gruff but warm presence,and he’d smile—really smile—and say something like, "Glad you made it, sweetheart." And you’d pretend to roll your eyes just for show, even though it always warmed you, always meant more than it should have.

You force yourself to keep moving, your steps steady, your hands a little too tight at your sides. The kitchen feels like a space too small now, the air thicker than it should be. You try to ignore the ache in your chest, pretending like it doesn’t bother you as you walk toward the counter where Tommy’s already filling a glass with water. 

“Want a beer instead?” Tommy asks, flashing a grin as he nods toward your dad and Joel, both already halfway through theirs.

“Water’s fine,” you say, taking the glass from him with a faint, grateful smile. “Thanks.”

Tommy raises a brow, his voice playful. “You, turning down a beer? That doesn’t sound like the girl who drank me under the table last time I saw her. You’re sick or something?”

You huff a quiet laugh, about to come up with some clever response, something light to match his tone, but your dad beats you to it, speaking over his bottle rim like it’s just a casual joke.

“Let her be,” your dad says with a laugh. “She’s probably still hungover from a couple of nights ago, right? Should’ve seen her—had to spend all of yesterday holed up in her room.”

You freeze—not visibly, not in a way anyone might call out—but inside, everything goes tight. That night. Two nights ago. You don’t even have to look at Joel to know he heard it too. You do anyway. Your gaze flicks toward him before you can stop it.

You catch the slightest shift in his posture. He’s still leaning against the counter, but now his jaw is clenched tightly, his whole body radiating tension. He takes another sip of his beer, like it might somehow drown out the memory of what just resurfaced. The one you both want to forget, but can’t.

How are you going to survive this week with him acting like you barely exist? The thought tightens your chest, leaves you cold, but you can’t blame anyone but yourself. You’re the one who decided to ruin everything. You were the one who let it all spiral out of control

You force a smile, trying to sound nonchalant. “Let’s just say that,” you reply, keeping your voice casual despite the tightness in your chest. You need to get out of this kitchen—out of this space, away from Joel—and fast. “I should take a nap again, actually,” you add, hoping the excuse sounds believable enough.

Tommy quirks an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his gaze. “That bad, huh?”

You nod, even though it's not the hangover you're running from, “Yeah,” you mumble, already taking a step toward the door. “I’m staying in Sarah’s room, right?”

Tommy gives you a nod. “Yeah, let me show you.”

You raise a hand, shaking your head lightly as you start to walk away. “It’s cool, I remember where it is. Thanks, though. See you in a bit.”

Tommy doesn’t press, letting you slip past him. Your dad’s voice drifts in from the kitchen, making some lighthearted remark about something you don’t quite catch, but it doesn’t matter. You can barely focus on anything but the knot in your stomach.

You grab your bag off the couch, feeling its weight a little heavier than you expect. You take the stairs two at a time, eager to get as far away from the kitchen, from them, as possible. The rhythmic thud of your footsteps echoes through the house as you push yourself upward, hoping that getting out of their sight will ease the nervous beating of your heart. As you head upstairs, you feel the weight of someone’s gaze lingering on you. You don’t pause long enough to figure out whose it is.

The room looks just as you remembered it. The large bed, a quiet space that’s only yours until Sarah arrives in a couple of days. After retrieving your headphones from your bag, you toss it on the floor, not caring where it lands. You fall onto the bed with a soft thud, immediately pressing play on whatever music was playing earlier. The familiar hum of the song slips into your ears, the first few notes trying to drown out the thoughts clawing at your mind.

You close your eyes and try to focus on something—anything—that isn’t that night. But you can’t escape it. You can’t forget it.

You still see him outside the bar, waiting for you like he had so many times before—leaning against his truck, arms crossed, that soft smile pulling at his mouth when he saw you. You still hear the low rumble of the engine, still feel the warmth inside the cab, the way his presence always seemed to fill the space beside you.

The ride had felt so normal at first. Comfortable. Familiar. You’d been drunk—more than you wanted to admit.

“Shouldn’t drink so much, sweetheart,” he had said, voice low, gently teasing. And God, you wish you’d listened. Because if you had, you wouldn’t be hiding in your room right now, trying to forget the way everything went wrong the moment his truck pulled into the driveway.

You roll over, burying your face in the pillow like it might push the thoughts out for good. You try to think of anything else—what the ocean looked like on the drive down, how Tommy hugged you, how the sun felt on your arms earlier—but it’s no use. Eventually, sleep takes you, but it’s restless, fragile. Even in your dreams, Joel's voice follows.

You’re pulled from sleep by the sound of knocking—soft, measured, just persistent enough to cut through the low hum of music still playing in your headphones. It takes a second for your eyes to open, longer for your brain to catch up. The room is dim, cast in the fading blue light of early evening, and for a moment, you forget where you are, the comfort of the bed unfamiliar.

“Yeah?” your voice croaks out, rough with sleep as you tug the headphones off and let them fall to your collarbones.

The door opens a crack, and Tommy’s voice follows—low, familiar, gentle in the way people speak when they know you’ve just been asleep. “Hey. Dinner’s ready. You hungry?”

You blink at him, still caught between dreaming and now. Part of you wants to say no—the idea of going back downstairs, of seeing Joel sit in your chest like a weight. But your stomach decides for you, a low, traitorous rumble breaking the silence.

“Kinda,” you mutter, sitting up and brushing a hand through your hair, trying to shake off the sleep.

Tommy leans casually against the doorframe, his smile easy as his eyes flick over you. “You look like hell,” he teases, not unkindly, nodding toward your mess of tangled hair and sleep-flushed cheeks.

You roll your eyes. “Thanks.”

He grins, unfazed. “Still pretty though.”

You pause, caught off guard. Tommy’s never been shy about giving out compliments, always quick with a warm word or a wink, the kind of guy who says what he thinks without thinking too hard about what it might mean. 

You manage a soft, awkward laugh, brushing a hand through your hair again just to have something to do. “You’re full of shit.”

“Maybe,” he says with a smirk, “but I’m not wrong. Come down when you’re ready—we ordered pizza.”

You nod, offering a quiet, “Okay.”

Tommy gives you one last glance before disappearing down the hall, the door left slightly ajar behind him. His footsteps fade, and the house slips back into silence, save for the muffled hum of conversation and music downstairs.

You sit there for a while longer, staring at the wall, your heart beating just a little too loudly in your chest. You don’t want to face Joel. But you’ll have to. You can’t hide in this room for the rest of the trip. No matter how badly you want to.

The low hum of conversation grows louder with each step as you head downstairs, laughter spilling from the dining room into the hallway. You square your shoulders, pull on your best game face, and step into the room.

The three men are already seated around the table, mid-conversation, half-empty beer bottles and scattered plates marking the relaxed chaos of a shared meal. The last seat is next to Tommy, right across from Joel.

Of course.

You slip into the chair quietly, murmuring a soft “Hey” to no one in particular. As you glance up, your gaze catches Joel’s for just a second, just long enough for your heart to skip a beat before he looks away quickly, his expression unreadable.

“Here’s my sleeping beauty,” your dad says with a grin, his voice light as he opens one of the pizza boxes, the aroma filling the air. He slides it to the center of the table. “Thought we lost you to that nap.”

You manage a smile, tossing in a half-hearted eye roll. “Just resting my eyes.”

“To think you’ll still be able to sleep in a few hours,” he adds playfully. “Ah, to be young.”

Tommy reaches over, taking your plate and effortlessly piling a few slices of pizza onto it. You murmur a quiet “thanks” as he slides it back toward you, but just as your fingers hover above your plate, Joel’s hand moves with surprising speed. Without a word, he plucks one of the slices off your plate and adds it to his own.

Tommy raises an eyebrow toward his brother, a curious look flickering across his face, but Joel doesn’t even spare you a glance as he responds, his voice matter-of-fact: “She doesn’t like mushrooms.”

It’s such a small thing. So trivial. But somehow, the fact that he remembered something like that, something so insignificant, makes your breathing a bit heavier. You swallow hard, trying to ignore the flutter of emotions. This shouldn’t be a big deal, but somehow, it is.

You force your attention back to Tommy, who’s now looking at you, waiting for confirmation. “Yeah,” you say, trying to shake off the sudden tightness in your chest, “I still don’t understand why anyone would like them.”

“Been picking them out of her plate forever,” your dad chimes in with a grin, shaking his head. “You’d think that with age she’d learn to like them.”

You shrug, grabbing your plate and resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “You should be happy. More for you guys, right?”

Your dad chuckles, pointing his slice at you like it’s a moral victory. “You’re right, hon. More for us. Well, more for Joel right now.” Joel doesn’t say anything, just takes a bite of the slice he stole from your plate, indifferent.

Your dad reaches for another slice, glancing across the table. “So, when’s Sarah joining us?”

“I'm picking her up early Saturday morning,” Joel says, and there’s an instant softness in his voice, that particular warmth that only shows up when he talks about his daughter. A quiet pride you’ve always found yourself drawn to.

“Great!” your dad says, lighting up. “You know what you wanna do Saturday night? Anything planned to celebrate your birthday?”

Joel shrugs, lips tilting just slightly. “Nothin’ fancy. Barbecue, some beer. Keep it simple.”

Tommy snorts. “You say that every year, and every year you end up grilling enough to feed half the damn neighborhood.”

Joel smirks. “That’s ‘cause your ass keeps inviting everyone.”

The table bursts into easy laughter, and you join in, trying your best to seem casual. Like nothing’s wrong. Like your heart isn’t hammering a little too hard in your chest every time Joel lifts his eyes—though he still hasn’t looked at you once.

“Can’t believe you’re turnin’ fifty,” Tommy says, shaking his head like it’s the most unbelievable thing in the world.

Fifty.

The number echoes louder in your head than it should. Joel will literally be twice your age on Saturday. Not that you’ve counted. Not that you’ve done that math more than once. Not that it ever mattered when you looked at him.

Joel huffs a soft breath through his nose, unbothered. “Believe it. My back sure does. It’s gonna be your turn soon anyway,” Joel adds, tipping his head toward Tommy with a smirk.

Tommy snorts. “Still got a few years to enjoy before I hit the old man club, thank you very much.” He lifts his beer in mock celebration. “To youth.”

“To denial,” Joel mutters, earning another laugh from your dad.

You smile automatically, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your gaze drifts back to Joel—again—before you can stop yourself. He still isn’t looking at you. His jaw’s tight in that way you’ve started to recognize, and his eyes stay fixed on his plate like there’s something deeply fascinating about pepperoni and mushrooms.

If everything was normal, if that night hadn’t happened, you’d have already jumped in—teasing him about his age, asking if you need to start talking louder so his old ears can hear you, calling him old man like you liked to do. You would’ve leaned into the way he always gave it right back to you, sharp and playful. But now the words stay stuck behind your teeth. 

The rest of dinner unfolds quietly, the conversation staying light and safe. You barely speak, and when you do, it’s only to your dad or Tommy—never to Joel. He mirrors you perfectly, carefully steering clear of any moments that might force a glance or a word between the two of you. It’s almost surreal how easily you both slip into this unspoken truce, acting like strangers sharing a meal rather than two people who have known each other for years—two people who, until just a few days ago, would have been playfully teasing each other about nothing and everything.

When everyone finishes eating, you seize the chance to escape the table. You gather the plates, insisting you should at least help with the dishes since you didn’t contribute much during dinner. Your dad waves off your concern with a grin. “Ordering pizza doesn’t need much help”, but thank you when you insist. In the kitchen, you drop the plates into the sink and turn on the water, letting it run warm as you grab the sponge. You’re grateful for the simple task—scrubbing at dried cheese and crust instead of sitting in silence across from Joel. It’s a relief to be doing something, anything.

You barely hear the footsteps behind you before a voice speaks up, low and easy.

“You rinse, I dry?”

You glance over your shoulder to find Tommy standing beside you with a dish towel in hand and a smile on his face. You smile back, grateful it’s him and not—

“Deal,” you say softly, passing him the first rinsed plate.

You fall into an easy rhythm, the clinking of ceramic and the soft splash of water filling the space between you. If Tommy noticed how quiet you were during dinner, he doesn’t mention it. He just dries the plates with casual efficiency, stacking them neatly beside him.

“How’s work been?” he asks, as you pass him a glass. “It’s nice you got some time off to come out here.”

You nod, rinsing off the soap. “It’s been good. Busy. I had a bunch of vacation days piling up, figured I should finally use them.”

“Glad you did,” he says with a smile. “It’s nice having everyone together. Joel won’t admit it, but I know he’s real damn grateful you came.”

Your hands pause just for a second under the running water before you force a casual nod. “Yeah. It’s nice.” You try to keep your voice steady, your expression neutral.

Tommy doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just gives you the grace of pretending not to. He moves on easily, drying another plate.

“Can’t wait to see Sarah,” you add, maybe a little too quickly.

Tommy grins. “You and me both. She’s been goin’ on about this trip for weeks. I think she’s more excited to see you than us old guys.”

You laugh softly. “She actually texted me earlier, asking if we’d gotten here yet. Said she wishes she was already here.”

“Damn shame she couldn’t cut out a few days early,” Tommy says, shaking his head.

You gasp, mock-offended. “You want her to skip class? She just started college, Tommy. What kind of terrible influence are you?”

Tommy smirks, tossing the dish towel over his shoulder. “Fun’s part of the college experience, ain’t it? I’m just helpin’ her get the full package.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Yeah, pretty sure skipping class and listening to her drunk uncle isn’t in the college brochure.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Drunk uncle? You wound me.”

“If the shoe fits,” you shoot back with a grin.

Tommy leans a hip against the counter, crossing his arms with mock offense. “I’ll have you know, I’m not just the guy who got too drunk at your graduation party. I’m a man of many facets.”

You scoff. “Says the man who once tried to convince me tequila was a form of hydration.”

He holds up a finger. “In my defense, it was very hot that day. Heat stroke was a real threat.”

You both break into laughter, the sound echoing off the kitchen tiles, easy and warm. Tommy was in his forties, but he’s never once treated you like a kid—not since the first time you met him, back during your freshman year of college, when you came out to the beach house for the first time. From the second you met him, it had just clicked. He’d made you laugh within five minutes, offered you a beer ten minutes after that, and by the end of the first night, you were already teasing each other like old friends.

You didn’t see each other often—vacations, holidays, the occasional long weekend—but it didn’t matter. Every time Tommy was there, you knew it was going to be a good time. He was your friend—older, sure, but a good one. One you were glad to have around for the next few days.

As if reading your thoughts, he nudges you gently with a grin. “Anyway, you’re gonna be stuck with us for the next few days until she arrives. Be nicer, and I just might keep you company,” he teases.

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the smile tugging at your lips. “Keep me company, huh? Sounds like a threat wrapped in a promise.”

“Rude,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Come on, what else are you gonna do without me? Go fishin’ with your old man and Joel?”

You keep scrubbing the dishes, hoping not to freeze every time you hear Joel’s name.

“Why, because you’re not gonna go with them?”

“Not if you ask me to stay with you.”

You glance at him, smirking. “You don’t like fishin’, do you?”

“Can’t stand it.”

“So I’m just your excuse, huh?” You grin.

He shrugs with a smirk. “I’d say it’s a mutual arrangement. But hey, what did you have planned for the next few days anyway?”

“Goin’ to the beach,” you say, nodding toward the sea outside like it’s the most obvious plan in the world. “Tan next to the pool, maybe?”

Tommy grins, shaking his head. “Great. You’re definitely gonna need help with sunscreen.”

You scoff, “I’m not a kid, I can handle that myself.”

He leans in a little, voice dropping just enough for you to notice. “Doesn’t mean I can’t help you anyway.”

You shoot him a look, catching that familiar smile tugging at his lips—the one that’s always there, warm and easy. For a moment, you wonder if there’s something more behind it than just friendly teasing. Your eyes linger on him, taking in the way his brown eyes hold yours, steady and something just a little softer. His dark curls fall just so, still thick and mostly untouched by grey—unlike Joel’s salt-and-pepper hair. You bite the inside of your cheek, stopping yourself before your thoughts drift too far toward the older Miller brother. Forcing your eyes away, you focus on the last few dishes in the sink, grateful for the distraction.

“Stop slacking off and keep drying,” you order with a smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, flashing you a grin before picking up another plate.

You roll your eyes at the “ma’am” and reach for a spoon sitting in a used coffee mug in the sink. Without thinking, you dip it too fast under the running water—and a splash flicks out, dribbling over both of you. Mostly Tommy, who blinks in surprise as droplets trickle down his cheek.

He looks up at you, a slow, mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Is that how it’s gonna be?” he teases, one brow arching.

Before you can even open your mouth to protest, he scoops up a handful of water and flicks it right back at you. You yelp, startled, and duck just as the splash hits your cheek and drips down your neck.

“Now it’s on,” you warn, readying your own counterattack.

But before you can move, the fridge door swings open. You hadn’t even heard Joel come in. He grabs a beer, his eyes flickering between Tommy and you—mostly settling on Tommy, like he can’t quite bring himself to hold your gaze for more than a second. The tightness in your chest returns.

“You guys know there’s a dishwasher, right?” Joel finally speaks. You hadn’t expected him to say anything.

Tommy just chuckles. “Eh, where’s the fun in that?” he replies, shrugging.

Joel says nothing, only giving a brief nod before heading back to the dining room with your father. Tommy’s gaze flickers between Joel and you, then back, like he’s about to say something—but he doesn’t.

“Let’s finish this,” he says finally, breaking the quiet.

You both fall into a comfortable rhythm, moving through the last dishes with easy motions. Tommy starts talking about the perfect weather forecast for the weekend. “Perfect to get that tan going,” he says with a grin just as you finish rinsing the last plate.

You can’t help but smile, the tension in your chest loosening just a bit. It’s good to have Tommy here. Its easy with him. 

After talking a while longer in the kitchen, he finally says goodnight, rubbing the back of his neck and explaining he arrived early this morning and really needs to catch up on sleep.

When he asks if you’re heading to bed too, you shake your head and tell him you’re going to stay up a bit longer, wanting to steal some quiet time before the next day. He smiles warmly, that easy grin that always makes you feel a little lighter, and says again how glad he is you’re here. 

You watch him disappear up the stairs, the sound of his footsteps fading away. For a moment, you stand there, listening to the quiet hum of the house settling down for the night. Then your gaze drifts outside to the small terrace just beyond the kitchen door, which leads to the pool, and beyond that, the beach.

Without really thinking, you step outside and settle into one of the lounge chairs int the corner, your eyes immediately drawn to the distant horizon where the ocean meets the night sky. The slow, rhythmic crash of the waves reaches you, barely visible but clearly heard. The salty air is cool against your skin, carrying the scent of seaweed and the faintest hint of summer.

You lean back, letting the chair cradle you, the steady rise and fall of the waves becomes a steady rhythm to anchor your thoughts. You stay there for a long while, watching the dark water shift and shimmer under the moonlight, letting the night wrap around you like a soft blanket. 

Your moment of quiet is broken when the door creaks open, and there he is—the source of your anxiety—stepping out into the night air. Joel takes a few slow steps forward and leans against the railing, his gaze fixed out toward the dark sea. He doesn’t see you—thankfully.

You watch him without really thinking, as you always do when the chance comes. The way the salt-and-pepper strands of his hair catch the cool ocean breeze, tousled just enough to soften his usually rugged look. His broad shoulders ease into the lighter, softer fabric of the button-down shirt he’s traded for the familiar flannel—something different, but in a good way. You find yourself wishing things were normal enough for you to have said it the moment you arrived: Lookin’ good, Miller.

Your eyes stay fixed on his profile as he pulls a cigarette from a pack, lighting it with practiced ease. The small flicker of flame dances over his sharp features, momentarily illuminating the shadows on his face. It’s been a while since you saw him do that.

“I thought you quit smoking,” you say before you can stop yourself. 

You immediately catch the way he freezes at the sound of your voice—his shoulders stiffen, the casual ease he carried just moments ago vanishing in an instant. Maybe you should’ve stayed silent, but you knew he would’ve noticed you sooner or later. You watch as he hesitates, the faintest flicker of uncertainty crossing his face before he finally turns around.

You wait, the silence stretching between you, expecting him to say something—anything. Maybe a sharp comment about why he’s out here, smoking, when you both know he promised Sarah he’d quit over a year ago. “Stop smoking or I swear, I’ll do every drug I can find in college.” You’d been surprised it actually worked. You hadn’t seen him with a cigarette since.

But he just stands there, cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers. His eyes lock onto yours, sharp and unreadable. For a moment, you want to shrink back, disappear into the shadows of the terrace. There’s a hardness in his gaze, icy and distant.The kind that clearly says you’re not welcome here.

This is the first time all day he’s really looked at you, not the quick, passing glances. Usually, when Joel’s eyes meet yours, it stirs something warm beneath your skin, a familiar comfort. But tonight? It sends a different kind of shiver, one that sinks deep and unsettles you. You see the quiet judgment in his eyes, the disappointment. 

You hesitate but force the words out. “Can we talk?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he takes a long, slow drag from the cigarette, the smoke curling around him. His jaw tightens as he exhales, the ember glowing brighter for a moment before he flicks it off the railing with a sharp motion.

“Nothing to talk about,” he says coldy. There’s no warmth. No hesitation. No trace of the Joel you knew. Without another word, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot, his eyes not even meeting yours as he turns away.

You watch him disappear through the door, the image sinking deep into your chest. Somehow, it pulls you right back to two nights ago, when all you could do was stand frozen, helpless, as he walked away from you. That same ache rises now, the desperate urge to call him back, to stop him before he is out of reach.

But just like then, you don’t move. You don’t say a word. Because you know, deep down, this mess is yours. You’re the reason he doesn’t want to stick around—because you couldn’t keep the way he makes you feel under control. Because you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting what you couldn’t have.

[mononijikayu]

casual crazy — fushiguro toji.

“You’re staring.” His voice is deep, casual, but there’s something about it that makes your stomach flip. You don’t look away. Why should you? He’s a sight, broad shoulders stretching his dark shirt, the veins in his arms just there, teasing your drunken brain into all sorts of bad ideas. “So?” you couldn’t help but garble, setting your empty glass down with a clumsy clink. “Can’t help it. You’re kinda hard not to look at.” His smirk deepens. “Are you always this bold, or is it the liquor talking, hm?”

GENRE: alternate universe - canon convergence;

WARNING/S: smut, romance (sorta), enemies to lovers (sorta), assasins and hitmen, friends with benefits, nsfw, rated 18 and above, explicit content, porn with plot, kissing, making out, rough sex, p to v sex, bathroom/toilet sex, orgasm, tension, lust, power play, dirty talk, sexual tension, public sex, size difference, dom/sub undertones, drunken flirting, casual sex turned complicated, humor, profanity, pet names (baby, sweetheart, good girl, etc), jealousy, characters speaking in sexual innuendo, mention of sexual euphemisms, depiction of explicit sexual content, assassin! toji, assassin! reader;

WORD COUNT: 5.7k words.

NOTE: i remember writing this while i was going through the horny thoughts i couldn't avoid. genuinely, need to be done dirty like this, i fear. i made my friend beta read this and they were like, 'actually if he calls me good girl again, im gonna lose it' and the reaction was totally worth it. anyway, i hope you enjoy it as much as we did. i love you all <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

YOU HAVE A VERY BAD RELATIONSHIP WITH ALCOHOL. You’ve long admitted that to yourself. Yet, you’ve done very little about it over the past few years, no matter the amount of therapy or rehab you’ve done.

There just really wasn’t any escape from the addiction that made you feel alive. But that’s just the life of an assassin, you supposed. You had to have something that keeps you alive, that keeps you going, in this line of work.

Your calloused fingers clutch the sweating glass, the whiskey inside sloshing dangerously close to spilling. You should probably slow down, but the warmth spreading through your veins is the only thing keeping you steady. Or maybe it’s the opposite. Hard to tell at this point.

And then, all of a sudden, the devil hands you a brand-new temptation. One far more intoxicating than the burn of whiskey down your throat. The familiar craving for alcohol vanishes in a blink, cast aside as something far more potent takes hold. Lust. Raw and unfiltered, creeping into your veins like wildfire. Because there he is.

Fushiguro Toji.

The dark haired man looks like he’s danced with the devil and walked away grinning, untouched, undefeated. They even say so, all the other assassins. They say he wears sin like a second skin, so easily, so unapologetic, so effortless. And seeing it for yourself, it was actually impressive. 

There’s a weight to him, something heavy and dark, yet he carries it with an ease that shouldn’t be possible. Perhaps that’s why he could live easily as an assassin more than most. That lazy confidence rolls off him in waves, an unspoken challenge to the world.

It was as if nothing—no god, no fate, no consequence, could ever chain him down. 

Nothing in the world could bring this dangerous man to his knees.

After all, that’s why he’s Shiu’s favorite out of the scores of assassins like you.

The scar at the corner of his mouth twitches when he smirks, a wicked little tell that gives nothing away and yet says everything. His sharp blue—green eyes was interesting to look at, you think. 

In some ways, you know you could not read the truth behind those emotions that spiral through those orbs. Yet, it was obvious what intentions they had. And that makes your skin crawl to no end. It was eager, hungry, cutthroat, knowing. 

Amusement, intrigue… danger.

You didn’t care for the precisement emotion.

That’s when you knew you were already lost.

“You’re staring.”

His voice is deep, casual, but there’s something about it that makes your stomach flip. You don’t look away. Why should you? He’s a sight, broad shoulders stretching his dark shirt, the veins in his arms just there, teasing your drunken brain into all sorts of bad ideas.

“So?” you couldn’t help but garble, setting your empty glass down with a clumsy clink. “Can’t help it. You’re kinda hard not to look at.”

His smirk deepens. “Are you always this bold, or is it the liquor talking, hm?”

You hum, tilting your head as if actually thinking about it. The room sways a little, but before you can fall off your stool, a firm hand wraps around your arm, steadying you with ease. His fingers are rough, warm, and entirely too comfortable where they are.

“Whoa there, [last name].” he murmurs, close enough now that you can smell him. All smoke, steel, and something faintly sweet. “Didn’t take you for a lightweight.”

“I’m not, Fushiguro.” you protest, frowning up at him. “I just… you’re distracting right now.”

He chuckles, low and deep, and it rumbles through you in a way that makes you grip the edge of the bar. He still hasn’t let go of your arm, and you’re suddenly very aware of how big his hand is, how easily he could manhandle you if he wanted to.

“Distracting, huh?” He tilts his head, watching you like a cat watches a mouse that’s just a little too cocky for its own good. “So, what? You tryna flirt with me?”

Your grin is slow, lazy. “That depends.” you murmur, dragging your fingers up his arm, feeling the way the muscle tenses slightly beneath your touch. “Is it working?”

For a second, he just watches you, unreadable.

Then, he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“Damn. You are drunk.” He snickers at you. “Not what I expected from you.”

You pout. “That a no?”

He leans in, just a little, enough that his breath fans against your cheek. “That’s a be careful, doll.” he says, voice like gravel, mischievous eyes gleaming with something that makes your throat dry up. “I don’t play nice. I never have.”

Your heart stumbles over itself. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the way he looks at you like he already knows exactly what would make you fall apart, but you find yourself leaning closer instead of backing off.

“Who said I wanted to be nice?”

His fingers tighten around your arm just slightly, his smirk curling into something more dangerous. “…Now that’s interesting.”

Toji exhales a quiet chuckle, his grip on your arm firm but not restraining. He could let go anytime, you could have just as much let go. But neither of you move to do anything. Instead, the tension only builds, like waves crashing over itself over and over.

His eyes flick over you, slow and assessing, like he’s deciding whether you’re a good bet or just another bad decision waiting to happen. Not that he seems like the type to care about bad decisions.

“You got a death wish or somethin’?” he murmurs, tilting his head, the scar on his lip twitching.

You smirk, fingers playing at the rim of your glass. “I dunno,” you say, voice dipping lower, hazier. “Depends. Are you planning on killing me?”

His grin sharpens. “Not unless you ask really nicely, doll.”

A shiver runs down your spine. It was one that had nothing to do with alcohol, that was quite certain. You should probably tread carefully, but the way he’s looking at you, like you’re something worth toying with, tasting. You suppose that makes you bold. Or maybe just stupid. You couldn’t decide the distinction.

“So what if I did?” You lean in, resting your chin on your palm, eyes locked on his. “What if I wanted a little danger?”

Toji hums, like he’s amused. “Doll, you’re too confident about it, don’t you think? I doubt you could handle it.”

You scoff, but before you can argue, he moves. Just a slight shift, but suddenly, he’s closer. He shook his head at you, full of intrigue. In an instant, his massive knee brushes yours under the bar, his breath teasing your ear as he murmurs, 

“You’re drunk. That liquid courage’s talkin’ for you.”

Your fingers trail up his forearm, slow, deliberate. “And what if it’s not?”

He watches you, blue–green eyes dark and unreadable, his lips hovering just out of reach. The tension hums between you, thick and charged, like a wire stretched too tight. You swear the whole bar fades away, until it’s just the two of you and the heat simmering between your bodies. 

All of the noise from the bar counter, the clinking glasses of little cheers, the other patrons dancing and singing, being the obnoxious humans they were. None of that truly ever mattered t at that moment. Toji tilts his head, considering. Then, just as slowly, he pulls back, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.

“Tempting, isn’t it?” he murmurs, tossing back the last of his drink. “But you’d regret it.”

Your stomach twists—frustration? Curiosity? Maybe it was a little of both. “And what if I wouldn’t?”

He smirks, standing from his stool. He towers over you, his presence alone enough to make your breath hitch. “Then that would be even worse.”

“You make it sound like it’s the worst thing in the world.” You hiccuped in reply.

He snickers back at you as he taps two fingers against the bar, signaling for another drink before glancing down at you one last time, his gaze lingering. “Drink some water, doll. Clear that head of yours. An assassin can’t let their guard down.” 

You exhale, heart pounding against your ribs.

Well, damn.

You don’t think. 

You just move.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you. It was like he’s already decided you’re trouble, but he’s entertained enough to stick around and see what kind. Maybe it’s just that you don’t want to let this moment slip away, not when the air between you is crackling, thick with something sharp and wanting.

So when he turns away, you reach out, fingers curling around his wrist—firm but not desperate. Just enough to make him pause. He looks down at your hand, then back at you, one brow quirking up in silent question.

And then you kiss him.

You don’t even give him a chance to smirk, to throw some smug remark about how bold you are. You just let go. You just go for it. Your lips press against his, the taste of whiskey and smoke flooding your senses, and for a second, he doesn’t move. 

It’s like he’s caught off guard, like you actually surprised him. But then—then—he takes a moment to exhale a quiet grunt, and his hand is suddenly on your waist, pulling you in just enough to keep you steady.

The kiss is messy, a little too eager, too animalistic. But you don’t care. You can feel the curve of his smirk against your lips, the way he lets you take the lead just long enough to lull you into a false sense of control. Because then, he takes it back.

Fushiguro Toji kisses like he fights. And he liked it that way. It was all too sharp, and devoid of mercy. It was deliberate, like he knows exactly where to hit to make you weak. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he deepens it, tongue sliding against yours, and fuck, you’re dizzy all over again, but this time it has nothing to do with the alcohol.

His fingers dig into your waist, pulling you flush against him, and it sends a spark straight down your spine. He tastes dangerous, and it makes your head spin worse than any drink. And then just as suddenly as he let you have him, he pulled back.

You’re left breathless, your lips tingling, your pulse hammering. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, looking entirely too amused, like he just figured something out about you that even you didn’t know.

His thumb brushes over your lip, slow, lazy. “Huh.” he murmurs, voice husky. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

You swallow hard, trying to regain your balance. “Yeah, well… maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

He chuckles, low and deep, thumb still idly tracing your lip like he’s considering whether he wants another taste. “Maybe not, doll.” he agrees, stepping back.

“What are you thinking now?”

His grip lingers just a second too long before he finally lets go. He slyly smiles at you. “I’m startin’ to think I should.”

You should say something witty, something cocky, anything to keep this game going but your brain is still scrambling from the way he kissed you like he was meant to. Toji smirks like he can see exactly what he did to you. Then, with one last lingering look, he turns back toward the bar, tossing a few bills down before sliding his hands into his pockets.

“You comin’, or you just gonna sit there lookin’ dazed?”

Your breath catches. “Where to?”

He glances at you over his shoulder. “Outta here,” he says simply. “Unless you just wanted a kiss and nothin’ more, doll.”

It’s a challenge. A dare. One you have no intention of backing down from. You slide off the stool, shaking off whatever remains of your hesitation, and follow him to wherever he was taking you. After all, you realized you were crazy. You might as well act like crazy, too.

IT DIDN’T TAKE VERY LONG FOR YOU TO END UP WHERE YOU WERE. You and Toji slipped away from the crowded room, making your way to the nearby comfort room. As soon as the door closed behind you, Toji pushed you against the wall, his lips crashing against yours in a heated kiss. 

His hands roamed your body, gripping and squeezing as he pressed his hips against yours.You could feel his hardness through his pants, grinding against your core. Toji's lips trailed down your neck, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin.

"Someone’s getting quite impatient, isn’t she?" he murmured against your throat, his voice husky with desire. His hands slid under your shirt, his fingers tracing the curves of your breasts.

Your hands tangled in Toji's hair, pulling him closer as you deepened the kiss. His tongue explored your mouth, dueling with yours in a passionate dance. Toji's fingers deftly unhooked your bra, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts. He kneaded the soft flesh, his thumbs brushing against your hardening nipples.

A moan escaped your lips, your hips bucking against his. Toji's other hand slid down, popping the button of your jeans and slipping inside. His fingers brushed against your core, finding you already wet with desire

"Fuck, you're so ready for me, aren’t you?" Toji groaned, his breath hot against your skin, his voice thick with satisfaction. His fingers traced slow, teasing circles over your clit, the deliberate motion sending sparks of pleasure crackling through your nerves.

He didn’t just touch you, no. He consumed you whole. He commanded your body, every movement calculated to pull a reaction from you. And he got it. A sharp gasp, a desperate arch of your hips, a needy little whimper that only made his smirk deepen.

He pushed two fingers inside you, the stretch delicious and unrelenting. The slow, slick glide of them made you shudder, your walls tightening around him instinctively. His touch was maddening and all the while measured, knowing, dragging pleasure out of you inch by inch.

“Can you feel it?” he murmured, voice like gravel, like temptation itself. His thumb pressed a little harder against your clit, his fingers curling just right. “Feel how wet you already are? Fuck, you’re gripping me so tight.”

"Hhnnn… your fingers feel so good…” you cooed against him, voice breathy, barely there, your mind slipping under the weight of sensation. “Toji…..fuck…..”

Toji chuckled, low and rough, his amusement edged with something darker—something possessive. "Yeah? Then take ‘em."

His fingers plunged deeper, stretching, stroking, his pace quickening with a ruthless precision. Every twist, every push, every brush against that perfect spot sent you unraveling further. Your body tensed, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter, climbing toward an inevitable, overwhelming crescendo.

Toji’s lips ghosted over your ear, his voice nothing but a sinful whisper. “Let me hear you, baby. I wanna feel you come on my fingers.”

His fingers moved with unrelenting precision, pushing deeper, curling just right, stroking over that devastatingly sensitive spot that made your breath catch. Every motion was deliberate, every flick of his wrist measured to wring another shudder from you.

The heat in your core coiled tighter, pleasure winding sharp and insistent. Your legs trembled, muscles clenching, but Toji wasn’t about to let you squirm away. His free hand pressed against your stomach, pinning you down, his grip firm all too possessive.

"You’re so desperate for it," he murmured, his voice laced with amusement, with something darker. "Fucking clenching around me like you’re already close."

A whimper slipped past your lips, and Toji chuckled, the sound rough, pleased. His breath ghosted over your ear, teasing, taunting. "Gonna come for me just like this?" His thumb pressed harder against your clit, circling with slow, devastating intent. "Or do you need more?"

Your body answered before your lips could. Your back arched, fingers grasping for something—anything—to ground yourself against the overwhelming sensation. But Fushiguro Toji had you exactly where he wanted you, held firm in his grasp, unraveling beneath his touch.

His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, voice a husky whisper. "Go on, baby. Let me feel it."

The pressure inside you snapped, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, leaving you trembling, breathless. Toji held you through it, drawing out every last shudder, his fingers working you through the aftershocks, never once letting up.

When he finally withdrew, his fingers slick and glistening, he brought them to his lips, watching you with that same lazy smirk. The one that sent heat pooling low in your stomach all over again. He sucked them into his mouth, tasting every bit of you with a satisfied hum.

Toji then dragged his cum stained fingers down your thigh, his touch deliberate, lingering, as if savoring the way your body still trembled beneath him. His smirk never wavered, that lazy confidence settling deep in his stance, in the sharp glint of his eyes.

"You look real pretty when you come, pretty." he mused, voice low and rough, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. His gaze flicked over you—your parted lips, the rise and fall of your chest, the dazed look in your eyes. "Bet you’d look even prettier coming on my cock."

The way he said it, like a promise, like an inevitability, sent a fresh wave of heat through you. It was all too much, this sensation. You’ve never truly felt it before, not even with your other partners. Fushiguro Toji was the first to take you down this path. 

“But I’m not giving it to you easily, doll.” He smiles at you, overtly sadistic. “You gotta work for it, hm?”

“Toji, this is so cruel!”

He laughs. “But isn’t that how pleasure works? You gotta earn it.”

“But I’m desperate!”

"Tell me, doll." he murmured, fingers tracing up your inner thigh, stopping just shy of where you needed him most. "You want more, don’t you?"

You stared at him for a while, groaning as he got to your cunny again.

Your breath hitched, your hips shifting toward his touch on instinct. 

But Toji only chuckled, his grip tightening just enough to keep you still.

"Use your words, doll." he coaxed, his thumb ghosting over your already swollen clit, featherlight, teasing. "You begged so sweetly before. Let me hear it again."

Your pulse pounded, every nerve alight, but he wasn’t going to give you what you wanted so easily. You know that now. He wanted to hear you say it, to watch you squirm, to make you admit just how badly you needed him.

"Please…" The word came out breathless, barely there.

Toji hummed, tilting his head like he was considering whether or not to give you what you wanted. "Mmm. That’s not enough, sweetheart." His fingers flexed against your thigh. "Tell me exactly what you need."

You swallowed hard, heat creeping up your neck. 

He was enjoying everything about this situation.

He liked this, how he was dragging it out, making you work for it.

"I need you, you bastard." you finally admitted, voice unsteady but desperate, raw. "I need you inside me. Please, Toji."

Something dark and satisfied flickered across his face, and in an instant, his teasing patience snapped. "That’s more like it, doll." he growled.

Your breath hitched as Toji held you there, his grip firm, unyielding, like he had all the time in the world to savor this moment, to savor you. His thick, calloused fingers pressed deeper into your hips, holding you steady beneath him, his touch branding you, leaving no room for escape. Not that you wanted one.

His lips ghosted over your jaw, the heat of his breath sending shivers down your spine. “Takin’ me so well again. You’re such a good girl.” he murmured, his voice deep, rough around the edges, like he was barely holding himself back. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

The question hung between you, thick with expectation, and you couldn’t do anything but nod, your body taut with anticipation, with need. But it was obvious that this wasn’t enough for him just yet, no. He still wanted more. And you still did too, pushing against his long massive fingers, letting the edge of pleasure hit you again in the pandemonium of overstimulation.

“Say it.” Toji ordered, his tone carrying that unmistakable edge, a command wrapped in dark amusement. He wanted to hear it, to pull the words from your lips just like he pulled every other reaction from your body.

Your fingers curled against his arms, nails digging into the hard muscle there, seeking something to anchor yourself to as you gasped out, “Feels—feels so good, Toji.”

A low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest. “That’s my pretty girl.”

His movements were deliberate, controlled, a stark contrast to the raw hunger in his eyes. He wanted to see you come undone beneath him, to watch every tremor of pleasure ripple through your body. His thumb found your clit, circling in slow, devastating strokes that made your breath hitch, made you gasp his name like a prayer.

Toji leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice nothing but a dark promise. “Now show me something beautiful, doll.”

The dark haired man’s fingers continued their relentless pace, drawing out your pleasure. His thumb circled your clit, the sensitive nub throbbing under his touch. Your body shuddered, waves of ecstasy crashing over you.

"Fuck, you're so responsive, aren’t you?" Toji groaned, his voice strained with desire. His fingers pumped slowly, gentler now, as he helped you ride out the final waves of your second orgasm. "That's it, baby. Let go for me."

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue danced with yours, swallowing your moans and cries of pleasure. As your overbearing orgasm finally subsided, Toji's fingers withdrew slowly, leaving you feeling empty and wanting more. His eyes, dark with lust, met yours.

"You okay?" he asked softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You nodded, your chest heaving as you caught your breath. "More than okay." you murmured, a satisfied smile on your lips.

Toji's grin was wicked, his hand sliding up your thigh. "Good, because we're just getting started." 

He lifted you effortlessly, carrying you over to the nearby counter. He set you down, stepping between your legs. Toji's lips crashed against yours, his kiss demanding and passionate. His hands roamed your body, touching and teasing every inch.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard, doll." he promised, his voice low and husky."I'm going to make you scream my name."

His fingers slowly hooked into the waistband of your skirt, tugging them down along with your already wet underwear, He narrowed his eyes at the wetness that stained your underwear. You watched as Toji's eyes darkened further as he then took in the sight of you, bare and exposed.

“Tell me, pretty little doll……What do you want? Say it for me, loud and clear.”

You barely had the breath to answer. “Please… make me feel good.” Your voice trembled, your hips rocking into his touch, desperate for more. “I need you inside me. I need your cock.”

Something dark flickered behind his blue–green eyes, endless hunger twisting his expression into something wicked. A slow smirk stretched his lips. “With pleasure.” he growled, pulling his fingers from you.

Toji stripped away his lower garments, his thick cock springing free from its confines, hard and heavy against his abdomen. The sight alone had your mouth running dry. He stepped between your legs, the head of his cock teasing your entrance, dragging slick over your swollen folds.

His fingers dug into your hips, hard enough to bruise. “Look at me, pretty doll.” he ordered, voice edged with command. “I wanna see your face when I stretch you open.”

You met his gaze just as he thrust forward, spearing you open in one swift stroke. The stretch burned, a mix of pain and unbearable pleasure, your walls squeezing around his thick length as he filled you to the hilt. A strangled moan tore from your throat, your head knocking back against the counter, legs trembling from the force of it.

“Fuck, you’re tight.” Toji groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second as he fought for control. “Feel so good wrapped around me like this.”

He pulled back, only to slam forward again, setting a slow, punishing rhythm. Each thrust was deep, measured, deliberate. It was driving the air from your lungs, sending shockwaves of sensation through every nerve ending.

The room filled with the obscene sound of skin meeting skin, your moans tangled with his rough grunts. Toji leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, his voice low and guttural. “You like this, don’t you?” 

“F….fu…..I–I do! I…I liiiiikeeee—”

His teeth grazed your earlobe before he sucked it between his lips. “Like being fucked open on my cock?”

The filthy words sent a violent shudder through your body, your walls clenching around him in response. Toji could feel it overwhelm him. He felt everything. A growl ripped from his chest as his pace turned brutal, desperate.

His hips slamming into yours with enough force to jolt the counter beneath you. One hand slipped between your bodies, his calloused fingers finding your clit, rubbing rough circles that sent you hurtling toward the edge.

“Come for me, pretty doll.” he commanded, voice strained, raw, demanding. “Come all over my cock.”

It was too much for you to even bear. It was all too good, all too intense, all too overwhelming. You could feel everything in your body tightening, pleasure coiling sharp and hot in your core before snapping all at once. 

Toji's grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise and burn. His thrusts became more aggressive, each snap of his hips driving into you with a brutal force that stole the air from your lungs. 

The shitty counter creaked beneath you, the heavy sound of its movement mingling with your cries of pleasure and pain. Toji's breath came in ragged pants against your neck, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin.

"You're mine now, aren’t you?"he growled possessively, his voice low and dangerous. "Say it."

His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat. His other hand slid down to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. You could feel drool sliding down both sides of your lips as you shook over and over again against his intense movements.

"Say you're mine." His hips pounded into you relentlessly, his cock hitting your deepest spots with merciless precision. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming sensation, your body shaking with each thrust.

"Please..." you gasped, your voice hoarse and strained. Toji's eyes flashed with a mix of desire and dominance. 

"Please what?" he demanded, his thrusts slowing to a torturous pace. "Tell me what you need."

His grip on your hair tightened, pulling your head back further. His thumb pressed against your lips, forcing them open. "Beg for it."

Your heart raced, your body trembling with a heady mix of fear and arousal. The dominant side of Fushiguro Toji was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. It made you wet and it made you on your guard. It made you want to be possessed and it made you want to be let go. And yet, you knew what you would choose. You knew what you wanted more than being free.

"Please..." you whispered again, your tongue darting out to lick his thumb. "Fuck me harder. Use me. Make me yours."

A wicked grin spreads brutishly across Toji's face, his blue–green eyes darkened with lust at the sight of your surrender to him, to your lust. To his pleasure. To the horridness and the craziness of all of this.

"Good girl." he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. 

Without warning, he pulled out, only to flip you over onto your stomach. And then all the strength of him, pushed his weight on you once again and pushed inside, earning an illicit moan from you, that now repeats like a symphony.

Toji gripped your hips, pulling them up to meet his thrusts. His hand cracked across your ass, the sting mixing with the pleasure coursing through your veins. "You like that, don't you?" he growled, his voice low and husky.

"Like being punished for being such a greedy little slut." His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt.He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his breath hot against your ear.

"I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight, doll." he promised, his words sending shivers down your spine."Until the only thing you can think about is my cock."

His fingers dug into your hips, his pace becoming more frenzied. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by your moans and Toji's grunts of pleasure. He reached around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in tight circles. 

"Come for me." He whispers hotly against your ears. “Go on, be a good girl, doll.”

“I–I can’t!” You cried out, slurring at your words as you moved against him, letting his pace ruin you. “Too….Too good, fucccckkkkk!”

"Do it, doll. Be a good girl f’r me." Toji demanded, his fingers moving faster against your clit. "I want to feel you squeeze my cock as you come apart."

His thrusts became more erratic, his breathing ragged against your neck. He bit down on your shoulder, marking you as his.The combination of sensations was overwhelming, pushing you closer to the edge.Your body tensed, your inner walls clamping down on Toji's length.

"That's it, pretty girl!" he growled, his hips pistoning into you. "Come on my cock. Now."

His command was all it took to send you spiraling over the precipice. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing with the force of it. Toji's hips snapped forward one last time, burying himself deep as he found his own release. He groaned loudly, his hot seed filling you up, one thrust after the other.

The air was thick with heat, the scent of sweat and sex still lingering in the dimly lit comfort room of the assassin’s bar. Your legs felt like jelly, like your entire body was going to collapse from the force of his push and pull.

You could feel your body still humming from the intensity of what just happened, yet Fushiguro Toji, the absolute menace that he was, looked completely unbothered about it. It was like he hadn’t just rearranged your entire existence against a suspiciously sturdy sink in this bar comfort room.

His breath was still rather heavy, his body slick with piling golden sweat, but his lazy smirk was back in full force as he finally pulled away. He cracked his neck, stretched like he’d just finished a workout, then gave you a once-over, his green eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Damn.” he muttered, running a hand through his damp dark hair. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

You glared at him, or at least tried to, but your legs wobbled the moment you moved, forcing you to grip the sink for support. Toji, ever the bastard, caught it immediately. “I hate you.”

His grin widened. “Aw, what’s wrong, sweetheart? Legs ain’t workin’?”

Your eye twitched. “You—shut up.”

Toji laughed, full and deep, the sound bouncing off the grimy tiled walls. “Tch, that’s what happens when you get greedy, doll.” he mused, zipping up his pants with a satisfied hum. “Didn’t expect you to be such a lil’ freak, though.”

Your face burned, but before you could snap back, a loud bang rattled the door. “OI, HURRY THE FUCK UP!” a voice bellowed from the other side. “Some of us actually need to piss, y’know!”

Oh. Right. The fact that you were in a goddamn assassin’s bar and had just let Fushiguro Toji ruin you and rearrange your guts in the bar comfort room like a couple of horny teenagers had completely slipped your mind. 

The depths of the alcohol you had drunk tonight had long slipped away from you and now you were sober. The wanton greed from you had all but disappeared and only replaced by the embarrassment you feel. 

You whipped around, hurriedly smoothing down your clothes, heart hammering in mortification. Still trying to make sure his cum doesn’t spill from your thighs, still trying to make yourself presentable. 

Meanwhile, Toji took his sweet time adjusting himself and his pants, looking completely unbothered. He even had the audacity to yawn. “Hold your damn horses, you idiots.” he called out lazily. “Some of us were busy.”

Loud groans and swearing erupted from the other side, followed by someone grumbling, “I swear to god, if they clogged the sink again—”

You nearly choked. “Again? What the fuck does that mean, Fushiguro?”

Toji snorted, tossing you a smug look. “Told ya, this ain’t my first time in here for a round. It's always casual. Or crazy Or both. Whichever is preferred.”

You gaped at him, scandalized. “You absolute piece of shit! You fucked me here—”

Another furious bang cut you off, and this time, the doorknob actually rattled. “I SWEAR TO FUCK, IF YOU TWO DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR—”

Toji just laughed, grabbing your wrist before you could fully process what was happening. “Time to go, doll.”

And just like that, he swung the door open, stepping out like he didn’t just defile the bar’s restroom, greeting the pissed-off assassins outside with a lazy smirk and a casual, “Sorry ‘bout that.”

You, on the other hand, nearly tripped over yourself as you followed, trying very hard to ignore the furious glares of the men who had just spent the last twenty minutes listening to your, uh… indiscretions. Toji slung an arm around your shoulders, leading you back toward the bar like it was just another regular night.

“You’re buying the next round.” you grumbled under your breath, face still burning. “And get me new underwear and pants, you fiend.”

Toji grinned, pressing a kiss to your temple like an asshole. “Worth it, though.”

You elbowed him in the ribs.

He only laughed harder.

[mandoalorian]

mile high club [bucky barnes x f!reader]

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Personal Assistant!Reader

Synopsis: When you and the Congressman cross professional boundaries, Bucky finds it hard to keep his hands off you, but you still worry that he sees you as a distraction to his upcoming campaign.

Word Count: 1700

Tags/warnings: 18+ explicit content. employer x employee, p in v, fingering, just general filth, smidge of plot.

Author's note: this was written because it was highly requested. if people enjoy the way i write for congressman!bucky, i am happy to turn this into a series of smutty one shots. but please let me know! if i don't know i can't do it. thanks! <3

Masterlist

prev chapter <3 | congress & carnality masterlist

The hum of the jet engine filled the private cabin, a low, steady sound that did nothing to settle the tension crackling between you and Bucky. The air up here felt thinner, charged with something you couldn’t name—something you hadn’t been able to shake since earlier that evening, when he had kissed you breathless in his office, his hands tangled in your hair, his body pressed flush against yours.

For years, it had been strictly professional. You prided yourself on that. You were Bucky Barnes’ personal assistant, the woman who kept his schedule tight, his image pristine, his affairs in order. He was a congressman, after all—one of the most powerful men in Washington, and you had always been painfully aware of the stakes. Of what would happen if you blurred the lines.

But you had always noticed him, too. The way his sleeves strained against his forearms, the rasp in his voice when he was exhausted, the rare smirk that made your stomach tighten. You had harboured your crush in silence, burying it under professionalism, refusing to acknowledge it. Until tonight.

That had been only hours ago. Since then, you had barely spoken, but the weight of what had happened lingered between you. Now, on this flight to Tokyo, where the air was warm, the whiskey in your glass burned sweet, and Bucky Barnes looked at you like he was ready to devour you whole, the tension was unbearable. You, on the other hand, were looking everywhere but him, afraid to catch your boss’ line of sight. You weren’t scared of him — no. As a matter of fact, you were probably one of the only people in the world who was not scared of the ex-Winter Soldier because you saw Bucky for who he really was: a man who wanted to implement change and focus on the greater good. 

He sat across from you, his tie loosened, his blue eyes dark as he watched you sip your drink. He looked at ease—relaxed, even. But you knew him better than that. There was a tension in his jaw, a hunger in the way his fingers tapped idly against the armrest.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said finally, his voice smooth, controlled.

You smirked, setting your glass down on the polished table between you. “You’ve been busy, Congressman.”

His lips twitched, amusement flickering across his face before he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “That’s not what I meant.” Bucky murmured, reaching out to trail a single finger along the exposed skin of your thigh. Goosebumps erupted in its wake. 

Your breath hitched. The warmth of his touch sent a slow, deliberate ache between your legs, and God, you wanted to fight it. You wanted to be strong, to resist. But it was impossible when he looked at you like that—like he knew exactly what he was doing to you, exactly how you would come undone for him.

“Bucky— you should really rehearse your speech for the Tokyo conference…” your words trailed off, not a single part of you meaning them, displaying every effort to keep your boss hard at work and not helplessly distracted by you. You felt a familiar heat between your legs as his pupils blew black and he looked up at you with lust. 

Wearily, you called his name again and it was barely a whisper before he was in front of you, his large hands gripping the arms of your chair, caging you in. His cologne wrapped around you—clean, woodsy, intoxicating. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured, lips inches from yours. “Tell me, and I will.”

You should have. You knew you should have.

Instead, you lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with a challenge. “You’re not very good at following orders, Congressman.”

His lips parted, a low groan slipping from them before his mouth crashed into yours. He loved when you called him that, and you knew it. The kiss was slow at first—hot, teasing, meant to drive you insane. But when you sighed into him, his patience snapped. His hands were on you, dragging you up, pressing you against the cool leather wall of the cabin, his hips flush against yours.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he growled, kissing a hot trail down your neck, his fingers working the buttons of your blouse.

You arched into him, your hands raking through his hair, tugging at his tie. “Then it’s mutual.”

Bucky chuckled darkly, nipping at your pulse point before spinning you around, pressing your front against the wall. His hands roamed lower, lower, hiking your skirt up.

“You ever done this before?” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “Thirty-five thousand feet in the air?”

You gasped as his fingers slid beneath your panties, tracing the slick heat waiting for him. “No.”

His smirk was wicked against your skin. “Guess I get to ruin you all over again.”

Bucky didn’t waste time. His fingers teased, tracing lazy circles over your sensitive skin before pressing into you, stretching you, filling you so deliciously slow you nearly whimpered. His other, Vibranium hand, came up to cover your mouth, muffling the sound as his lips brushed over your ear.

“Shh,” he whispered, voice thick with control he was barely holding onto. “Wouldn’t want the pilot to hear, would we?”

You remembered how just hours earlier, you were nearly walked in on, and heat coiled deep in your stomach, your nails digging into the leather wall as Bucky worked you open, curling his fingers just right, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. His mouth moved along your shoulder, kissing, nipping, soothing, his breath warm against your skin.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he murmured, his fingers plunging deeper, his thumb circling in just the right way. “Falling apart for me. Only for me.”

You bit your lip, desperate to keep quiet as the pleasure built, hot and overwhelming. Your knees threatened to buckle, but Bucky held you firm, his body a solid, unyielding force against you.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely a breath, a plea, and he groaned, twisting his fingers just so, sending you tumbling over the edge.

The world blurred, heat surging through you, white-hot pleasure crashing down in waves as Bucky swallowed every sound, pressing kisses to the back of your neck as you trembled in his arms.

As the aftershocks faded, he slowly withdrew, his hands smoothing over your hips, grounding you. But he wasn’t done.

A rough hand tilted your chin, his lips claiming yours in a slow, heated kiss before he hoisted you onto the polished table, nudging your legs apart with his knee. His breath was warm against your lips as he smirked. “What do you want, doll? Come on, use your words for me.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him closer. “I want you to fuck me, Congressman.” You said it without shame and just sheer desperation. 

A low groan rumbled in his chest as he grabbed your hips, dragging you to the edge of the table. The sound of fabric rustling filled the cabin, the cool air brushing against your fevered skin as he freed himself.

His thick length pressed against your entrance, teasing, stretching you just enough to make you squirm. His thumb found your clit, circling lazily, coaxing another desperate whimper from your lips.

“Patience,” he murmured, watching you with dark, hungry eyes as he inched inside, sinking into you with a slow, deliberate thrust.

The stretch was exquisite, overwhelming, stealing the breath from your lungs. You clung to him, nails raking down his back as he filled you completely, groaning at the way your body clenched around him.

“Fuck,” he ground out, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel—Jesus, you feel perfect.”

He pulled back only to snap his hips forward again, the force making the table creak beneath you. You gasped, your back arching, pleasure sparking along every nerve ending as he set a slow, punishing rhythm, dragging out every ounce of pleasure until you were a trembling, desperate mess beneath him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, watching the way your lips parted, your breath coming in ragged pants. “Taking me so well. So fucking sweet for me.”

You whimpered as he angled his hips, hitting that perfect spot inside you, sending stars exploding behind your eyes. Your fingers dug into his biceps, nails biting into the firm muscle.

“Bucky—please—”

He grinned, pressing a teasing kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Please what?”

Your head fell back as he rolled his hips again, slow and deep, leaving you gasping. “Please—I need—”

His smirk darkened as he drove into you harder, faster, the intensity building, the pleasure unbearable. “Say it,” he growled against your throat. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” you choked out, hands fisting in his shirt. “Need you. Need to come.”

He groaned, his movements turning rougher, desperate, his fingers slipping between you to work your clit, pushing you closer, higher—

Until you shattered, pleasure ripping through you in waves, leaving you breathless, boneless, clinging to him as he followed with a low, guttural moan, spilling inside you, his body shuddering against yours.

As you both caught your breath, Bucky let out a low chuckle, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Hope you’re not too tired, sweetheart,” he murmured, running a hand up your thigh. “We’ve still got a long flight ahead of us.”

---------------------- <3

Taglist: @imaginecrushes @maplepepperoni @sleepysongbirdsings @mybuckynotyours @sunday-bug @bunnyfella

[stellamarielu]

blurred lines II

joel miller x female reader

read part one here

summary: after the little stunt you pulled last night, joel can't bring himself to be in the same room as you. he's canceling his weekly plans to join your dad for sunday night football, and you're fed up with the awkward tension which leads you marching right over to his place determined to fix the problem.

content: nswf, 18+, dbf!joel, age gap, a sprinkle of angst, pet names [duh its joel], lots of praise, fingering, penetration, riding that man like a mechanical bull, unprotected sex, joel finishing in reader without explicit permission, basically just smut with very little plot let's go!

author's note: i need joel miller circa 2003 like i need air in my lungs, so of course i had to write a part 2 for this one

“What're you doin' here?”

Joel hadn’t expected to see you standing directly in front of him holding a Tupperware bowl when he opened his front door.

“Brought you some Chili.” You were stating nonchalantly as if he should’ve been expecting your company.

He had flaked on your dad tonight. Of course he had. 

After what happened last night, you didn’t expect him to show his face at your house like he normally did every Sunday, but it didn’t stop his excuse of feeling “under the weather” from pissing you off.

You made things complicated when you decided to call him last night. Why couldn’t you have kept it together and just called an uber instead?

You spent the entire day feeling guilty and embarrassed and even though you tried to blame your inappropriate advances on the alcohol you’d consumed, you knew it wasn’t the real reason you crossed a line in the backseat of his truck.

After he got out of coming over for the game, you watched the empty seat on your couch that he usually occupied and let the guilt eat you alive. Him and your dad should have been drinking beers and yelling at TV together, but instead your dad just sat in silence.

You couldn’t handle it— you needed to talk to Joel. You weren’t sure what you would even say to him, but before you knew it, you were packaging up leftovers and telling your dad you were taking dinner to Joel and Sarah during halftime.

“Is Sarah home?”

You were asking and looking over Joel’s shoulder, the leftovers still warm in your hands.

“No-“ 

He’d hardly responded when you pushed past him and into the familiar territory of his living room, cutting straight to the chase.

“Why didn’t you come over tonight?” 

“I think we both know the answer to that.” His voice was laced with annoyance at your question.

He was standing a few feet away, still by the front door. Watching as you angrily stormed into his house, setting the Tupperware down on the coffee table.

“Okay, but you didn’t have to lie to my dad.” 

You were coming in hot. You needed this to be over so you could stop feeling so embarrassed and remorseful about the whole thing. 

“Oh, your right, I should’ve just told him I almost fucked his daughter so it’d be kinda weird for me to come over.” Joel was scoffing as he leaned against a nearby wall, folding his arms over his chest. Your skin was burning at his words.

“Look I’m sorry for making things weird, but can we just move on? I don’t want to be the reason you don’t come around anymore. You’re like my dad’s only friend.”

“Then why’d you do it?” His voice was rough, almost like he was angry with you, but his eyes told a different story. They were gentle— carefully watching your expression as you wracked your brain for an answer. 

“Because…” You were trying to avoid his eyes but it was nearly impossible given the way he was staring so intently at you from across the room.

You started out so firm but now you were crumbling. His tender gaze picking away at you, wildling you down into a pile of nerves. 

“I don’t know Joel, let’s just drop it. I’ll keep to myself from now on and we can just pretend like nothing happened. Just please don’t let this effect your friendship with my dad.”

Joel chuckled at your words, an amused smile forming on his lips— Like this is something that could be easily forgotten. 

“Why’d you ask me to pick you up.” The smile disappeared from his face as quickly as it had formed. His demeanor was serious again as he revisited the objective of the conversation. The memory of you touching yourself in his car standing between you like an undeniable presence the room.

“What do you mean? I was out drinking and needed a ride.” You were trying to keep it together but there was a hint of hesitation in your words. 

“Yeah, but anyone could’ve given you a ride. Why’d you call me at 2am.” 

His eyes were locked on yours, heavy and sincere. 

“What do you want me to say Joel?"

here you go.

"Do you just want me to keep embarrassing myself? I didn’t want anyone else to pick me up. I wanted it to be you. I wanted an excuse to see you.” You were huffing out the words in a quiet voice, too mortified to speak above a whisper. 

“Thought that was pretty obvious when I had my hand between my legs in the backseat of your truck.” 

Your words were left ringing in the silent room as Joel just stared, his expression stuck in concentration. 

“Happy now?” You were deadpanning with a wave of your hands. Why wasn't he saying anything? You couldn’t read his expression and it was infuriating. 

“Very.” 

One word was all he said as he pushed himself off the wall, his arms still loosely crossed over his chest. He was taking small steps in your direction and your entire body froze. 

“I’ve been tryin’ to convince myself all day that you were just drunk last night. That the only reason you did such a filthy fuckin’ thing was because you were horny off one too many vodka sodas.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours as he spoke, his body now within reach. 

“I needed to tell myself it wasn’t because you like me.” His eyes were glued to you.

“Needed to convince myself that ya weren’t bein’ all sweet touchin' yourself like that because ya wanted me to fuck you.”

He was taking another step, the gap between you dwindling down with every word he spoke.

“Because if that was the case, if ya did do it on purpose...” He paused, letting his eyes rake down your body. Taking his time before he continued, his stare lingering on your lips.

“Do ya know how hard it was for me to keep my fuckin’ hands to myself?” He was so close, you could see his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath he took.

His stare was dense and all you could think about was how you’d never been this close to him before.

“Joel…” You meant to whisper his name as a warning but instead it came out as a pathetic whimper; only encouraging another inevitable step over the blurred line of your relationship. 

He was leaning in, and you weren’t stopping him.

“This is such a bad fuckin’ idea.” He avoided your lips and ducked his head into your neck, his whisper landing right below your ear and you could feel his breath on your skin. 

“I don’t care.” The words were a rushed hum as your fingers found the nape of his neck. You suddenly felt desperate to have his lips on you. 

“Please.”

That word had Joel spiraling. God, hearing you beg for him like that, he needed to hear it again. Wanted to hear it fall from your lips over and over again while he had you sitting on his cock.

“You said you think about me when you touch yourself.” Joel’s voice was a hum against your skin as his lips finally connected with your neck. He was placing a long drawn-out kiss right beneath your jaw before pulling away just enough for more words to make their way from his mouth.  

“Tell me what you think about.” His breathless whisper on your body made you dizzy, sending your fingertips clutching into this hair- desperate to find something to tether you back to earth. 

“I think about the way it’d feel- when you touch me.” Another pitiful whine. 

“Touch you where?” His words were barely audible as he continued placing gentle kisses down the side of your neck. 

“Joel…”

“C’mon sweetheart, you were so brave tellin’ me what ya wanted last night. Don’t get all shy on me now.” His voice was low and rough- intoxicating. 

“Think about your fingers in me. How they’re so much bigger than mine. How good they’d feel filling me up.” 

You were reaching for one of his hands as you spoke, holding it in front of you and tracing his palm before you pressed your hands together, his was so big and rough compared to yours. 

Then he was intertwining your fingers together and using the hold to pull you into him, your bodies flushed together. A groan left his mouth sending a sweet vibration into your skin.

“There she is.” He was murmuring into the crook of your neck, his hands finding your waist and gripping tight, pulling your hips closer. He absorbed your frame in his own, the muscle of his body solid and sturdy against yours. 

Joel felt like he was dreaming.

After he got home from dropping you off last night, he barely made it to his room before he was yanking down his jeans and wrapping his hand around his dick. The images of your fingers pushed deep inside of you were pulled from his memory, making him finish in record time. He thought about you all night. He couldn’t even sleep as visions of you filled his mind; you curling your fingers into his hair with his head between your legs, you on your knees for him, you with your head buried into his pillow and your perfect ass pushed back while he railed into you from behind. He thought about nearly every sexual scenario possible and now you were here, your soft body like putty in his hands.

“Let’s see then.” His voice was low as he kissed your neck one last time, pulling away just enough to look you in the eyes. 

“See if I can make ya come on my fingers yeah?” 

There was a soft smile on his lips conflicting with his sinful heavy-lidded stare. His hands were unruly as he explored your figure, dipping beneath the material of your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin on his fingertips.

“Wanted to see it last night, could barely hold myself back from pushin’ your pretty little hand out of my way so I could be the one makin’ ya feel good.”

One of his hands remained on the skin just above the waistband of your jeans while the other trailed up your body until it was on your face.

Joel’s hand was carefully caressing your cheek, rubbing his thumb back and forth over your skin. The act was reminiscent of the way he was rubbing your thigh not even 24 hours ago, and the recollection had you clenching your thighs together. You let your mind wonder back to the dirty things Joel said to you last night; the way he watched with a predatory glare as you fingered yourself in front of him. You were lost in the echo of it all until Joel caught you off guard, crashing his lips into yours. 

His kiss was heavy. The weight of unspoken feelings and undeniable tension fueling the way his lips molded into yours. Your shared desire was finally being dealt with and the relief was almost palpable in the liberation of his mouth on yours.

Your lips were tangled in a messy embrace as Joel ushered you backwards until you felt the back of your legs hit the couch.

His lips were following as you flopped down on the cushions, his body leaning forward between your legs. The kiss didn’t lose any momentum as his hands pulled at your jeans. You were arching off the couch assisting Joel as he slid the denim down your legs, breaking the kiss to watch you kick them off your body completely. 

He had been aching to see you like this again. Legs spread and chest heaving. Only this time he didn’t have to hold back. He could touch you; see what you looked like with his fingers knuckles deep in your sweet little cunt.

At that reminder Joel was reaching a hand down to feel you through your panties, his fingertips tracing the outline of your swollen lips, already wet beneath your underwear. 

“Fuck sweetheart you’re soaked.” 

The hot sticky evidence of your arousal was seeping through the cotton material, causing Joel to let out an animalistic groan. He hadn’t even touched you yet and he was losing all sense of control. 

He continued running his fingers over the ruined material, circling your clit over the clothing.

You were already writhing under his touch, which you normally would’ve considered pathetic, but not now. Not when you had been waiting for this exact moment. Now that it was really unfolding, you were proud of yourself for not taking his hand in your own and shoving his fingers where you really needed them.

He kept circling slowly and intricately, still leaning over you— his face inches from yours.

“That feel good?” His voice was a sweet murmur as you moaned in response. 

He was pleased by your answer, pushing your panties to the side and dipping a single finger into your entrance. His digit was gently pressing into you as he watched your face contort in pleasure.

Letting you bathe in satisfaction for only a second, he was retreating. Pulling his thick finger from your core before pushing it back between your wet folds, only this time adding a second along with it.

You were immediately reaching for his forearm, grabbing it instinctively, looking for something to hold onto while you went braindead with pleasure. You were biting down on your lip as he leisurely pumped his fingers in and out of you, scared of the obscene noises you would make if you didn’t.

“Let me hear ya baby.” Joel was smiling down at you with a devious grin. He could see the way you were suppressing your moans. He wanted to hear you; wanted to know how good he was making you feel, wanted to hear the pretty sounds you made when you came around his fingers.  

You let your mouth fall open. The whimper that fell out upon hearing his words prompted Joel to push his fingers further into you, curling when he felt the spongey warmth of your walls tightening. 

He could tell by the moan rolling off your tongue that he had found a favorable spot deep in your core. He kept his fingers bending in the perfect position as he peered down at you. 

The sight beneath him had his hips bucking into nothing. You with your head thrown back on his couch; eyes shut, brows furrowed and jaw slack. After last night he thought he’d never see something so glorious again, but now you were proving him wrong. You looked so beautiful like this— all fucked-out with his hand between your legs. 

The deliberate curl of his fingers with each plunge was sending you reeling as you let profanities bubble up in your throat. Just as you felt yourself teetering on the brink of release Joel added the pressure of his thumb on your clit.

“You gonna come already?” His words were sprinkled with amusement as he felt you clenching around his fingers. 

“Joel…” His name was a moan on your lips, and you were digging your fingers into his forearm, desperate to hold yourself steady as your body tensed.

“Fuck- you’re gonna come.” He was grunting as his fingers kept their pace. You were mewling out his name and nodding your head in desperation as you felt the coil inside you pulling tighter, ready to snap.

“Let me have it baby.” Joel was nearly begging you to let go. His tone as he growled out the words pushed you right over the edge, sending you into an abyss of pleasure. 

Your body was trembling as you whined out Joel’s name. He could feel your pussy squeezing his fingers as he continued to push them into you gently, relishing in the feeling of your warm embrace. 

“There ya go.” His grunts and groans were replaced with a calm voice as he worked you through your orgasm. 

“Good job sweetheart.”

His praises only added to the sensory overload running rampant through your body. 

“So beautiful baby.”

You were finally opening your eyes, looking up at him with a lust clouded gaze.

He couldn’t stop himself from kissing you again, only this time deeper. It was laced with passion and had you pulling him down onto the couch next to you.

Your mind and body were still buzzing from your climax, making it easier to gain dominance over him. You were pushing Joel back against the pillows and climbing onto his lap, straddling his waist. Your kiss had become sloppy and hungry as your lips worked in tandem to relieve the thick tension. 

“Off.” You were mumbling against his mouth and fumbling with the button of his jeans.

He got your message loud and clear as his own hands flew to the waistband of his pants. He was lifting his hips off the couch to free his body of the jeans but in doing so he was thrusting up into you, his erection grinding into your unclothed core. You were bringing your hands to his chest to stabilize yourself as he pushed his pants and underwear to the floor. 

You couldn’t stop your eyes from wandering down to his member now on full display. He was big. You knew he would be, but this, this was more than you'd imagined. 

In awe you brought a hand between you, encasing him gently with your touch and ever so slowly letting your fingers follow up and down his length.

You looked to his face to see his eyes fluttering closed in pure delight from finally feeling some sort of relief. The pressure that had been building inside him since he watched you finger fuck yourself last night was slowly dissipating with every pump of your hand around his cock.

You stroked him a few times, your touch soft and cautious; driving Joel insane. He was groaning with every flick of your wrist.

“Need to be inside ya.” A longing yet primal gaze took over his expression as he muttered the words; confessing his need to feel you, all of you.

They were the magic words, the ones that had you lifting your hips and guiding the head of his cock to your slicked entrance. You lingered there, with his tip filling you just enough, soaking in the final tension filled moments before you both completely gave in to your mutual desire.

Your eyes were locked on his, the two of you exchanging one last look of approval before you were sinking further onto him. 

You both let out hums of relief as you felt him stretching you inch by inch.

You were moving slowly, letting yourself adjust to his size as you relaxed onto him. His fingers were gripping onto your hips, holding you steady but careful not to guide you further. He wanted to let you set the pace. 

You sunk down until you were met the base of his cock rubbing against your clit. You were sat completely on him, taking a moment to savor the way he felt pushing deep inside of you. 

“That’s it baby.” He was whispering another praise as his hands traced up your body, taking your shirt with them and tossing it to the floor. Then his touch was on your face, holding your jaw in his fingertips and bringing your gaze down to meet his. 

“That okay? Feel good?” His questions were genuine, but they were spiked with such a immoral tone you might’ve thought he was mocking you. 

“So good.” Your voice was breathless as you affirmed him.

You decisively rocked your hips over his and an unconscious moan slipped from your lips at feeling him move inside you.

He brought his hands back to your hips as you started to move. Gripping onto your skin and guiding your body onto his as you began to bounce up and down on his cock.

“Oh honey- fuck.” He was moaning out as you picked up your pace, relentlessly taking him as deep as you could with every rebound. 

“That’s its baby.” His words were tumbling out of his mouth with every movement of your hips. You were riding him with such precision his mind was going numb, rendering him uncapable of piecing together coherent sentences.

Your palms were flat against his chest and your head thrown back in pleasure as he rubbed against you at just the right angle. You were using him to your full advantage as you shamelessly fucked yourself on his cock.

“Take what ya need baby.” He was encouraging your lewd movements, the sounds leaving his mouth were borderline pathetic as he tried to keep himself together long enough to feel you coming around him.  

He was letting his hands wander further, gripping the flesh of your ass with his palms and using the hold to pull you harder into him with each thrust. 

The desperation in his grasp had you seeing stars. You were bracing yourself on the rigid surface of his chest as you felt the familiar crawl of a second release sneaking up on you.

“Joel I’m gonna…” Your announcement was cut short by a surprised whine as Joel moved his hips along with yours, pushing himself even deeper into you. The way he was stretching, filling and holding onto you had your body straining and your vision blurring.

“Let me have it sweetheart.” 

The carnal grunt off Joel’s tongue as he coaxed you into another orgasm brought you to your finish. You were clutching at his chest, your body melting into his. The pleasure surging through your body caused you to lose all balance, making you slump forward until your forehead found his.

Joel reached for you, placing a hand carefully at the nape of your neck, holding you against him. 

“God you’re fuckin’ perfect.” Another groan was leaving his throat as he pushed his lips onto yours. You were still coming down from your high, pussy squeezing and clasping around him as he muffled your moans with his mouth. 

“So perfect baby.” He was mumbling as he used both of his hands to hold you firm, slowly bringing his hips up to meet yours. His pace was unhurried as he took pleasure in the way you fluttered around him. Then he got caught up in the moment, his tempo quickening. He was thrusting into you persistently, mercilessly rutting as breathless whimpers fell from his tongue. He was holding you still with his fingers curling into your hips as he drove into you— hard and fast.

He was groaning and greedily fucking up into you as his hips began to stutter. With a low guttural sound his movements ceased and you were met with the warmth of his release spreading into you.

He was frozen in place for a few seconds, catching his breath and gathering a sense of composure. You could feel him throbbing in you as his hands kept their hold on your hips. 

“That was so fuckin’ stupid.” He was muttering under his breath, and you immediately felt insecure. He was still inside you and he was already regretting hooking up with you?

“We don’t have to do it again Joel, it was just-“ You were beginning to defend yourself before Joel cut you off. 

”No sweetheart, comin’ in ya.” Joel looked at you with a sympathetic grin on his face.

“I can’t be doin’ that.” He was shaking his head at the poor decision of burying his spend deep inside you. 

“I’m on birth control, it’s okay.” You felt relieved to know his shame wasn’t about having sex with you, but rather his panic of potentially knocking you up. Understandable. 

“Don’t care it’s not smart.” He was reaffirming and leaning up to place a kiss on your forehead; a simple gesture but it had butterflies swarming your stomach.

“How ya gonna explain to your dad why it took so long to drop off leftovers?” Joel was releasing his clutch on your hips and letting his hands rest lightly on your thighs as he spoke. 

“Oh my god, please don’t talk about my dad right now.”

You were mortified. You couldn’t think about your dad. Not while you were straddling his best friend’s lap who’s come was fighting not to leak out between you. 

“Looks like I’m really gonna need to move out soon.” You were groaning and bringing your fingers to your temples, hiding your face in your hands. 

“Oh, without a doubt.” Joel was laughing at your predicament, but he’d be damned if he couldn’t keep having you like this. Now that he’d gotten a taste, he wouldn’t be letting you out of his sight any time soon.

my masterlist

[starsinthesky5]

so high school || joe burrow x reader 

description: who knew that an unexpected relationship with a guy you never thought you’d be with would be the happiest, healthiest, and most special relationship in your life? it makes you feel like you’re back in high school and have a crush on the sweetest boy you’ve ever met ;)

a/n: completely reworked and basically a brand new version with more plot and detail of the so high school fic from last year ;) also, a much needed little thing to make everyone smile after yesterday’s games and because we all miss mr. joey b so badly

word count: 25k 

warnings: hint of smut, too much fluff to handle, language, suggestive themes. MDNI.

taglist: (ask to be added): @joeyfranchise @joeyb1989 @joeyburrrow @softburrow @burrowbarbie @yelenasbraid @lovelyburrow @grittysbiggestfan @definitelynotdomanique

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

You took a deep breath, letting the salty aroma of the ocean fill your lungs as your eyes fluttered shut. The soft, sun-warmed sand moved beneath your toes as you wiggled them, savoring the feeling you had been missing for quite some time. The air around you was alive, carrying a sense of youth and freedom, like the whisper of summers gone by. You heard the soft mew of the seagulls above you, their melody threading through the faint hum of a classic summer pop song floating from distant loudspeakers. The sounds and smells were so familiar, so nostalgic, that for a moment you could almost feel 16 again—back at this very place where every day felt endless, and joy was as simple as sand between your toes and the sun on your skin.

Sweetwater Cove. 

Home.

You were finally home. Not just to the sandy shores and rolling waves of your childhood, but to the one place that had always felt like peace. But home wasn’t just this place. Home was him. It was in his laugh, his smile, and the crinkles around his softening blue eyes whenever they met yours.

“Y/N, they said they’re about 30 minutes away!” Joe called from the patio door, where he had been standing for about five minutes, admiring you in your most natural state—so carefree and light as you relaxed on the beach. “Come inside so we can get everything set up,”.

You took in one final breath of the ocean air before tilting your head back with a grin. “Okayyyy,” you said, looking over at him. You noticed his soft golden locks curling at the ends, looking as if they hadn’t been brushed through in a few hours. It had that “post-ocean water” look—slightly messy from the time you’d spent playing in the waves earlier. But somehow, it was perfect, as if the saltwater and breeze had styled it just right, making him look effortlessly handsome, like he belonged to the sea and this moment with you.

You carefully got up from your spot on the sand, dusting off any clinging to your sunkissed skin, and made your way inside the house, wiping your feet on the mat outside since you had just cleaned. Joe stood at the kitchen counter, sorting through the bags of food he had ordered from one of your favorite restaurants—The Salty Gull. “I’m just gonna put out the quick bites for now so the rest doesn’t get cold,” he says, pulling out the seaside shrimp skewers, tidepool tacos, island BBQ drumsticks, and a few more of your absolute favorite items from their coastal themed menu. 

“Thank you, Joey,” you beamed, your heart fluttering as you watched your boyfriend go all out to make your beach reunion with your cousins special. From the nostalgic spread of food to the goofy high school games—like a spin-the-bottle twist where dares and shots replaced the usual kisses—he’d thought of everything. There were boxes of White Claws, High Noons, and bottles of Fireball, all lined up and ready for fun. And to top it off, he’d curated the perfect playlist of old summer hits, from Hey, Soul Sister to Beauty and the Beat to Party in the U.S.A, each song a reminder of carefree nights you spent here in years past. You couldn’t help but feel a rush of warmth fill your body, grateful for how much effort he’d put into making this moment feel just like the good old days.

Every summer, your cousins would come to Sweetwater Cove, your home, for a few weeks of sun-soaked memories. You and your older cousins used to make it a tradition—heading down to the beach together for lazy days, impromptu games till 3 in the morning, and nights filled with drunken laughter and stupid teenage fun that almost had you at the doorstep of the local police station. But as time passed, life and responsibilities crept in, and it became harder and harder to coordinate. The summers grew shorter, and the days of carefree fun began to fade into the background. So, when you told Joe about your precious summers at Sweetwater Cove, how the beach had always been a place of laughter and connection for you, he didn’t hesitate. He was determined to bring some of that magic back, to give you a piece of your past amidst the present since you now lived with him in Ohio. Without a second thought, he took control and made it happen—inviting your cousins to join you for a few days during your beach trip just to see the smile on your face grow a little more. 

You honestly couldn’t get over the fact that Joe just…existed. How could someone be so effortlessly perfect at everything? At being the kind of partner who made your heart race with just a look, who somehow managed to keep you feeling the same butterflies you’d felt the very first time you saw him. It didn’t seem fair that someone could be so good at easily making you feel giddy and adored all at once, like you were falling in love over and over again, every single day. He always thought of you in everything he did, whether it was picking up your favorite snack on his way home from practice without you even asking, or remembering the little stories you told him months ago and threading them into your days like they were part of his own memories. Whether it was planning thoughtful surprises like this week at the Cove, or simply pulling you close in the middle of a conversation because he couldn’t stand to not be touching you. Joe had this way of making you feel like the center of his universe, as if nothing else mattered but you. 

When he told you he wanted to experience the summers you couldn’t stop raving about—the ones you’d talk about for hours with a dreamy smile and that look—you almost fell out of your chair. You had always dreamed of bringing Joe to the Cove, but the timing never seemed quite right. Life always had a way of interfering—whether it was work, commitments, or simply the Cove being at the height of its summer season. Knowing how much Joe valued peace and privacy, you’d never want to drag him out here in the midst of all the tourists, locals, and teenage chaos. But it was as if the stars finally aligned. The moment Joe mentioned wanting to come out here overlapped perfectly with the early off-season break out here—a rare window when the Cove was quiet, the beaches less crowded, and the air filled only with the soft hum of the waves and the occasional call of seagulls. It felt like fate, as if the universe itself had devised a plan to give you this perfect moment to share the place that meant so much to you with the person who meant even more.

You managed to take Joe to all your favorite spots, the first being Landry’s arcade, the place where you set the Cove’s Dance Dance Revolution record at 16 years old, which Joe tried to beat when you took him. But your dance skills were so good for the Quarterback’s precise footwork that you ended up almost breaking your own record. The next place you took him was all of the cute coastal shops along the boardwalk, each one carrying its own story and memory that you told Joe about as you walked hand in hand. He couldn’t stop laughing while you were telling him the story about the cooky old lady that owns the antique shop around the corner and how she busted you and your cousins for trying to sneak onto the pier after it closed. He couldn’t stop laughing, practically doubling over as you told the story. His laughter vibrated through him so hard that he grabbed your arm for support, leaning into you like he might collapse if you told him anything else.  

“She came out of nowhere,” you said, gesturing dramatically, your own laughter slipping through your words. “One second, we thought we were in the clear, making a break for the fences, and then BAM! There she was with her flashlight, yelling, ‘I may be old, but I’m not blind, you little hooligans!’”.

Joe practically howled, his head falling against your shoulder as he clung to your arm like a lifeline. “She actually said hooligans? Oh my god, I can’t—did she come with a cane or something too?”.

“She might as well have!” you laughed, shaking your head. “And then she started lecturing us about how the pier was closed for ‘very good reasons’ and how kids like us were going to bring about the downfall of civilization. I tried to apologize, but then James—of course—tripped over a loose board and knocked over a trash can. And she just froze, pointed her flashlight at us, and yelled, ‘THAT’S IT! I’M CALLING THE COPS! in the most grouchy voice ever,’”. 

At that point, Joe was laughing so hard he was clutching your waist for balance, practically using you as a crutch while you walked past Sully’s Surf Shop, the place where you got your first and only surfboard when you were 13. “There’s no way in hell that actually happened,” he shook his head. 

“I swear!” you said, laughing just as hard now, trying to keep both of you upright. “We ran so fast, we probably looked like Scooby-Doo characters. And now, to this day, every time I walk by her shop, she gives me the dirtiest look,”.  

Joe buried his face into your shoulder, still shaking with laughter. “I can’t breathe. I literally can’t. Please tell me she still has the flashlight,” he managed to say, gasping for air.  

“Oh, I wouldn’t be surprised if she sleeps with it under her pillow,” you joked, and Joe completely melted, his laughter muffled against you as he clung tighter. Something about this trip was making Joe relax in a way he had never before, he was so loose, free, and almost acting like his younger self again. He even looked the part with his backwards cap, unbuttoned beach shirt showing off his toned body, and adorable palm tree swimshorts that you swore must have been from high school with how faded they were. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he said between wheezes, his cheeks flushed and his eyes watering. “But honestly, if you were a hooligan, I’d totally be your accomplice,”.  

—

You ended your boardwalk stroll with a meal that could only be described as pure, indulgent bliss. It started with a pile of crispy boardwalk fries—seasoned to perfection with salt and a dash of vinegar and so good that you both couldn’t stop stealing from each other’s pile, even though they were meant to share. Next came a slice of pizza so greasy it basically sparkled in the light, but it was hands-down the tastiest pizza you’d ever had. Every bite was a little piece of heaven, with Joe teasing you for trying to fold your slice like a “real pro”.

To top it all off, you shared a huge cherry slurpee, sipping from the same straw until you both simultaneously winced from a shared brain freeze. Joe groaned dramatically, clutching his forehead, while you couldn’t stop laughing, tears forming in your eyes as the cold pounded through your head. “Why do we do this to ourselves?” he asked, squinting at the slurpee like it had personally backstabbed him.  

“Because it’s worth it and we’re a little crazy,” you shot back with a grin, taking another sip despite the risk.  

Joe shook his head with a grin, his eyes crinkling in that way that made your heart flip. “A little crazy? Speak for yourself. I think I’m full-on insane for letting you convince me this was a good idea,” he said, leaning closer until your shoulders brushed. “You know I hate brain freezes,”.

“And yet,” you challenged with a smirk, “You’re going back for another sip,”.

He rolled his eyes, but there was no denying the twinkle in them as he leaned in and took another exaggerated slurp, making you giggle all over again.

The two of you sat there on the bench overlooking the water, the sunset painting the waves in shades of gold and pink. The sea breeze brushed against your cheeks as you took turns finishing the slurpee, both of you trading playful nudges and stolen glances. At one point, Joe turned to you, his blue eyes soft and unwavering. “You know,” he murmured, “I’d get a hundred brain freezes if it meant making you laugh like that again,”.

Your heart swelled at his words, and without thinking, you leaned in to press a sweet, lingering kiss to his lips. “You’re such a sap,” you whispered against his mouth, smiling at how adorable he was around you.

“Maybe,” he replied, his forehead resting gently against yours. “But only for you,”.

—

The entire week you had already spent here with him made it feel like you were back in high school, going to the same places, eating the same things, and making memories in the same ways as you did with your friends and cousins back when you were just a simple girl running around in your worn out converses. Even Joe felt it—that youthful energy coursing through his veins. But for him, it wasn’t just the beach or the boardwalk or the nostalgia the breeze carried. It was you. It was in the way your eyes lit up every time you showed him a piece of your past, how your laughter was louder than the waves, and how your smile seemed to glow brighter here. Every time he looked at you, he felt it—a rush of unfiltered joy and excitement, like he was living out his own version of those golden summers, all because of you. 

You didn’t realize how long you were staring at Joe until he playfully threw a chip at your face, causing you to flinch and snap free from your little re-run of the past few days. “Did I lose you there?” he laughs while leaning against the oven, a smug grin on his face while he eyes you. 

You tried to hide your embarrassment, your cheeks burning as you realized he had caught you staring at him like that. Even after all these years, the way he looked at you still had the power to make you feel like a nervous teenager with a schoolgirl crush. You quickly looked away, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, your voice a little shaky as you tried to recover. “Yeah,” you said, your smile trembling as you fought to play it cool. “What were you saying? Sorry, I…uh…got distracted,”.

“Oh, I just said we should hit the pier later tonight if we can…without breaking and entering,” he made sure to mention that last bit because of your near run-in with the cops for trying to break in a few years ago. “I remember you saying that you guys loved going down there at night since the rides would be the most fun in the dark,”. 

“Oh, it’s a must,” you emphasize, nodding energetically as you start to squirm a little under the intensity of Joe’s gaze. His eyes were locked on you as if he could see straight through you, and it made you feel a little too warm.  

“Mhm. Also, quick question…,”.  

You glance up, trying to act casual as you take a bite of the chip he just tossed your way. “Shoot,” you reply, trying to sound cool and calm.  

“Why were you staring at me like that just now?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Did you need to say something?”.

The chip caught in your throat, and you coughed lightly, your cheeks instantly heating up. Joe hopped off the counter with that same teasing grin plastered on his face, closing the distance between you in a way that made your pulse rush.

He leaned down, resting a hand on either side of you on the kitchen island, trapping you in his gaze. “C’mon, babe,” he said softly, his voice dripping with mischief. “You were looking at me like I was the last slice of pizza on Earth. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”.

You fished for an answer, but the way he was looking at you—so smug, so knowing—had your thoughts scrambling. “Oh, no reason,” you giggled nervously, trying to brush it off, but Joe wasn’t buying it.

“No reason?” he repeated, his grin growing as he leaned in closer. His voice dropped an octave, sending a shiver down your spine. “You sure about that? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like my girl’s got something on her mind,”.

You tried to hold your ground, but between his teasing tone and the way his eyes softened just enough to make your heart flutter, you knew you were done for. “It’s nothing important, I swear,” you said, your voice breathy as you wrapped your arms around his neck in a weak attempt to distract him.

“Sureee,” he says, rolling his eyes in the way he always does when he’s onto you.  

“It was nothing important, I swear,” you insist, planting a quick kiss on his nose to distract him.  

“If you say so,” he replies, his smile softening as he mirrors your action, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. “You look gorgeous, by the way,”.  

Your heart melts a little at his words, the warmth of his arms around you making everything feel a little more right. “You’re just saying that to get me to tell you why I was staring,” you tease, but the butterflies in your stomach give you away.

All you were wearing was a simple pair of jean shorts and a lilac tank top, nothing fancy, but just enough to catch your boyfriend's eye and make his gaze linger a little longer than usual.

“Or…I’m saying it because you’re making me feel a type of way, wearing something that fits you like skin and is a little,” he begins to say, pulling you closer into him mid-sentence and making your breath hitch, “A little…too sexy to wear before your family comes over,” he finishes, eyeing you like a hungry tiger before launching his mouth towards yours and pulling you in for a kiss. His hand slides up your waist and around to your back as he pushes you deeper into him. Your fingers instinctively found their way into his messy golden locks, pulling gently as his lips moved with yours, every touch igniting a fire under your skin. 

“Mm, Joe,” you breathed out, trying to pull back, but he wasn’t ready to let you go. His lips chased yours, his hand sliding lower to grip your ass firmly, producing a quiet gasp from you.

You smiled against his lips, knowing exactly where his mind was heading. His kisses turned more urgent, his hands more wild, and before you could think twice, he had you backed against the counter. His hands cupped your ass as he lifted you effortlessly onto the surface, stepping between your legs with a hungry determination.

You hooked your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as his hands roamed your thighs, thumbs grazing the edge of your shorts. His lips didn’t leave yours for a second, his tongue slipping past your lips in a way that left you dizzy, his teeth gently tugging at your bottom lip before soothing it with a kiss. One of his hands slid to the button of your shorts, fumbling with it as he pressed his body against yours. “Joe,” you whispered breathlessly, cradling his face in your hands to steady yourself. “They’re going to be here soon,”.

His lips trailed to your jaw, then down to your neck, leaving a trail of heat as he hummed against your skin. “We’ll be quick,” he muttered, his voice low and husky as his hand grazed your bare thigh.

You bit your lip, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Quick?” you teased. “The fastest we’ve ever been is thirty minutes, maybe,”.

Joe’s lips curled into a sly grin, his blue eyes darkening with a mixture of desire and challenge as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Then maybe we should break that record,” he murmured, his voice dripping with intent. “I’m pretty good at putting up new stats and breaking records…,”.

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours again, fiercer this time, igniting every nerve in your body. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider as he pressed himself firmly against you, his heat burning through the thin fabric of your clothes. The counter beneath you felt cool in contrast, grounding you as he took over every sense you had. “Joe,” you gasped again against his lips, but he silenced you with a teasing nip to your bottom lip. His hands slid under your tank top, his calloused fingers grazing your bare skin, sending shivers down your spine.

“You can’t tease me like that,” he growled softly, his lips trailing down your jawline to your neck, where he nipped and kissed, leaving a path of fire in his wake. “You know I don’t have that kind of patience when it comes to you,”.

You couldn’t help but moan as his lips found the sensitive spot just below your ear, his hands sliding further up your body, leaving no inch untouched. “Joey, they’re going to be here any minute,” you managed to whisper. 

“Let them wait,” he muttered against your skin, his lips returning to yours in a kiss that made your toes curl. One of his hands slipped back to the waistband of your shorts, unbuttoning them with ease, while his other hand held your hip to keep you steady.

“Joe,” you whimpered, your hands threading through his hair as he tugged your shorts slightly down your thighs, his lips moving to your collarbone.

“I’ll make it fast…we don’t have to go all the way,” he promised, his voice a deep rumble that sent heat pooling low in your belly. His kisses became more desperate, his grip on you firm yet worshipful, as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

You pulled his face back to yours, catching his lips in another heated kiss, your body already giving in to the magnetic pull he had over you. “We’ll definitely need to continue this later,” you whispered breathlessly against his mouth, your legs tightening around his waist to keep him close.

“You can count on that,” he winked, his voice dripping with promise. His hands slid to your hips, firmly yet tenderly guiding you back against the cool surface of the counter. You leaned back, your heart pounding in anticipation, a grin tugging at your lips as his gaze burned into you, dark and blazing.

A few hours later 

A little later, your cousins—Sydney, James, Bella, and Michael—had finally settled into the house, their laughter and chatter filling the air as if no time had passed since your last reunion. The patio was alive with the sound of glasses clinking, plates being passed around, and waves crashing faintly in the background. The warm glow of string lights above created a cozy, magical ambiance, and the smell of saltwater mixed with the aroma of grilled food floating through the air.  

Non-stop laughter erupted as stories were exchanged, each one more ridiculous than the last. James was crouched over, wiping tears from his eyes after Bella’s exaggerated retelling of her disastrous first date. You took another sip of your drink, a chilled cocktail that Joe had made just for you exactly to your liking, and as your gaze wandered, it landed on him—your boyfriend.  

Joe sat beside you on the loveseat, his presence warm and steady, his hand comfortably entwined with yours as if it had always belonged there. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles against your skin, grounding you in a way that made your heart swell. He was mid-story—the one he loved to tell over and over, about the first time he saw you—and though you’d heard it a million times, you could barely focus on his words because of how captivating he looked in that moment.  

The soft golden strands of his hair, still a little messy from the ocean breeze, seemed to glow under the twinkling patio lights. His smile was so radiant and bright it felt like the world had stopped spinning just to make room for it, and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed sent your heart into overdrive. “And I swear, she nearly fell over when I put my arm around her,” Joe said, his deep, rich laugh echoing through the patio. Everyone joined in, and you groaned, your cheeking turning pink in the light as you playfully swatted at his arm.  

“You don’t have to tell that part every time,” you said, shaking your head but smiling anyway. The memory flooded back to you like a breath of fresh air, the same fluttery feeling filling your chest as it had that day.  

“Oh, come on, it’s the best part,” Joe teased, leaning in closer, his breath brushing against your cheek. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing across your knuckles as he grinned down at you, his eyes holding that unmistakable adoration that made you feel like the only person in the world.  

Sydney rolled her eyes but couldn’t help laughing. “I’ve heard this story a dozen times, and it still makes me want to gag. You two are disgustingly cute,” she teased, though the smile on her face betrayed her.  

“Disgustingly perfect is more like it,” Bella chimed in, raising her glass with a dramatic touch. “Seriously, you’re what everyone hopes for but never actually gets. It’s not even fair,”.  

Joe chuckled, his deep laugh vibrating through you as he lifted your hand to his lips and pressed the softest kiss to your knuckles. The simple gesture sent a shiver down your spine, and you swore your heart might actually burst into a cloud of pink dust. “Hey, I can’t help it if I got lucky,” he said softly, his eyes locking on yours in a way that made everything else fade into the background.  

You leaned your head against his shoulder, your smile trembling as your chest swelled with affection. “I think I’m the lucky one,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, but Joe caught it. He always caught everything when it came to you.  

His arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you just a little closer, his lips brushing against your temple in a kiss so tender it made your eyes sting with happy tears. “Nah,” he murmured, his voice soft and steady. “I wake up every day wondering how I ended up with someone like you. I still don’t believe it’s real sometimes,”.  

The group collectively groaned, though they were all smiling, even Michael, who shook his head in mock irritation. “You two are killing me. Can you at least tone it down while the rest of us sit here single and bitter?”.

Joe laughed, holding you even tighter to double down on his point. “Sorry, guys,” he said, but he didn’t look sorry at all. He looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky, and in that moment, with your cousins laughing and the ocean breeze swirling around you, you knew you’d never felt more at home.

“I still can’t believe how we ended up together,” you murmured, letting out a soft sigh as you rested your head on Joe’s shoulder. The warmth of his body wrapped around you like a familiar blanket, and your mind drifted back to the day your life had changed forever. It was a memory so vivid and precious that it felt like a favorite song you never got tired of replaying.

Flashback to LSU

You were buried in the library, surrounded by stacks of books as you frantically worked to finish your research paper on Metaphysics for your Philosophy class. Time had completely slipped away from you, your focus so consumed by the material in front of you that you’d completely forgotten about your promise to help your best friend get ready for her date. The only thing keeping you grounded was the big, warm cup of coffee at your side, your lifeline in the chaos. Your eyes darted to the clock hanging above the nearest bookshelf, and your stomach dropped. 2:30. Panic set in as you realized you were supposed to be at your best friend’s apartment ten minutes ago to help her get ready for her big date. The same best friend who, not too subtly, had begged you not to be late this time.

“Fuck,” you whispered, your anxiety hitting you like a moving truck as you scrambled to shut your laptop. Your hands trembled slightly as you shoved your books into your bag, not caring how poorly they were stacked. With one hand clutching your coffee, you darted toward the stairs, your mind racing with everything you still needed to do plus helping your friend for her date.

But, of course, the universe decided to humble you.

At the worst possible time. 

You didn’t see the book cart until your coffee was already mid-air, splattering its contents across a fresh new stack of college textbooks.

“Shit!” you hissed, dropping your bag as you instinctively tried to inspect the damage. Coffee had oozed through the crisp pages, staining them with sticky, brown splashes. Before you could even take another breath, the librarian appeared, her sharp gaze cutting through you like a dagger. “What on earth happened here?” she demanded, the stern look on her face making you want to throw up.

“I…I’m so sorry,” you stuttered, dropping to your knees to salvage the books. But it was no use. The damage was done.

She crossed her arms, her expression hardened with disapproval as her sharp eyes bore into you. “Do you have any idea how expensive these textbooks are?” she snapped, her tone dripping with irritation. “This isn’t some kind of playground. These books aren’t just resources—they’re the foundation of education, invaluable tools for learning. And yet, here they are, drenched in coffee. Do you understand the monetary value of what you’ve just ruined?” Her voice rose slightly with each word, the weight of her frustration pressing down on you like a concrete force. 

“I didn’t mean to!” you said quickly, your face heating up and your breaths getting shorter. “I was in a rush! I wasn’t paying attention, and—,”.

“That’s what they all say,” she said while motioning toward the mess, her tone signaling that she didn’t believe you. “Four completely ruined books. That’ll be at least $500. And that’s if you get lucky…some of these were most definitely brand new,”.

Your stomach dropped. “Five Hundred Dollars? I don’t have that kind of money!” you stared, part of you not believing what she just said. 

The librarian’s gaze flicked to the No Food Or Drinks Allowed sign hanging nearby, and her lips thinned. “Maybe you should’ve thought of that before bringing coffee into the library,” she said while adjusting her overly large-glasses.

You swallowed hard, already dreading the inevitable hit to your bank account. Your paycheck from the school store wouldn’t even hit until next week, and it was barely enough to cover your apartment’s rent, let alone $500 worth of textbooks.

“Come with me, young lady,” the librarian said firmly, turning on her heel. “We’ll settle this at the front desk,”.

You stared after her in disbelief, a wave of frustration and dread washing over you. “Oh my god, is this karma for something? Did I accidentally step on a ladybug? Did I hit a bird with my car?” you thought bitterly, your inner thoughts spiraling as humiliation burned hot in your chest.

Letting out a shaky breath, you surrendered to your fate and bent down to pick up your bag, your hands trembling even more as you struggled to compose yourself. The sharp sting of embarrassment felt overwhelming, and you prayed silently that no one else was watching your disaster unfold.

But just as you straightened up, something unexpected happened.

You felt it before you saw it—a warm, strong, and steady arm sliding around your waist, pulling you close with easy confidence. The unexpected touch sent a jolt of electricity through your body, your breath catching in your throat as your heart skipped a beat. Your mind blanked for a moment, your body freezing as a surge of heat spread across your cheeks.

“That won’t be necessary, Ms. Cindy,” a low, silky voice murmured from beside you. The sound of it sent a shiver down your spine, the kind of voice that could soothe a brewing storm, or command it.

Who’s voice…?

“This is my girlfriend,” the voice continued smoothly, the words sending a shiver down your spine. “She was rushing to meet me for our date at the FroYo place down the street. Punctuality’s not really her thing…lovebug must’ve lost track of time again because she’s just so focused on school and got a little clumsy,” he laughed, that throaty, rich laugh ever so familiar. “Ain’t that right, lovebug?”. 

You froze, your brain struggling to catch up with the moment. That strong, steady arm wrapped around your waist. That teasing charm lacing his voice. And then, faintly, the scent hit you—a mix of fresh-cut grass and something deeper, richer, like…Soleil Blanc? Tom Ford?  

Your heart thudded wildly in your chest as his arm tightened ever so slightly, grounding you, and against your better judgment, you dared to glance up and one look into those striking blue eyes nearly pushed you down to the ground.   

Joe. Freaking. Burrow.  

Your stomach flipped at the sight of him. His golden hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d just walked off a photo shoot instead of waltzing into your train wreck of a life. His piercing irises sparkled with mischief, framed by those unfairly long lashes that made your knees weak.  

And that smirk. Oh god, that smirk. The one you’d seen a hundred times on highlight reels and posters around campus, but never imagined would be this close. It tugged at the corner of his lips, radiating a kind of confidence that somehow managed to be both devastating and endearing.  

For a moment, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. All you could do was stare, your mind a complete whirlwind of panic, disbelief, and something dangerously close to…attraction. 

Your silence stretched thin, hanging in the air like a tight wire about to snap. The librarian’s eyes were locked on you, her disapproval clear, and Joe—still standing beside you—looked equally curious, but much more patient. Yet, you couldn’t focus on either of them.  

You were utterly and hopelessly distracted by the way Joe’s sharp baby blues—the eyes every girl on campus couldn’t stop whispering about—were fixed on you, as if you were the only thing in the room worth looking at. The way they crinkled at the edges when he smiled, how they seemed to study you, almost like he was trying to figure you out. It was disarming. Dangerous.  

And Joe? He wasn’t immune, either. He couldn’t explain why his gaze refused to leave yours, but something about you had him utterly fascinated. It wasn’t just your beauty—though that was undeniable—but the soft nervousness you bled, the way your lips parted slightly, caught between uncertainty and stubborn determination.  

His fingers flexed gently at your hip, grounding you both, coaxing you out of your daze. The warmth of his touch burned through the fabric of your top, sending a jolt down your spine. “R- right,” you stammered, finally breaking the silence, your voice barely above a whisper.  

Joe’s lips quirked up in an almost invisible smile at your flustered tone, a quiet triumph in his expression. He was enjoying the hell out of this. The librarian mumbled something that you could barely understand because for some reason, standing here under Joe Burrow’s protective arm, you felt like you wanted to disappear into him completely, to hide from the world and just stay where his gaze was soft and his touch felt steady.

“Oh, I see,” Ms. Cindy said, her tone softening immediately. “So this was your fault?”.

“Pretty much,” Joe said with an easy shrug as he looked back at her, his lips now curving into a smile that could probably charm his way out of anything his golden heart desired. “So if someone needs to pay for the books, that’d be me,”.

Why was he helping you? You barely knew each other…you’ve literally never had a conversation with the man before.

“Oh, Joe, that won’t be necessary,” the librarian smiled, her cold demeanor melting into something much gentler. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend!” she grinned, her random surge of friendliness catching you off guard and making you confused. What happened to the grouchy old librarian that was about to burn you at the stake for ruining a few textbooks?

Your heart raced as his hand slid up slightly, resting firmly against the small of your back. “Yeah, well, she’s pretty special,” he said, glancing down at you with that smirk that made your knees feel weak. “She’s my most prized possession and my lucky charm…don’t want anyone to jinx her or anything so we’re keeping it lowkey for now,” he nodded, leaning into you even more with that sentence. 

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to nod. “Yup,” you said, your voice coming out shakier than you intended. “That’s me. The…special, lowkey, lucky ch– charm girlfriend,”.

Joe chuckled softly, the sound was so soft and boyish it made your heart swell, his eyes lingering on yours with a look so determined to figure you out it felt like he could see straight through you. “We’re actually running late for our date,” he said, turning to Ms. Cindy as if the words that left his mouth were the most natural things in the world. His arm around your waist shifted slightly, pulling you closer, and the warmth of his touch sent a tingling sensation up your spine. “So we’ll come back later about the books. Right, babe? I got them for you, don’t worry about it,”.

Your heart stuttered at the affection in his vocie, and for a moment, you swore the whole library was spinning. “Uh…yeah!” you blurted, the words tumbling out awkwardly as you leaned further into the role he’d crafted for you, your voice a little too enthusiastic. “That FroYo is definitely calling my name. Sorry about the books, Ms. Cindy,”.

Ms. Cindy waved you off with a kind smile, seemingly charmed by Joe’s presence. “No worries, dear, you two go ahead and enjoy yourselves. You’re only young and in love once,” she said, her tone softer than it had been just moments before.

“In love? Oh my god, if anyone hear’s about this I’m so fucked,” you thought to yourself, feeling like there was about a million eyes on you right now in that library…but in reality, the only eyes on you were those of a man who felt his heart stop the moment you looked at him. 

You barely registered the rest of her parting words. Your entire focus was on Joe—the way his arm remained firmly around your waist, his thumb absentmindedly tracing small circles against your side in a gesture that almost felt like was to calm your nerves…as if he just knew how you were feeling, and the way his body radiated a constant warmth that made you feel both flustered and oddly safe.

Your thoughts were a chaotic mess. He was too much. Too magnetic, too confident, too…him. The kind of guy you’d want to find in a crowd just so you could hide from him. Because how were you supposed to survive the mere force of his presence without completely melting into a puddle?

—

Joe didn’t let go of you until you were outside, and even then, his hand lingered on your waist, his touch tight and steady. The two of you walked in silence for a moment, your mind racing as you tried to process what had just happened.

Finally, you turned to him, your voice barely above a whisper because you just…didn’t know what to do or say, you were just confused. “Why did you do that?”.

Joe stopped walking, turning to face you fully. His eyes softened as he looked at you, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “You looked like you needed a lifeline,” he said simply.

Your cheeks flushed, and you looked away, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was to you. “But you don’t even know me,” you said softly.

“Not yet,” he said, his voice dropping just slightly. He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “But I figured this was a good place to start,”.

Your breath caught as his fingers brushed against your skin, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. He stepped closer, his gaze locking onto yours. “Besides,” he added, his lips curving into that devastatingly charming smile, “I couldn’t just let you drown back there,”. 

You blinked up at him, completely at a loss for words. Was this real life?

“Thank you, Joe,” you smiled, a warm, fluttering feeling blossoming in your chest. It felt so... high school, like that excited rush when a cute guy notices you for the first time and you can’t help but feel all giggly and nervous at once. You hadn’t felt like this in forever, like butterflies were swarming in your stomach, making everything feel just a little bit lighter. The way he looked at you, his smile, the way he touched you—it was all so perfect.  

It was the kind of innocent excitement you’d only read about in teen romance novels or seen in cheesy rom-coms. And now, here you were, living it, as if you had stepped into your own version of one of those movies. You tried to keep your composure, but you couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face as you met his eyes again. There was something about him—about this—that made you feel like a teenager again, all caught up in the thrill of an unexpected moment.

“Anytime,” he replied easily, slipping his hands into the pockets of his purple LSU football shorts. He tilted his head slightly, a playful glint in his eye. “I didn’t catch your name?”.

“Y/N,” you said softly, watching his reaction.

“Y/N,” he repeated, letting the name roll off his tongue with a small smile. “You looked like you needed some saving. And I’m one of Ms. Cindy’s favorites, so I figured I could help,”.

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, what was that about? She was ready to charge me $500, and then you waltz in, and she just forgets it all,”.

Joe laughed, the sound becoming something you craved because every time it filled the air, your smile grew just a little wider. And when it ended, all you wanted was to hear it again. “Me and Ms. Cindy go waaay back,” he said. “She really helped me out when I transferred here from Ohio State and had no idea what I was doing on campus. She’s like my campus mom. I’m pretty much her favorite student ever—helped her out around the library, stayed late during finals week when the textbooks were flying off the shelves, and she was completely overwhelmed. She needed a–,”.  

“A lifeline?” you interrupted, the words slipping out before you could stop yourself, a blush blossoming on your cheeks as your eyes met his.  

Joe paused, his lips parted as if he were about to say something, but nothing came out. He just looked at you, those beautiful blue eyes that were practically glowing in the Lousiana sun locked on yours, his expression caught between surprise and something softer—something that made your heart skip a beat.  

“You seem like a helper, Joe,” you said with a soft giggle, trying to fill the sudden silence, your voice carrying a playful edge. “I like it. Your charm is pretty hard to beat,”.  

“Thanks,” he replied, his grin widening, that dimple of his making an appearance. He shifted on his feet, and for a split second, you could have sworn he looked…nervous?

You blinked in surprise. “Wait. Was he…nervous?” you thought. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, a habit you recognized as something you did when you were trying to hide your nerves. The thought made your heart flutter.

Before you could respond, Joe reached for your hand, his fingers entwining with yours. “Come on,” he said, tugging you gently toward the street. “I owe you a FroYo now. It’s part of the whole fake-boyfriend package,”.

Your stomach fluttered at his words, the hot sensation spreading like wildfire through your body. There was absolutely no way the quarterback of the LSU Tigers, QB1 himself, was asking you to get FroYo with him. You? Some random girl he helped at the library, who he’d literally never seen before? The thought made your head spin in the best way because you couldn’t quite figure him out…but part of you was up for the challenge.

“Oh, um…are you sure?” you stammered, still trying to make sense of the situation. “I mean, you probably have somewhere to be, and–,”.

“Actually, I just got done with film study,” Joe interrupted, pausing to turn and look at you again. “And I know you're free too because you're definitely late to wherever you were rushing off to,”.

His words hit you like a gentle wave, washing over you with an unexpected warmth you hadn’t felt in ages. Was he…remembering? Did he actually notice how flustered you’d been earlier—how your actions were rushed and chaotic, your face a mixture of determination and panic? He hadn’t just walked in on the aftermath of your coffee-spilling disaster; he’d seen everything leading up to it. He saw how you were scrambling to stuff your books into your bag, how you quickly glanced at the time before attempting to bolt down the stairs, completely oblivious to the book cart.  

He saw you typing furiously, pausing here and there to sip your coffee while muttering something under your breath—probably a half-formed argument about metaphysics or a prayer to make the paper magically write itself. You stayed silent for a heartbeat, caught up in the realization. His gaze was still on you, unwavering and intense, studying you with a focus that felt both thrilling and scary. It wasn’t just polite attention—it was as if he were memorizing every detail, like the way your hair framed your face, the flush creeping up your neck, and the way your fingers fidgeted with the strap of your bag.  

You felt like the center of his universe in that moment, and it was almost too much to bear. A million thoughts ran through your head, but the loudest one was a quiet plea: Please don’t stop looking at me like that.

Joe added with a soft laugh, “And I would love to know how we got to where we are right now,”. 

Your mind raced as you processed his words, your thoughts a whirlwind of uncertainty and curiosity. The part of you that had been skeptical—telling you this was just some fluke moment—was slowly being drowned out by the urge to throw caution to the wind. “Why not?” you asked yourself. “It’s just FroYo. That’s it,”. 

You took a deep breath, and after a moment's hesitation, you finally gave in. “Okay, let’s get FroYo, boyfriend,” you said with a smile, the words slipping out more easily than you expected.

Joe’s eyes sparkled, clearly pleased with your answer. “That’s the spirit, lovebug,” he said, his fingers giving yours a gentle squeeze as he started to lead you down the street.

An hour later 

“So, you really think aliens are real,” you asked, giggling as you took another bite of your frozen yogurt, a big spoonful of strawberry heading for your mouth. 

“1000%,” Joe replied, his eyes lighting up like a kid talking about his favorite superhero. He gestured with his spoon for emphasis, his passion infectious. “There is no way we’re the only intelligent life in the universe. I refuse to believe it. Aliens are just too advanced to accidentally expose themselves. We probably won’t see them for a while, but they’re out there—plotting or chilling or something,”.  

You smiled, leaning in as if his theories were some secret you weren’t supposed to overhear. You couldn’t help but drink in every word he said, everything he thought, his voice weaving a web of curiosity that had you completely hooked. His confidence, his animated gestures—it was all intoxicating. You’d been high off his energy all evening, but his jokes, sharp and perfectly timed, left you completely lightheaded.  

Every time he made a goofy comment or cracked a grin, it felt like another spark ignited between you two, and you were soaking it up like a sponge. You didn’t even care how ridiculous the alien talk might sound to someone else. For you, it was gold—pure, unfiltered Joe. And honestly, you wanted more of it.  

“Fair point,” you said, laughing again at his adorable rambling. That, combined with the way he looked at you—like you were the most interesting person in the world—had you feeling like you were living in a scene straight out of a teenage rom-com. “Maybe you’re an alien,” you teased, raising an eyebrow at him. “I mean, I can’t think of any other guy on campus who would randomly help a stranger in the library like you did,”.

Joe grinned at you, that devastatingly charming smile making your heart skip a beat. “Maybe I am,” he said with a playful shrug. “I guess we’ll never know,”. You laughed again for maybe the 50th time in the past hour, shaking your head at his playful banter with you. Why was he making you so giggly? You had never laughed like this around a guy since high school. “What was all that about anyway?” he asked, leaning forward slightly, as if your answer genuinely mattered to him.

“I was writing an essay about metaphysics,” you explained, twirling your spoon absentmindedly, trying to sound casual despite the buzz of excitement from just sitting across from him. “I got so caught up in it that I completely forgot I was supposed to help my friend get ready for her date with this random guy she met at Fred’s,”.  

Joe paused mid-bite, his lips curving into a teasing grin as he raised an eyebrow. “Fred’s? Tigerland Fred’s? The sticky-floor, karaoke-at-2AM Fred’s?”.

“Yup, that one. Where dreams come true—or so she claims,” you said with a laugh, recalling your friend’s drunken rambling about her so-called future boyfriend.  

“Dreams or regrets?” Joe shot back, leaning back in his chair with an amused smirk.  

“Depends on the night,” you quipped, a playful smile dancing on your lips. “But hey, my friend swears this guy’s the real deal. Apparently, they bonded over an argument about the best Super Bowl halftime show. Beyonce and Katy Perry were the options,”.  

Joe’s laugh was as rich as gold, the kind of laugh that made your heart race a little faster. “Classic Fred’s. Nothing says ‘soulmates’ like debating pop queens over a background of spilled beer, drunk as fuck college kids, and bad karaoke,”.

“Right?” you said, giggling. “It’s practically a modern fairytale. Although, personally, I wouldn’t trust any guy from Fred’s unless I saw them leave the bathroom and actually wash their hands,”.  

Joe placed a hand on his chest, pretending to be shocked. “Wow, way to lump us all together. Not all Fred’s patrons are degenerates, thank you very much. I always wash my hands. But I’ll admit—Fred’s bathrooms? Definitely a life experience,”.  

“Oh, so you’re saying you’re one of the ‘good ones,’ huh?” you teased, tilting your head as you studied him with mock skepticism.  

He smirked, leaning forward just slightly, enough to make your pulse quicken. “I’m saying you can trust me,” he replied, his voice dipping into something softer, flirtier. “Fred’s alum and all,”.  

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Hmm, that’s a big claim, Joe. Trust is earned, not handed out like FroYo spoons,”.  

“Fair enough,” he said, his grin widening. He leaned back again, that easy confidence of his radiating off him—that same confidence you’d see during football games. “Tell you what: I’ll prove it to you,”.

“Oh, yeah?” you challenged, raising an eyebrow. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”.

He tapped his chin, pretending to think. “Well, for starters, I’ll make sure you get home safe. And I’ll keep your FroYo topped off if you run out. Bonus points if I don’t spill any on myself,”.  

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too wide. “Bold strategy. But you’re still on thin ice, Quarterback. What else you got?”.

Joe leaned in again, his body language and tone of voice so clearly meant to tease you. He knew exactly what he was doing. “How about this, I won’t just make tonight fun—I’ll make our next date even better,”.

Oh my god.

You felt like screaming—in a good way. He was serious about this being a date. A real date. It was almost impossible to believe, especially given your less-than-stellar luck in the college dating pool. Most guys you met only seemed interested in hooking up or aiming for a casual friends-with-benefits situation. But Joe? He wasn’t giving off those vibes at all, which, frankly, was surprising considering he was a football player. Joe felt different. The way he was treating you, so effortlessly charming yet undeniably genuine, had you feeling giddy, silly, and shy all at once—like you were 16 again, living out a teenage fantasy of dating the star quarterback. But the truth was, Joe being a football player was the least interesting thing about him.  

It was the little things—the way his nerdy side blazed through when he got excited about something, his genuine charm that felt so real, and his easy, down-to-earth demeanor. He wasn’t trying to impress you with his status or his accomplishments. He was just Joe, and that set him apart from everyone else. Your cheeks burned from the feeling that was encompassing you, and you couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across your face which he noticed. “Next date? You’re already planning ahead, huh? I don’t even remember saying that this,” you said, gesturing to the distance between you two, “This was a date,” you finished.

Joe’s lips curved into a slow, confident smile, and he leaned in slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Oh, come on,” he drawled. “You’re eating FroYo with me, laughing at my terrible jokes, and letting me ramble on about aliens. If this isn’t a date, then I don’t know what is,”.

You bit back a grin, crossing your arms in mock defiance. “Maybe I’m just humoring you,” you said, raising your chin. “Ever think about that, Mr. Quarterback?”.

“Humoring me? Nah,” he said confidently. “You’re way too into this for it to be just that. Admit it, you’re having fun, lovebug,”.

You rolled your eyes, but the blush creeping up your cheeks because of that damn nickname probably betrayed you. “Okay, maybe I’m having a little fun,” you conceded, holding your fingers an inch apart for emphasis.

“See? I knew it,” he said triumphantly. “And for the record, I’ve already decided. This is definitely a date. A pretty damn good one, if I say so myself,”.

“Oh, you’ve decided, huh?” you replied, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Yup,” he said, popping the ‘p’ as he leaned forward again, his gaze locking with yours. “But if you need a little more convincing, how about we go ahead and plan that next date? Something tells me you won’t be able to resist saying yes,”.

“Your confidence never wavers, does it?”.

“Duh,” he said, his blue eyes sparkling as they locked onto yours. “I don’t play for just one quarter, Y/N. I’m in it for the full game,”.  

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was racing at a mile a second. “Alright, Mr. Quarterback. Let’s see if you can back all this talk up,”.  

“Oh, I will,” he said with a wink, his confidence so intoxicating it made you feel like you were just like one of those drunk as fuck college kids at Fred’s. “You just keep eating your FroYo and let me handle the rest,”. 

“Deal,” you replied, keeping your tone casual even as your stomach flipped like it was auditioning for the Olympics. Your mind was racing, spiraling over every glance, every word exchanged. You were hyper-aware of the way Joe had been looking at you, his gaze steady and warm, as though he was studying every detail of your face during this not-a-date-but-definitely-a-date FroYo outing.

Meanwhile, Joe was quietly letting out a breath of relief, grateful that you seemed just as interested as he was. He had been silently praying you’d be open to more of this—more of him. He knew it was early, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something special about you. From the moment he’d seen you in the library, flustered but determined, he was drawn in. “You’re interested,” he thought to himself, letting the reassurance wash over him. And why wouldn’t he be hoping? You weren’t like anyone else he’d met.

To Joe, this date—or whatever it was—was unlike any he’d ever been on. It wasn’t forced, and it didn’t feel like a chore to impress you. You were genuine, effortlessly funny, and you weren’t trying to win the title of ‘QB1’s girlfriend’. He’d been on plenty of dates with girls who only cared about the status, who weren’t interested in him beyond the jersey. But with you, it felt different. You made him feel like just Joe, the guy who geeked out about aliens and enjoyed frozen yogurt dates.

And that was all he wanted—a connection that felt real.

So, when you smiled softly at him after your ‘deal’ and took another bite of your FroYo, he couldn’t help but grin to himself. This was already more than he had hoped for, and he couldn’t wait to see what came next.

“Anyways, back to my friend…she was totally fine,” you said with a shrug, the memory making you smirk. “I told her why I was skipping out on helping her, and let’s just say she was more than happy to get ready on her own, considering the reason I bailed,”.

“Glad I wasn’t a point of conflict in her love story,” he said sarcastically. 

“Oh, no. She’s on team Joe already,” you teased, taking a deliberate bite of your FroYo as you watched him with a smirk.

“Well, that’s a relief,” he said with a half-laugh, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the edge of his cup. Then, with a curious tilt of his head, he asked, “So, your essay…Metaphysics, right? That’s…?”.

“Aristotle,” you answered smoothly, catching the flicker of recognition on his face.

“Right,” he said, nodding like a student trying to piece together notes from a lecture he half-remembered. “Philosophy class,”.

“Mhm. I’m a sucker for anything psychology, sociology, or philosophy related,” you admitted, your tone light but laced with genuine enthusiasm.

“Nerdy...Good to know,” he teased, a playful smirk lighting up his gorgeous face. You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the smile creeping onto your lips. “Says the guy who’s spent half this date convincing me aliens are real,”.

“...Touché,” Joe replied, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “But nerdy or not, I think our second date should be at the art and science museum. They’ve got a pretty sick space exhibit right now—and I hear their psychology section is impressive, too. I’m sure you’d love it,”.  

You couldn't help but feel your heart flutter at the thought of spending more time with Joe. The idea of a second date felt…so right, in fact, that you couldn't help but blurt out, “Okay, how about Saturday night?”.  

Joe leaned back in his seat, his hands resting casually on the table as his eyes flickered with a playful challenge. “Saturday, huh?” he raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You want it that bad?”.

“Woah, play it cool, Y/N. This is still Joe Burrow—Joe freaking Burrow. The star quarterback, the guy every girl on campus talks about with that smirk and look in their eyes. Don’t get your hopes up; just be normal,” you told yourself, trying to rein in the butterflies taking flight in your chest. “This might not even go anywhere,” you realized, forcing your overexcited heart to settle. Your mind scrambled for a response, desperate to dilute the intensity of your emotions before they spilled over. You then shrugged nonchalantly, trying to keep your cool even though your stomach was dancing with overexcitement. “Well, you did say you wanted to do this again,” you replied, “I thought I’d get the ball rolling,”.

“I did, didn’t I?” his eyes held yours for a beat longer than usual, and you could feel the shift, the chemistry swirling between the two of you like electricity in the air.

Then, with a sigh, Joe ran a hand through his hair, clearly thinking it through. “Saturday’s not gonna work for me, though,” he said, a slight frown appearing on his face. “Quarterback duties and all—big game that night.” He paused, his eyes searching yours, before adding, “But hey, I’ve got a plan,”.   

Your brow furrowed with a hint of disappointment, but you didn’t show it. You waited for him to continue, your curiosity piqued. He looked at you, that signature smirk returning, “You could come to the game. I can snag you a ticket and I’ll get one for your friend too if you guys wanna sit front row on our side of the stands?”.

You were speechless for a moment, your heart pounding so loudly you swore he could hear it. He was serious. Joe Burrow, the quarterback of the LSU Tigers, wanted you to come to his game—wanted you to be there, front and center, watching him in action. It was something straight out of a fantasy, the kind of moment you’d only ever seen in movies or read about in romance novels.

Your mind raced as you processed it. He’s inviting me to his game. Me. Not one of the picture-perfect girls you thought flocked to him at parties or tried to cozy up for clout, but you. And Joe wasn’t just the quarterback—he was the quarterback. Hot and sexy in a way that almost felt unfair, with that chiseled jawline, broad shoulders, and that effortlessly tousled dirty blonde hair. And yet, he was so much more than just his looks. He was kind, attentive, and so…Joe. 

Despite his talent and fame, he didn’t carry himself with the vanity you’d seen in so many other athletes. He was normal, in the most unique way—someone who could make you laugh over FroYo one second and leave you breathless with a smirk the next. You’d never thought a guy like Joe could exist outside of daydreams, let alone show interest in you.

You could feel your cheeks blush as your gaze shifted back to him. The thought of sitting in Tiger Stadium, watching him play, hearing the crowd roar as he led his team to victory—it suddenly meant so much more. You weren’t going to the game for LSU or the love of football. You were going for Joe, and that realization sent a thrill down your spine.

A tiny, excited laugh escaped you before you could stop it. He was making everything feel so airy, so surreal that it was like you were in a daze. Your pulse quickened, but you kept your voice steady, trying to sound casual as your mind wandered to the game.

You weren’t someone who went to football games often. Sure, you’d catch a game here or there on TV, mostly for the atmosphere and social chatter, but actually going to Tiger Stadium, sitting in the crowd, surrounded by thousands of roaring fans? That wasn’t really your scene. It always felt overwhelming, like you were just a small piece in a sea of chaos. But for Joe? For Joe, it didn’t feel chaotic—it felt meaningful.  

You’d heard the stories about him—how good he was, how he was the star of the team, how he carried the entire state of Louisiana on his shoulders game after game. Even if you weren’t a die-hard fan, you couldn’t help but admire someone so dedicated, so talented. Seeing him on the field, doing what he was so clearly meant to do, was starting to feel like an opportunity you didn’t want to miss.  

But what really struck you was that this wasn’t just about football for him. He wanted you there. Not as just another face in the crowd, but as someone he…cared about. And that meant everything. The idea of sitting in the stands, knowing he’d glance over and see you cheering for him, made your chest tighten with a strange mix of nerves and excitement.  

“I’ve never really gone to the games in person,” you admitted, your voice softer now, a little more vulnerable. “But I think for you, I could make an exception,”.  

Joe’s grin widened, and you saw the flicker of relief in his eyes, like he’d been holding his breath waiting for your answer. “Good,” he said, the warmth in his voice showing his sincerity. “Because I want you there,”.  

He wanted you there. Not just for the game, but for him. And as much as the idea of sitting in a packed stadium might have made you hesitant before, now it felt different. “Sounds perfect. I would love to see you in action up close, Mr. Quarterback. Gotta really make sure you know how to ball and that it’s not all talk,” you teased, a playful grin tugging at your lips.

His grin widened and those adorable crinkles returned around his eyes, “Oh, it’s definitely not just talk,” he shot back with a wink. “But yeah, we’ll do the museum on Sunday. We’ll make it a weekend full of firsts. Your first time watching me play up close, and then our first visit together to the museum,”. 

“Can’t wait,” you said softly, a genuine smile tugging at your lips as you met his gaze. His baby blues seemed to hold a profundity you hadn’t expected, a softness that made your heart skip a beat. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at you—something equal parts thrilling and comforting, and you wanted to know what it was so bad. 

This was real, he was real, and this—whatever it was—felt like it was going somewhere exciting. You didn’t know where it would lead, but you were more than ready to find out.

Saturday Night – Tiger Stadium 

“Holy shit, that was a dime!” you screamed, jumping up and down as adrenaline surged through your body. Your voice was barely audible over the deafening roar of Tiger Stadium, but you didn’t care. You grabbed your friend Kyra by the arm, pulling her into your whirlwind of excitement as Joe threw his third touchdown pass of the game, the ball landing perfectly in the receiver's hands like it had been placed there by magic.

“He’s too damn good,” Kyra laughed, her eyes wide with disbelief as she watched Joe and his offense celebrate in the end zone. The energy in the stadium was electric, every cheer and chant echoing through your chest as the clock winded down to zero. Nothing could ever match the energy and electricity in Death Valley whenever Joe Burrow stepped on the field, and you were finally getting a taste of what that actually felt like. 

You couldn’t take your eyes off Joe. He moved across the field with such confidence, his composure unbreakable even in the chaos. Every play was deliberate, every throw accurate, and every moment he spent commanding the field had you mesmerized.

For you, the moment felt like it belonged to Joe—and, in some inexplicable way, to you, too. Watching him tear it up on the field with such precision and swagger was intoxicating. You’d been screaming and cheering so much that your voice was already scratchy, but you didn’t care. This moment wasn’t about you; it was about him.

“I mean, is he even human?” Kyra teased, nudging you as she caught you staring.

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was racing from the dopamine boost you were getting. “What can I say? The man knows how to put on a show,” you replied, but inside you were giddy, completely smitten by the way he carried himself. It wasn’t just his talent or his looks, though, let’s face it, those weren’t exactly drawbacks. It was the way he made this larger-than-life moment feel personal, like you were watching him play just for you. 

A personal show. Just for you. 

After dapping up Justin, Joe glanced toward the stands, and for a brief moment, you swore his eyes landed on you…which was his goal. He was looking for you. Looking for the one girl he was trying to impress amongst the thousand that were screaming his name. 

Your breath hitched, the connection between you so brief yet so undeniable that it left you feeling lightheaded. Kyra smirked, clearly noticing. “I seriously can’t believe you’re dating Joe freaking Burrow,” she said, poking you with her elbow.

“Woah, slow down. We’ve been on one date, and we’re not even official,” you replied, though the blush creeping up your cheeks betrayed you.

“Mhm, sure. So, have you picked a wedding date yet? You know, I’d like to save the date early,” she teased with a sly grin.

You groaned, swatting at her arm. “Shut up, Kyra,” you said, but you couldn’t help the smile that crept onto your face at the thought of being married to a man like him—someone so…perfect and dreamy. 

“Hey, I’m just saying, you’ve got a front-row seat to the hottest quarterback in college football, and I’d like to thank you for dragging me along to this magical little love story,” she joked with a dramatic wave of her hand. “You two already talk baby names, yet? Seriously, you’d make the cutest kids…just saying,” she wiggled her eyebrows dramatically as she continued with the silly teases that she knew were making you giggly inside. 

You tried to hide your smile, shaking your head at her irritating yet slightly amusing antics, but your laughter caught in your throat when she suddenly froze. “Uhh, he’s walking over here,” she whispered, eyes wide as she looked back and forth.

“What?” you spun around so fast your head nearly whipped off. There he was—Joe, helmet in hand, his grin so wide it could light up the entire stadium. He jogged toward the barricade, his golden brown hair a little messy from the game, and his eyes locked on yours like nothing else in the world mattered.

“Oh my god, he’s coming to you,” Kyra whispered, squeezing your arm before quickly excusing herself. “I’ll, uh, go to the bathroom…Mrs. Quarterback,” she added with a wink before darting away.

Your heart felt like it was about to leap out of your chest as Joe came to a stop right in front of you, his helmet tucked under one arm, his other hand running through his slightly damp hair. His cheeks were flushed, a faint pink that shimmered under the twinkling stadium lights, and his boyish grin made your knees feel like jelly. You couldn’t believe how effortlessly handsome he looked, even after four quarters of football. “Did you have fun?” he asked, slightly out of breath. 

“Are you kidding me?” you said, leaning forward over the barricade, your excitement spilling out before you could stop it. “That was the most fun I’ve ever had at a game. You were…incredible, Joe. I mean, you killed it out there,”. The words rushed out, your voice still buzzing with adrenaline, and your cheeks burned when you realized how starry-eyed you probably sounded.

His grin grew wider, his crinkling eyes softening in a way that made your heart skip a beat. “Thank you,” he said, his tone gentler now, almost intimate, as his gaze swept over you. “And by the way…you look really pretty tonight. That LSU purple and that ‘9’ look amazing on you, lovebug,”.

Your breath hitched for a second, and you felt a shy warmth creep up your neck as his words sank in. Lovebug. That damn nickname sounded so sweet and natural coming from him, like it belonged to you all along. You looked down at the jersey you’d worn just for him, suddenly hyper-aware of how much effort you’d put into looking good tonight. “I’m glad you like it,” you murmured, biting your lip as you met his gaze again. “I think I could get used to this…purple might just be my new favorite color,” you teased, giving him a flirty smile.

“Well, you should wear it more often,” he said, leaning just a little closer over the railing. “You look absolutely gorgeous in purple, so I’m definitely not complaining,”.

Your heart was doing somersaults. Literal Olympic gold medal-winning somersaults because of the way he was looking at you…talking to you. Oh, you were so down bad already. “Thanks, Joey,” you said softly, trying to calm yourself by pulling your eyes from his. 

He noticed your eyes drifting away from him for just a moment, and he wasn’t having it. His hand, warm and calloused from the game, moved up from his hip with purpose. Before you could process what was happening, he cupped your cheek gently but firmly, his thumb brushing against your skin in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “Hey,” he murmured. He tilted your face back toward his, his eyes locking with yours, baby blue and burning under the glow of the stadium lights. “Keep looking at me,”.  

The way he said it—steady, certain, yet laced with something vulnerable—made your breath hitch. You nodded slightly, completely under his spell as your eyes met his again. There was something about the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing that mattered in this electrifying moment. It was all about him, they were all chanting his name, but here he was with you. You couldn’t help but think how surreal this all felt, like you’d been transported back to high school, standing by the bleachers with your dreamy crush. He made you feel bittersweet 16 all over again, that lovely mix of nerves and excitement bubbling in your chest.

“I like seeing your eyes on me,” he admitted, his thumb brushing just under your cheekbone now, his touch so tender. “It’s distracting, sure, but in the best way. Makes me feel like I did something right tonight,”.  

“Joe,” you whispered, his name leaving your lips like a prayer. “You just threw for three touchdowns. Pretty sure you did everything right tonight,”.  

He playfully rolled his eyes as his hand didn’t move from your face. “Yeah, but those touchdowns were for everyone else,” he said, the weight of his words hanging in the air. “This right here? This is just for me,”.  

You reached up, your fingers brushing against the wrist of the hand that held your face, grounding yourself in him. “You’re making it really hard to think straight,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. You didn’t know why you were saying that, but for some reason it felt so right.   

His grin widened, playful and smug, but his eyes stayed soft, still scanning your face like he couldn’t get enough. “Good,” he said simply. “Because you’re all I’ve been thinking about since the moment I saw you,”.  

You opened your lips to say something back, not sure exactly what you would say to that, but before you could he pulled his hand away from your cheek and spoke up again. He rubbed the back of his neck. “So,” he said, “I’ll be wrapped up here in about 30 minutes. If you’re free…maybe we could grab something to eat after?”. 

The way he asked—so casually and confidently—made your heart melt. He wasn’t just the star quarterback right now; he was just a guy, standing in front of a girl…his girl, hoping she’d say yes.

“I’d love to,” you replied without hesitation, not a hint of uncertainty in your voice. You leaned down impulsively, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm beneath your lips, and when you pulled back, his eyes were wide with surprise, his cheeks blushing even deeper under the lights.

“...You’re making it really hard to focus on football right now, lovebug,” he murmured, his voice teasing you on purpose, but his smile showed how smitten he was.

You laughed, your own cheeks blushing as you playfully brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “Well, you better focus because I’m holding you to that dinner,” you shot back, trying to match his playful tone but failing miserably as your voice came out all breathy and soft.

Joe’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer like he physically did not want to look away from, you, and his smile turned into something more tender. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice dipping just enough to send a shiver down your spine, “I’ll be there. Just don’t disappear on me, okay?”.

As he jogged back to his team, his steps confident yet light, you couldn’t stop watching him. Every muscle moved with a grace that was almost unfair, and your heart swelled knowing that all of this—the smiles, the teasing, the kiss—was just for you. Tonight wasn’t just a game. Tonight, it felt like a dream. And the best part? Joe Burrow, the star quarterback, wasn’t just part of that dream—he was the dream.

—

Half an hour later, you met Joe outside the stadium. The night air was cool, the buzz of the game still lingering in the distance as fans trickled out from the staidum. Joe stood beside a sleek black car, his bag tucked under one arm and that same lovesick smile lighting up his face. He moved toward you with purpose, opening the car door before you could even reach for it.  

“Getting my car door? Isn’t that sweet?” you thought to yourself, feeling a twinge of surprise at how much the small gesture made your heart flutter.  

“Your chariot awaits,” he teased softly, his free hand brushing lightly against the small of your back as he guided you in.  

“Thank you,” you said, glancing up at him with a shy smile as you slid into the leather seat.  

Joe climbed in beside you, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. He quickly reached forward and pressed a button, and you watched as a tinted partition slowly rose, cutting the two of you off from the driver. You raised an eyebrow, about to ask why, but the words disappeared when he turned toward you.  

His arm was around your waist in an instant, his touch carrying something that you hadn’t felt in a very long time, as he pulled you closer. Your knees bumped against his, and his other hand came up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin so softly it sent a shiver down your spine. “I’ve been thinking about this all week,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips.  

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours. Soft but so deliberate, the kiss was everything at once—sweet, needy, electrifying. You felt like the air had been stolen from your lungs, your pulse pounding so hard you thought he might feel it through your skin.  

“No one’s ever had me like this,” you thought as you froze for a moment, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. You’d only known him for a few short days, but something about him made you want to forget about everything, forget that this was still new, to let your hair free in the wind and go with your heart and not your mind.

But then you relaxed, leaning into him as his hand slid up your back, pulling you even closer. Your own hand found its way to the back of his head, your fingers threading through his slightly damp hair as you kissed him back.  

His lips moved with a confidence that made your stomach flip, his tongue brushing against yours, igniting sparks that coursed through your entire body. You weren’t sure if it was the adrenaline leftover from the game or just the way he made you feel, but you were dizzy with it.  

When his lips left yours and trailed down your neck, you couldn’t stop the quiet gasp that escaped you. His name slipped from your lips like a whispered prayer, “Joe…,”.  

His breath was uneven as he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours as you both caught your breath. His swollen lips now coated with some of your cherry red lipgloss as you couldn’t help but stare at him, enchanted by the boyish charm that seemed to be the complete opposite of the intensity he carried.  

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he huffed, like he was still catching his breath. Like you took his breath away. 

Your fingers stayed in his hair, your other hand resting lightly against his chest where you could feel the steady thud of his heartbeat. “Well, I’m glad you finally did,” you whispered as your heart swelled.  

His lips curved into a smile that made your knees weak all over again, the kind of smile that sent a thrill straight down your spine. “Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you replied, barely above a whisper, leaning in again as if you were drawn by some magnetic force you couldn’t fight even if you wanted to. This kiss wasn’t soft anymore, not that it ever was. It started slow, like a fuse being lit, but it didn’t take long for the fire to burn hotter, fiercer. His hand found your waist again, pulling you against him, and you couldn’t hide the shiver that ran through you as his lips claimed yours with a confidence that made your head spin. “You taste so damn good, you know that?” he mumbled in between the kiss.

“Good enough to come back for seconds?” you questioned as you pulled away from him, your doe eyes making his knees weak. 

He tightened his grip on your waist and brought his lips back to yours. “Oh, I’m not stopping at seconds, lovebug,”.  His kisses trailed from your mouth to your jaw, and then to the sensitive spot just below your ear, his lips and tongue leaving a heated path of want. You couldn’t help the soft gasp that escaped you as his teeth grazed your skin, his chuckle vibrating against your neck.  

“Joe,” you breathed, your voice barely audible, laced with need.  

“I know,” he murmured, his voice rough as he buried his face in the crook of your neck for a moment, like he was trying to ground himself. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were darker, his gaze flickering over your pretty face and pinker than ever cheeks. The car hit a soft bump, and it snapped you back to reality for a moment. You couldn’t help but laugh softly, your hand brushing his jaw as your eyes fell back to his lips. “This car ride’s about to feel a whole lot longer,”.  

Joe smirked, his lips brushing against yours once more, teasing you but not committing to another kiss just yet. “Patience, lovebug. We’ve got all night,”.  

And as the car continued its journey, you couldn’t help but think again, “Getting my car door? Then pulling me to the backseat so easily? And kissing me in a way that’s definitely going to screw me up forever? Oh, what did I get myself into,”. 

This was either the worst thing you could’ve ever done…or the best. It was brand new, but you were going full throttle. And for some reason, even though there were so many unanswered questions and untouched feelings…it felt so right to be here…like this. 

With him. 

Joe Burrow wasn’t just good at football—he was good at absolutely everything, especially at making you feel like the most desired, cherished, and irresistible girl in the world despite knowing him for such a short amount of time. 

No one’s ever had you, not like him. 

There was something special about Joe. 

End of flashback 

“Oh my god, that was the most embarrassing moment of my life,” you laughed along with your cousins, your cheeks burning from both the memory and the silliness of retelling it. 

Joe chuckled softly beside you, “Embarrassing? Maybe. But it was also the best. Without that moment in the library and that night at the game, we wouldn’t be here,” he said, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips again for another soft kiss. 

You smiled at the tenderness in his gesture, but couldn’t resist teasing him. “Who would’ve thought, huh? I seriously thought you’d forget all about me once you got drafted to the Bengals,” you said, raising an eyebrow at him, but there was a hint of genuine vulnerability in your tone.

Joe looked at you, his expression softening as if he could read every hidden fear you ever had. “Forget you?” he repeated, shaking his head slightly before his hand slid over to your thigh, giving it a firm yet reassuring squeeze. “Ditch you for what? I’ve got everything I’ve ever wanted—and everything I’ll ever need—right here,”.

Flashback to Draft Night - Athens, Ohio 

The air was thick with anticipation, and you could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you. It was Draft Night—the night that would change Joe's life, and yours, forever. The tension in the room was electric, but in Joe's eyes, there was a calm certainty. He already knew. He knew he was going to be the first overall pick, and he knew, without a doubt, that Cincinnati was in his future. Earlier that year, before graduation, Joe had turned to you with a rare, serious glint in his eye. He'd told you, with all the confidence in the world, that wherever he ended up, he wanted you there beside him. At the time, you thought he was just joking—playing around with a future you hadn’t fully imagined yet. But now, watching him on the verge of living out his dream, you realized just how serious he'd been.

The realization hit you harder than you expected. This wasn’t some playful promise—it was a commitment. And here, on the edge of this life-changing moment, you felt it for real.

Flashback to Graduation – LSU

After the ceremony ended, the world seemed to slow down for you and Joe. You had just walked across the stage, caps thrown in the air, hands shaking from the excitement and adrenaline. The weight of the future was looming, but there was something undeniably exciting about the unknown ahead. Joe decided to take you back to the FroYo place, the spot where everything had started between the two of you. It felt fitting, like it was full circle. This was where you had your first “unofficial official” date, and now, it seemed, everything was about to change in the blink of a crinkling eye. 

As you both sat down at the same table you had sat at countless times before, the hum of the FroYo machines and the buzz of conversations around you seemed so distant. You were already digging into your frozen treat, trying to make light of the moment. But you could tell, something was on Joe’s mind. His usual confident demeanor had slipped into something more uncertain, more vulnerable. 

He took a deep breath, setting his cup down beside him. His fingers twitched on the edge of his own spoon before he finally spoke, his voice quiet but shaky. “I want to talk to you about something,”.

Immediately, you stopped eating, sensing the shift in his energy. You put your cup down and reached across the table, taking his hand in yours, rubbing your thumb over his skin as a silent reassurance. “What’s up?” you asked softly.

Joe looked at you, his eyes filled with more emotion than you had ever seen. “We just graduated,”.

“That we did,” you chuckled, trying to keep things light, but there was a heaviness in your chest that you couldn’t ignore.

“And I declared for the draft,” he added, his words almost shaky. The weight of that statement hung in the air, and you felt your smile falter. “That you did,” you replied, voice a little quieter now, the realization settling in.

Joe rubbed the back of his neck, clearly struggling to find the right words. He was never one to shy away from a challenge, but this was different. This was his future—and, as you could sense, he wanted it to include you. Without another moment of hesitation, he squeezed your hand. “Come with me.”

“Come with you where?” you giggled nervously, unsure of where this was heading.

“Wherever I end up,” Joe said, his voice steady but laced with urgency. “Whichever team drafts me. Come with me. Be with me,”.

Your stomach twisted in knots, and your breath caught in your throat. Was he really asking you this? The future, before so uncertain, suddenly felt incredibly clear—and scary. You had known this day would come—the moment when he would have to leave Louisiana, leave everything behind—but you never really thought about what it would mean for you two. The thought of a breakup, the thought of being left behind, had loomed over you in the back of your mind like a shadow, but now, hearing him speak, you realize that wasn’t his plan at all. He wanted you.

You swallowed, your voice barely above a whisper. “Really?”.

“Really. It’s true, I swear. Scout’s honor,” Joe said with fierce sincerity, squeezing your hand tighter. “I need you with me. I love you so much, and the thought of us being apart is…bullshit. I can’t do this without you, Y/N. I won’t,”

You sat there in stunned silence for a few seconds, trying to process everything. It was so much to take in; the gravity of the situation, the promise in his words. You had been dreaming of a future with him, but this...this was more than just a dream. This was real. You’d be moving with him, wherever he went. You’d be starting this new chapter, side by side, facing everything together. It wasn’t just about football or school anymore. It was about life—your life, together.

You thought about everything—finding a job in whatever city you’d end up in, living together, moving at a new pace, navigating the unknowns that lay ahead. And for the first time, it didn’t seem so scary. It didn’t seem scary because even in the whirlwind of it all, one thing stuck out.

You’d be with him. 

You shifted your gaze to meet his again, locking eyes with the man who, in that moment, had just offered you everything you’d ever dreamed of, everything you never thought possible. His eyes were filled with such intensity, so much hope, and so much love that it made your heart race, each beat echoing in your chest like a drum. You couldn’t help but smile, a soft, tender expression that was just for him. “Okay,” you whispered, your voice full of warmth and certainty. “I’ll go with you,”.

His breath caught in his throat, a moment of disbelief flashing across his face. “Seriously?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were really saying it. 

You nodded, feeling your heart swell with an overwhelming affection that seemed to fill every inch of your being after saying it out loud. “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life,” you replied. Each word carried the weight of everything you felt for him and the future you were about to step into together.

As he stared back at you with those ocean blue eyes, filled with promise and a love so deep it seemed to consume you both, you knew that this was just the beginning.

Flashforward back to Draft Night

“Are you excited?” you ask as you sit next to Joe on the couch. The draft night had taken on a different feel this year, virtual for the most part because of COVID-19, but the electricity between you both was undeniable. It didn’t matter that you weren’t at the event in person. What mattered was that you were together, and the future ahead of you both felt like an open road waiting to be explored.

“Excited, nervous, and a bit scared,” he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes darting to the screen as the pre-program was starting up. You can see the nervous energy in him, that usual cool demeanor slightly cracked, but the way he leans into you and makes sure your legs are touching shows he’s not as worried as he’s letting on.

Joe leans back, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your arm as he speaks again, his voice quieter now, more contemplative. “You know, it’s hard to put into words how much this means. Getting drafted into the NFL...it’s surreal. But it feels like I’m coming home,”. His eyes meet yours, and there’s a weight to his words, something deeper than just football.

“Home?” you ask, your brow furrowing slightly, even though you know exactly what he means.

“Yeah,” he nods, leaning in just a little closer, his breath warm against your skin. “Cincinnati...Ohio…it’s my home state. There’s also this unfinished business from Ohio State you know, I didn’t get to finish what I started there, but now? Now it feels like I have the chance to go back, make it right,”.

You smile softly, understanding the quiet fire and drive behind his words. You knew how much he’d poured into every moment of his career so far, how his passion for the game ran deeper than anything else. “You’re going to crush it, Joe. This is your chance to rewrite everything. It's not just a new chapter, it's a whole new book,”.

He grins, pulling you closer again, his hands resting on your waist. “It doesn’t feel like just a career move. It feels like a homecoming. A chance to really show people what I’m capable of—what I can do when I’m finally in the right place. And the fact that you're coming with me, that I get to do this with you by my side, makes it feel even more right,”.

The way he looks at you, full of determination and love, makes your heart swell. You knew he was destined for greatness, but hearing it from him, feeling the importance of his hopes and dreams in his words, makes everything feel so real. “We’re in this together,” you remind him, your voice full of certainty. “And you’re going to make them all see exactly why you belong there. Why you’ve always belonged there,”.

He chuckles, pulling you close for a quick kiss, "Thanks for believing in me, lovebug. I think I finally feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be. And that means everything,".

“Sounds about right, Superstar. Your life’s about to change,” you tease, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek as you settle back in next to him.

“Our life,” he corrects, his voice a little more serious now, a touch of possessiveness in it that makes your heart flutter.

Butterflies start to flutter in your belly. “Right, our life,” you repeat, smiling up at him. It wasn’t just about the draft, it was never just about the draft. It was about everything that came after. The life you’d be building, side by side.

“Did you hear back from the job you applied to in Cincy?” he asks, his gaze now fixed solely on you. “Not yet. Should be hearing back tomorrow. Buttt, I talked to one of my connections there, and they said to be expecting a positive answer,” you beam, your excitement unmistakable. There was a certain joy you couldn’t contain knowing you were taking this leap with him—both of you starting a new journey in your careers.

“That’s amazing, Y/N. I’m so proud of you,” he says, pulling you close, his arms tightening around you. His hug feels safe and warm, like everything in the world is aligned and you are right where you need to be. 

You laugh softly as his arms envelop you, “I can’t wait for this, Joe,” you murmur into his chest, your voice full of that sweet anticipation that both of you are holding onto right now.

“Me either. It’s starting to feel real. Like real real,” he admits, his tone laced with childish wonder, as if it’s finally sinking in that your lives are about to change—together.

“Oh, it’ll feel even realer when we go house hunting in Cincy on Sunday,” you tease, your lips curling into a playful smile as you pull away from his embrace slightly. You can’t help but feel giddy about it all. 

Joe rolls his eyes dramatically but then smiles. “Mm, I can’t wait for that fun experience,” he mutters, giving you a mischievous look as if he knows what’s coming. “You better not pick the ugliest place out there,”.

“Oh, you know I have impeccable taste, Joey,” you reply, raising an eyebrow, a flirtatious challenge in your tone. “I’m thinking something with space for a huge bed. You know, somewhere with plenty of room for...you know, us,”.

His eyes flicker with something deeper now, a kind of heat that makes you both pause, the air between you thickening. “A big bed, huh?” he says, the suggestiveness in his voice making your skin burn. “I can’t wait to keep you in bed all day, every day. You think I’ll be able to get any work done? Or are you going to have me distracted in other ways?”

You laugh softly, your cheeks flushing at the thought of having all the time, privacy, and space to do whatever the hell you wanted with each other. “You’re incorrigible,” you say, biting your lip as you look into his eyes, both of you sharing a knowing look. 

Joe’s smirk deepens as he pulls you closer, his lips brushing against your ear with a teasing whisper that sends a shiver down your spine. “Seriously, though,” he murmurs, “I can’t wait to have you all to myself in our place. We’ll make it ours... every single inch. And I’ll keep you in bed all day, every day, if that’s what you want. No interruptions, just us,”.

A rush of heat floods through you, the playful banter turning into something much more intense so quickly. Your pulse quickens, and you meet his eyes, feeling the weight of his words as they settle into your chest. “I think I could definitely get used to that,” you reply, your voice teasing, yet laced with a quiet promise of your own that you’d follow him wherever he wanted the both of you to go. 

Joe’s fingers trail down your side, his touch light but calculated because he knows exactly how to set you off, and he leans in, his lips grazing yours with just enough pressure to make your heart skip a beat. “Oh, you will,” he murmurs against your lips, his breath warm and heavy. “You’ll be begging for it by the time I’m done with you, I can’t wait”.

His words, so confident, so sure of what’s to come, send a thrilling shiver through your entire body. You pull him closer, unable to resist the pull between you, and his lips meet yours again, but this time, there’s an undeniable hunger to the kiss. It’s deep, passionate, and promises so much more than just a kiss—it promises everything.

As you pull away, breathless and flushed, the reality of what’s coming settles over you both. The house, your new life, the future you’ll share together. It’s all so vivid now, so real, and you can’t help but grin as you gaze up at him. "I can't wait for any of it either," you whisper, your voice thick with anticipation, knowing that what you two shared was about to get a whole lot more intense, and you were more than ready for it.

End of flashback 

“Aww, you guys are so cute,” Sydney coos, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she watches the way you and Joe interact with each other. “You guys just exude young and hopelessly in love energy and I’m so obsessed with it,” she smiles, raising her drink glass in the air as if she’s toasting to it. 

“Agreed,” James adds with a grin, leaning back in his chair as he takes a sip of his drink. “I’ve never seen Y/N happier and freer like she is with you, Joe. You really just…get her,”. 

Joe looks over at you, his smile lighting up his whole face. “Well, I’m lucky to have her,” he says, his voice filled with so much love and endearment for you that it makes you shy, prompting you to stuff your face in the crook of his neck. 

You can’t help but grin, though; your heart swelling with so much love that it’s almost overwhelming. Being surrounded by your favorite family members, in the arms of the love of your life…it couldn’t get better than this for you. You meet his gaze, the kind of look that’s full of so much comfort, trust, and everything you’ve ever needed. No one has truly ever had you, not like Joe has. He brings out the best in you; you’ve felt it since day one. You can see it reflected in the way everyone else looks at the two of you—everyone can see how much he completes you, how much you’ve blossomed with him by your side.

—

Later, everyone heads back inside, naturally breaking off into their own little groups for some well-deserved downtime. The guys sprawl across the couch, eagerly setting up for a nostalgic session of Grand Theft Auto, while you, Sydney, and Bella gravitate to the kitchen island. With glasses of wine in hand, the three of you settle into the comforting flow of girl talk, sharing laughs and stories.

From where you're sitting, you catch a glimpse of Joe on the couch, his eyes bright and glued to the TV screen as he fumbles with the controller. His excitement is palpable, his boyish grin stretching wide as he banters with the guys. It’s so unguarded and carefree that it makes your chest warm. You stifle a giggle, watching him bounce slightly in his seat like a kid on Christmas morning. “God, he’s so cute when he’s like this,” you mutter, the words slipping out as you absentmindedly sip your wine.

Sydney raises an eyebrow, grinning. “You’re, like, disgustingly in love with him, aren’t you?”

“Guilty as charged,” you say with a laugh, glancing back over at him. He’s furiously pressing buttons, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, but that goofy grin of his hasn’t faded. 

“So high school,” you grin, the fondness in your tone making the other two girls laugh.

Bella nudges your arm, smirking. “What’s the story? That sounded suspiciously nostalgic,”.

You freeze at Bella’s question, your cheeks instantly turning red. The memory that popped into your head wasn’t just nostalgic—it was scandalous, the kind of thing Joe would absolutely kill you for sharing. 

Flashback to a few years ago

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon, and you’d just gotten back from lunch with friends—the little lunch date much needed after the jam-packed past few weeks you’d had with work, Joe, and football. The house was quiet except for the faint hum of the TV and the familiar chatter of Joe’s voice, mixed with laughter from his high school friends through his headset.  

As you walked into the kitchen for a glass of water, you spotted him lounging on the couch, completely absorbed in the game. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, the fabric clinging to his shoulders in a way that drew your eye. His legs were spread in that effortlessly confident way he always seemed to sit, and the sight sent a small flutter through your stomach. When he noticed you, Joe muted his headset and placed it around his neck. “Hey, babe,” he greeted with an easy smile. “How was lunch?”. 

“Good,” you replied, stepping closer. “The usual gossip, shit-talking, Becca venting about how she’s tired of waiting for Lance to propose but doesn’t have the courage to say something, and too many mimosas,”.  

His gaze lingered as he nodded, completely used to the subjects you and your friends would cover during these lunches as you moved to sit beside him, a playful flicker lighting his eyes. “You look really good,” he said, the only thing he truly cared about was how gorgeous you looked.

You couldn’t help but grin, brushing his comment off with a teasing, “Thanks,” though your cheeks warmed at the way he was looking at you. As you leaned back into the couch, your flowy pink skirt shifted higher on your thighs. Joe’s eyes flicked down for the shortest moment before he smirked, his hand resting casually on your knee. His fingers traced lazy circles, light, and teasing, moving a fraction higher with each pass.  

“Joe,” you murmured softly, your tone a mix of warning and intrigue.  

“It’s fine,” he assured, his voice dipping lower. His hand slid higher, brushing the edge of your skirt. “They can’t see or hear. And besides…,” he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. “You owe me for this morning,”.  

Your breath caught at the reminder. That morning, you’d left him with just enough to keep him on edge, teasing him with a brief but intense moment before you rushed out the door. Now, it seemed he wasn’t planning on letting you off so easily.  

Joe leaned back into his casual pose again, headset in place, controller in hand. To anyone watching, he looked completely focused on the game. But the way his hand trailed higher, slipping under the hem of your skirt to brush against your bare thigh, told a very different story. “Joe,” you whispered again, your voice trembling as his fingers grazed your skin, igniting a fire that spread through your whole body.  

“Relax,” Joe said, his voice so calm and unbothered it made your skin tingle. “Just sit back and enjoy.” His hand moved higher, fingers warm against your bare skin as they brushed the edge of your panties. Your breath caught as he let them linger there, teasing you with the promise of more. Slowly, he hooked a finger under the fabric, tugging it aside to expose your heat. The slight movement sent a shiver through you, anticipation pumping in your veins.  

“Already this wet?” he murmured, his voice low and rough, barely audible over the chatter of his friends in his headset. There was pleasure in his tone, but also something darker, something possessive that made your cheeks flush. He knew he was the only one that got you like this, that had you like this. 

When his finger slid inside you, the slow motion made you gasp softly. He was torturously unhurried, his pace designed to drive you insane. You bit down hard on your lip, struggling to hold back the sound building in your throat. His finger curled slightly, finding the spot that made your thighs tremble, and he stayed there, pressing just enough to send a shockwave through your body. Your hips bucked instinctively, seeking more, and his smirk deepened. “Careful,” he whispered, his eyes flicking to you briefly. “They might hear you,” he smirked, hitting unmute and sliding his headset back onto his ears.

“Oh my god, he’s insane,” you thought, your eyes widening as Joe continued chatting with his friends like nothing was happening. The ease in his voice was maddening, especially considering his hand was all over you right now. You shifted slightly, trying to keep your composure, but the intensity of his touch made it nearly impossible.

What if they heard you? The thought alone sent a rush of heat to your cheeks, mortification and arousal swirling together in your chest. If they found out, you’d never be able to look them in the eye again—hell, you’d probably never show your face in Athens again. But Joe didn’t seem to care. His thumb slid to your clit, brushing over it with precision. The sensation hit like a jolt of electricity, sharp and immediate, pulling a gasp from your lips that you barely managed to stifle.

You gripped the fabric of your skirt in desperation, trying to ground yourself as the pleasure threatened to consume you. His finger pressed deeper, the slow, deliberate rhythm making your pulse race. He wasn’t in a hurry—oh no. He moved as if he had all the time in the world, savoring every reaction he coaxed from you.

You clenched your fists, your breaths coming faster, and your head fell back against the couch. Joe added a second finger, the stretch making you gasp again. He began to pump them in and out, the pace steady but building, each movement sending you closer to the edge. “Joe,” you whimpered, your voice barely audible. Your body was trembling, heat coiling tightly in your core as he worked you over with such skill only he could have.  

“I know, baby,” he murmured after muting himself again, his voice low and full of satisfaction. “I’ve got you,”.  

His thumb circled your clit in time with the thrust of his fingers, the rhythm perfect and unrelenting. The pressure built and built, a tight knot of pleasure in your belly threatening to snap. Your thighs shook as you tried to stay quiet, but every motion, every touch made it harder.  Joe turned his head slightly, pretending to adjust his headset as he leaned closer. “You’re doing so good,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “Just a little more,”.  

The sound of his voice and the way his fingers moved inside you sent you spiraling. The tension in your body reached its breaking point, and your hips bucked against his hand as the climax tore through you. Your walls clenched around his fingers, your entire body trembling with the force of it. You bit down on your lip, muffling the cry that escaped, but Joe wasn’t satisfied. His fingers slowed but didn’t stop, dragging out every last wave of your release until you were left trembling and motionless against the couch.  

When he finally withdrew his hand, he brought his fingers to his mouth, his eyes locked on yours as he licked them clean, his expression filled with smug satisfaction.  

He picked up his controller again like nothing had happened, unmuting his headset and rejoining the conversation with his friends. His voice was casual, easy, as if he hadn’t just unraveled you completely.  

You sat there, trying to catch your breath, your body still buzzing from the intensity of what had just happened. Joe leaned over, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “That’s better,” he murmured as he pressed a kiss to your flushed cheek, his tone so smug it made your face feel like it was on fire. 

His hand brushed your thigh one last time, a teasing reminder of what he’d just done, before he returned his full attention to the game. Meanwhile, you were left trying to steady yourself, still spinning from the way he’d left you completely undone.  

End of flashback 

You smile fondly at him after snapping back to the present, watching as he gets into “game mode” like he always does. It’s these moments, the little, playful ones, that make you realize just how lucky you are. The fact that he’s so fun, so carefree, yet still so committed to you—everything about him just feels right. It’s like you’ve found your person, and that feeling never gets old.

“It’s nothing, I promise,” you smile back at your cousins, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “Just a little moment between us that I remembered,”. 

Bella raises an eyebrow playfully as she looks at Sydney while taking a sip of her wine, lucky for you they know you too well and know exactly what you were daydreaming about and decided to skip right over it. “Joe’s a really great guy,” she says, her voice soft and sincere as she smoothly switches the topic. 

“Mhm, he really meshes with everyone so well,” Sydney adds, nodding thoughtfully. She pops a chip into her mouth, chewing slowly as she watches Joe laughing with your other cousins in the living room. “I swear, it’s like he’s known all of us since we were little. I mean, them on the couch is a splitting image of all of us from our summers here,”.

You smile, feeling a swell of pride in your chest as you look over at Joe. He’s so comfortable, so at ease with everyone around him, so in tune with your family as if they were his own—which he always told you they were. “He does,” you agree. “It’s one of the things I love most about him, how natural he is with everyone. He just fits,”.

Bella smirks and leans in as she glances back from Joe to you, “Anddd, he’s absolutely amazing to you,” she says, her grin widening. “It was so sweet of him to call us all over here because he knew how much you missed the summers here from our childhood. He’s such a sweetheart, like your real-life prince charming—the kind of guy you used to dream about in high school, right? Tall, starry eyes, broad shoulders, those adorable crinkles around his eyes, a football player to act like fire to your ice,”.

A blush creeps up your face, and you shift slightly in your seat, suddenly feeling shy under the weight of their words. But there’s a sense of warmth and safety in their teasing, and it only makes you think of Joe that much more fondly. “He’s...he’s just so normal, you know?” you say, your voice so featherlight which was always expected when you talk about him. “Even though he’s a millionaire NFL quarterback, he never lets it get to his head. He’s just...Joe. And that’s more than enough for me,”.

Sydney pats your thigh gently, “And he is absolutely head over heels in love with you. Like, you can see it in everything he does, Y/N. It’s impossible not to,”.

“Yeah, he really is,” you reply, your heart gushing with affection. You take a sip of your wine, but it’s not enough to quiet the warmth blossoming in your chest at the thought of him.

Sydney leans in, her eyes twinkling with curiosity as she tries to dig for something that had been on her mind for quite some time now when it comes to you and Joe. “I mean, it’s been what? Five, six years now?”.

“Yup,” Bella responds, giving a knowing glance to you and Sydney. 

Sydney chuckles, shaking her head. “Five, almost six years, and you’re still grinning like it’s the first day you two met. I mean, look at you. This is it, Y/N. This is the real deal,”.

Before you can respond, Bella jumps in with a dramatic flourish. “Here comes the bride!” she sings, mimicking a slow dance and causing you to break into laughter, unable to keep the giggles from escaping. Your cousins are both so playfully dramatic, but you wouldn’t trade them for anything. They knew how to make you feel loved and supported, especially when it came to Joe.  

“Bella, you’re too much,” you giggle, rolling your eyes at her antics but secretly enjoying the teasing. 

“Seriously though, is there a wedding in your near future?” Sydney asks, her tone more playful but still full of curiosity, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “Don’t keep us in suspense, baby cousin. I need to know if I need to order cardboard cut-outs of Joe’s face for the bachelorette party ahead of time,”.

You glance over at Joe, who’s still lost in the game, chatting with your cousins, his laugh echoing in the room. The sight of him, so happy and nonchalant, makes your heart skip a beat. You smile to yourself before looking back at your cousins, a soft warmth spreading through you as you answer their questions. “Actually, yeah,” you say, your voice soft but full of certainty. “We’ve talked about it,”.

Both Sydney and Bella’s faces light up in unison, their expressions radiating pure, unfiltered joy. Bella lets out an excited squeal while Sydney leans forward and clutches your forearm, her eyes wide. “No way,” she says, a grin spreading across her face. “You’re seriously talking about getting married?”.

You nod, your smile growing as you feel the full weight of the moment. The future, the life with Joe you had planned out when you first came to Ohio with him, it’s all starting to feel so real. “I really think the idea of marrying me popped into his head the moment we met,” you giggled, “But it’s something we’re both excited about and I can’t imagine my life without him, and he feels the same way,” you smile, floating back to the memory of the moment the topic was first brought up.

Flashback to last summer 

The sun was high in the sky, its warmth wrapping around you like a comforting blanket as you lounged on the pool chair. The soft creak of the chair beneath you paired with the rhythmic chirping of cicadas created a soothing soundtrack to the lazy summer afternoon. With your eyes closed and a peaceful smile on your lips, you let the gentle hum of summer wash over you.

The moment’s peace was interrupted by the faint dip of the chair beside you. You opened your eyes to see Joe kneeling next to you, his mischievous grin making your heart skip a beat. “Think you can make some room?” he asked, his tone playful, a wink punctuating his words.

Without hesitation, you smiled back and spread your legs slightly. “Always,” you replied, the playful tension building between you like the rising heat of the day.

Joe slid into the space between your legs, resting the back of his head softly against your belly. His arms encircled your thighs, holding you close, and you instinctively ran your fingers through his sunlit hair. The golden strands were soft beneath your fingertips, and a contented sigh escaped your lips as you let yourself relax completely. For a few moments, the two of you simply existed in each other’s presence, your heartbeats syncing in the quiet intimacy of the afternoon. Then, breaking the silence, Joe’s voice drifted up to you.

“Do you wanna get married?”.

The casualness of his tone caught you completely off guard. You blinked, lifting your head slightly to make sure you hadn’t misheard him. “What?” you asked, your eyes widening as you tried to see if he was serious.

“I said, do you wanna get married?” he repeated with a little laugh, shifting slightly so his head now rested against your chest. His arms wrapped tighter around your waist, his eyes peeking up at you with a mixture of vulnerability and charm.

You chuckled, your surprise giving way to amusement. “Is this your way of proposing?” you teased, raising an eyebrow as you looked down at him.

Joe laughed at your lack of faith, did you seriously think that this is how he’d ask the love of his life, his favorite girl, to be his forever girl? “Not exactly. I don’t have a ring yet, and when I do propose, trust me—it’ll be a moment you’ll never forget. But I still want to know…would you want to marry me?”.

The question lingered in the air, and for a heartbeat, everything else seemed to fade. You could barely believe this was happening. You’d imagined your wedding day countless times before, wondered about the person who’d stand by your side, and now, here he was. Joe. Your boyfriend. Your best friend. Your everything.

The man you’ve dreamed about since you were a little girl, the man who knew what he wanted and got her with such ease, confidence, and a love that knew no limits. 

“Of course I would,” you smiled, the words slipping out of your mouth so effortlessly, like they had always been meant to be spoken. But as you said them, a whirlwind of emotions surged through you, leaving your heart racing in a way you hadn’t expected. 

At that moment, it wasn’t just a simple response. It was everything you’d ever dreamed of; the feeling of being seen, loved, and cherished by the one person who had truly captured your heart. You couldn’t help but admire how far the two of you had come, from the innocent coffee spill in the library to this beautiful, heart-stopping moment when Joe was asking you if you wanted to marry him. You’d spent your whole life imagining what it would be like, dreaming of the perfect person to share your future with, and here he was, your person, looking up at you with so much love and hope in his eyes. It felt like your heart had exploded, radiating warmth and love that stretched through every inch of your being.

The weight of his question hung in the air, and you realized that this wasn’t just about the moment—it was about the entire future that was waiting for you both. The life you had always wanted, with the person you had always dreamed of. And as you looked down at Joe, his gentle smile and the sincerity in his eyes made you certain that this was it. You were ready.

“I couldn’t think of a better person to spend my life with,” you added, your voice soft but filled with certainty. The love you had for him was undeniable, and the realization that he wanted you beside him for the rest of your lives made you feel like the luckiest person on earth.

Joe’s eyes lit up, his grin wide and genuine. He half-expected you to say something half-assed and brush it off because even though he knew you loved him more than anything in the world, he always got in his head. “Really?” he asked. 

“Really,” you replied, your heart swelling as you smiled back at him. “You’re my dream guy, Joe. Everything about you…just works for me. The way you love me, make me smile when I feel like the walls are caving in, the way your physical presence just brings me back down to earth. And I can’t forget the way you make me laugh when I’m on the verge of tears, or the way you make me feel so young…like I’m in high school every time I look at you and those gorgeous starry eyes. And I’m so glad I spilled that coffee on your textbooks in the library at LSU—it brought me to you. The best thing that could have ever happened to me,”.

Joe chuckled, his shoulders shaking lightly against you as he pressed a soft kiss to your chest. “Best accident of your life,” he murmured.

You ran your fingers gently along his back, the weight of his words settling into your heart. “I know life’s a little crazy right now with football and everything,” you said, your voice soft. “Focus on your goals, okay? And when the time is right…I’ll be here,”.

Joe lifted his head from your chest, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. He moved closer, pressing soft kisses to your lips, one after another, each one filled with so much love and promise. “I love you so much,” he murmured between kisses.

“I love you too, future husband,” you whispered, and as Joe kissed you again, this time with a little more passion, you couldn’t help but feel that everything had already fallen into place. The dream of your future, of marriage, of a life with Joe, was no longer just a fantasy—it was becoming your reality piece by piece.

End of flashback 

You blush, the memory and the weight of your cousin’s words from tonight feeling like an affirmation of everything you’ve always wanted. You look back over at Joe, watching as he finally notices the three of you watching him. He grins, his eyes softening when they meet yours. It’s that familiar look—filled with love, trust, and everything you’ve ever wanted.

“I think I’ve found my forever,” you whisper, more to yourself than anyone else. You know it, and they do too.

“Awwww,” your cousins say in unison, their voices dripping with excitement for you and Joe.

You laugh softly, trying to hide the heat creeping up your neck, but you can’t help the wide smile that spreads across your face. “So yeah,” you breathe out, “It’s gonna happen when it happens,” you shrug, pretending to act nonchalant, even though your heart is doing flips in your chest.

Sydney, ever the perceptive one, raises an eyebrow, her grin only getting wider. “Well, I have a feeling it’s gonna happen soon. My intuition has never failed me,” she says with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, clearly loving her role as the self-proclaimed psychic of the group.

“Syd’s right. Remember when her intuition said that the Zipper ride at the pier was going to break down mid-ride and that we shouldn’t go on it? And then 15 minutes later, what happened?” Bella chimes in as she raises her brows dramatically, referencing a memory that still makes you and the group laugh to this day because of how you and James almost got trapped there by yourselves.

You roll your eyes, laughing at how they always bring that up. “You guys are too much,” you giggle, getting off the barstool and heading to the sink to put the empty glasses away. But despite your words, there’s a warm, soft feeling in your chest—your cousins’ excitement only makes everything feel more real.

“Can’t help it. Baby Cousin is gonna be a Wifeyyyy!” Bella sings, dramatically twirling you around, her energy contagious as she pulls you into a hug. The way she says it—so full of love and excitement—makes you want to laugh and cry all at once. “Shut up,” you laugh, rolling your eyes as you wrap your arms around her, the moment feeling like one of those memories you’d treasure forever.

—

The next hour flew by faster than you imagined, and part of that had to do with how you and the girls spent the entirety of your girl-talk planning out your and Joe’s wedding in your minds. From the flowers to the location to the honeymoon destination, even the kind of car you both would drive off in—everything was discussed, every detail thought out as if it were already real. It felt like your heart was racing with excitement, each idea sparking another, like you were crafting the most perfect version of your future.

Sydney and Bella were fully invested in helping you design your dream wedding, offering ideas that ranged from fairy-tale castles to cozy beachside ceremonies. Bella was stubborn about having soft, twinkling fairy lights everywhere, while Sydney kept throwing out ideas for a rustic barn setting, complete with twigs and greenery lining the aisle. You couldn’t help but laugh at how different their visions were, but at the same time, you loved it. Every suggestion felt like a tiny piece of the perfect puzzle that would eventually come together.

But before you could get too deep into things, you heard the video game sounds coming from the living room stop, followed by a voice breaking through the chatter. Yo, you guys ready to go to the pier?” Micheal called from the living room, his voice brimming with excitement.

Sydney and Bella exchanged a look before Sydney stood up with a mischievous grin. “Looks like the fun's just beginning,” she said, smoothing down her sundress as sat up from her barstool. “We’ll pick this up later, don’t worry. We can’t leave the guys hanging too long or I think James and Micheal would convince Joe to leave without us,”.

“Those two love that old ass rollercoaster overlooking the water so damn much, I think they’d actually jump the fences this time around if we weren’t allowed in,” you giggled, as you turned your head toward Joe, who was now standing by the door, arms crossed and leaning casually against the frame. He caught your eye and gave you that signature smirk, the one that made your heart do a little jump every time. He was clearly waiting for you, as if he couldn’t imagine going anywhere without you by his side.

You walked over to him, his arms already opened and waiting for you, like they always were. The second you were close enough, Joe pulled you into his chest, his warmth wrapping around you as effortlessly as his love always did. His scent—fresh, a mix of his usual Soleil Blanc and the remnants of your dip in the ocean earlier—hit you immediately, grounding you in his presence. You giggled softly, leaning into him as if he were the only thing keeping you steady from the amount of alcohol you’d consumed in the past two hours.

“Those two are going to be the death of me,” you murmured, your voice tinged with playful irritation, though the grin tugging at your lips betrayed the warmth you felt. “I swear, I was two seconds away from playing referee between them while they argued about whether we should go rustic or coastal for our wedding vibe.” You rolled your eyes for effect but couldn’t help the soft laugh that followed, your mind replaying Sydney and Bella’s relentless bickering.

Joe chuckled, the sound deep and rich, vibrating through his chest as he pulled you a bit closer. His hands rested gently on your waist, thumbs tracing absentminded circles over the soft fabric of your lilac top. The subtle touch sent warmth spreading through you, like you were a planet caught in his orbit. “They do realize it’s our wedding, right? And that we’re going to make the decisions?” his voice was light, teasing, but his eyes held that familiar spark of adoration.

“They’d lose their minds if I told them we tossed around the idea of getting married in the backyard,” you joked, tilting your head to look up at him, your expression mischievous.

Joe smirked, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that made your heart flutter. He leaned down, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your ear, his voice dipping into that low, intimate tone that always sent shivers down your spine. “Which is exactly why we’re not telling them,” he whispered, the corners of his mouth twitching as his eyes gleamed with humor.

You burst into laughter, shaking your head at how effortlessly he could make you feel like you were the only two people in the room. The rest of the world—your cousins, the chaos of dream wedding planning, even the little stresses in the back of your mind—faded into the background. All that mattered was the way he looked at you, like you were his entire world.  

“They’re never going to let us live this down,” you said through your laughter, wrapping your arms loosely around his neck. Your forehead dropped against his, the intimacy of the moment settling over you like a warm blanket.

Joe’s expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something deeper, something that made your breath catch. “Let them try,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, grounding you in the same way his touch always did. “As long as you’re happy, I couldn’t care less what anyone thinks,”. 

Your chest tightened, the sincerity in his voice hitting you squarely in the heart. You leaned your head slightly, your nose brushing his as your voice softened. “You’re too good at this, you know that?” you teased, though your words were wrapped in affection.

Joe’s lips quirked up into a tender smile, his blue eyes locking with yours in that way that always made you feel like time had stopped. “Not too good,” he murmured, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse race, “Just good enough for you,”. 

He closed the small distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both gentle and consuming. It wasn’t hurried or brief; it was the kind of kiss that left you breathless, the kind that spoke of everything words couldn’t quite express. His hands tightened slightly on your waist, anchoring you to him as if he was afraid the moment might slip away. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he let out a soft, content sigh. “You ready to go, beautiful?” he asked, his voice tinged with a comforting warmth as he reached over to grab the car keys sitting on the counter. 

You smiled, leaning into him for a brief moment longer like you were trying to absorb all the love and reassurance he gave so effortlessly. “Yeah,” you whispered, your voice soft.  

It wasn’t until you stepped back and glanced toward the kitchen that you realized all your cousins were standing by the island, unabashedly staring at the two of you with wide, knowing grins plastered across their faces. “Y’all are disgusting,” James deadpanned, breaking the moment with a dramatic roll of his eyes, though the amused twitch of his lips betrayed him.

Sydney smirked, “Seriously, we’re all standing right here. Get a room,”.

Bella groaned as she dropped her head on Micheal’s shoulder in sadness, “You’re setting the bar way too high for the rest of us, Joe. I’m painfully single and no man ever treats me like that,”. 

You felt your cheeks heat, but before you could respond, Joe just grinned and threw his arm over your shoulders, effortlessly pulling you against his side as he walked you both toward where your shoes were. “Can’t help it,” he said easily, shooting your cousins a smug look over his shoulder. “She’s the love of my life. What do you expect?”.

Your cousins groaned in mock protest, but you couldn’t stop the smile that stretched across your face, your heart soaring at the way he acted so possessive with you. Joe leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your temple as you reached the door, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “And don’t you ever forget it,” he whispered, his words wrapping around your heart like a promise.

You glanced up at him, your eyes sparkling with emotion, and in that moment, you knew: he wasn’t just good enough for you. He was perfect.

A few minutes later

The car hummed softly as you and Joe cruised down the beachside roads, the late evening light casting a golden glow through the windows. You leaned back against the headrest, stealing glances at Joe as he drove, his hands steady on the wheel. He had that familiar concentration on his face, the one he always wore when he was focused on something, and it made you feel a little giddy inside.

Joe broke the comfortable silence eventually, looking over at you with a grin, “So, Micheal’s been bugging me about growing my hair out again,” he said with a slight chuckle. “He’s convinced that the long hair brings good energy around…something about how something about how it makes me look younger and carefree. I think he just wants to see me with a ponytail. But he better not ever hold his breath because I am never growing it out that much,”.

You raised an eyebrow, a playful grin tugging at your lips. “Long hair, huh?” you said, tilting your head as you stared at him. You couldn't help but imagine it again, his hair the way he had it just a few years ago.

The hair that had you weak in the knees for months. 

“Yeah, man keeps saying I should try it again and not just cut it after having one bad game,” Joe continued, glancing at you for a second with a small, teasing smirk. “What do you think? Should I?”.

You bit your lip, trying to hide your excitement as the thought of him with longer hair started to swirl in your mind. The image of him with his hair just enough for a headband to keep it out of his face—it made your heart race. There was nothing more you loved than Joe’s little long hair period…god those curls…those curls were still present in your dreams. 

“I’m so down bad for that,” you blurted, your voice almost a little breathless. “Like, seriously.” You leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on his body as you tried to control the longing in your voice. “I love it when you wear a headband. You look...so much younger. In the best way. Like, I can’t even tell you how much I love that look on you,”.

Joe chuckled, clearly amused. “You like that, huh?” he said, his eyes flicking to you for a moment before he turned back to the road. His lips curved upward as he took in your expression.

“You have no idea,” you replied, the heat in your voice rising with each word. “It drives me crazy. And not just because you look cute with a headband, but because I love pulling on your hair during—,”. You cut yourself off, suddenly realizing where the conversation was heading, but the tension between you two already felt thick the promise from earlier in the day—finishing what you started before your cousins got here.

Joe’s smirk only deepened, a knowing twinkle flashing in his eyes. “Oh, I know exactly what you mean,” he teased, his a little raspy now. He reached up, running a hand through his hair, and you couldn’t help but feel the heat rising in your body at the thought of his hair long enough to tug on.

The silence that followed was comfortable but charged, the air between you two humming with something you both felt but didn't need to say out loud. He turned onto a quieter road, the faintest smile playing on his lips as he clearly thought about the very thing you'd just mentioned.

“You know,” Joe began, his voice quieter, more intimate now, “Maybe I should grow it out just for you. Screw being more carefree…I could just give you more to pull on,”. His eyes flicked to yours again, and you both shared a look, your heart racing, the playful banter now laced with something deeper.

You leaned back in your seat, feeling a mix of desire and affection as you watched him. “I think you should,” you said, your voice just a little breathy. “For me? Definitely,”.

Joe chuckled again, that deep, smooth sound that always made your stomach flutter. “Alright, well, looks like I’m growing it out then,” he said, with a wink. “And maybe I'll even rock that headband more often for you,”

You grinned, feeling the rush of anticipation bubbling inside you. “Good,” you replied, voice dripping with teasing sweetness. “And just so you know, I’ll be taking full advantage of that hair...every chance I get,”. 

Joe moved his hand from the center console and gently placed it on your thigh, the weight of his touch grounding you in the most comforting way. His hand was warm and steady, a quiet reassurance that he was there, always there. The soft squeeze he gave your thigh sent a ripple of love through you, making your chest ache in the best way. “You having fun?” he asked, his voice filled with nothing but affection, like it was impossible for him to speak to you any other way.

You leaned into him slightly, smiling as your fingers grazed over the back of his hand. “I am,” you said, your voice warm, sincere. “Thank you so much for doing this, baby.” You lifted his hand to your lips, brushing a soft kiss over his knuckles. It was such a simple gesture, but it felt monumental, like every touch held the weight of a thousand unspoken promises.

Joe glanced at you with that smile—the one that could make your heart stop and your breath hitch all at once. “Hey,” he said, his voice casual but his eyes serious, filled with the kind of love that made you weak in the knees. “They’re my family too,” he nodded toward the road ahead where your cousins’ car was just up the way, but his gaze quickly returned to you. The look in his eyes told you everything—this wasn’t just for you. This was for him, too. Being with you, being part of your world, was exactly where he wanted to be.

You couldn’t help but let your eyes linger on him a little longer than you intended, the moment stretching out between you. The soft glow from the boardwalk lights reflected off his face, and for a second, everything else melted away. God, how was this your life? Joe wasn’t just a dream come true—he was the dream. The man who had walked into your world and made it brighter in every possible way. Your family adored him, your friends sang his praises, and you? You were so in love with him, it physically hurt and sometimes it felt like you couldn’t breathe. No one else could make you feel this way—no one else ever would. The Cove might have been your home, but you realized that home was wherever he was. 

He was your home, your peace, your future. Just as this place was for you when you were younger. 

“You know,” Joe said, breaking the silence again and glancing at you quickly before turning his focus back to the road, “It’s crazy how everything changed in the blink of a crinkling eye,”. “Feels like just yesterday we were sitting across from each other at that FroYo place near campus,”.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at the memory, the sound warm and nostalgic just like the thought of that date. “I know,” you replied, leaning your head back against the seat. “You were so nervous…it was so adorable,”.

Joe chuckled, his hand squeezing your thigh gently. “I was not nervous,” he protested, though the playful tone in his voice betrayed him. “You were just…you were something else. You still are. I remember sitting there, trying to act all cool, but the second you smiled at me like how you do now, I was done for. Take my heart, my attention, my breath, my last name. It’s all yours,”.

You turned your head to look at him, your heart swelling with the memory. “I remember thinking, ‘This guy? The quarterback? He’s way too good to be true.’ But then you made that dumb joke about how toppings are what separate FroYo from ice cream and that little conversation about Fred’s and I thought, ‘Yep, this one’s a keeper’,”. 

“I still stand by that joke. It’s a classic one my dad used to tell, I do a great impression of him…as you know, and that was one of them,” he smiled. 

You grinned, the warmth in your chest spilling over into your words. “It’s wild how far we’ve come, though. From that little FroYo shop to this…to us,” you paused, your voice softening. “Back then, I had no idea how much my life was about to change,”.

Joe’s hand left your thigh for a moment, only to reach over and entwine his fingers with yours. “Neither did I,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “But I knew, even then, that you were it for me. Everything else—the football, the attention, all of it—it never mattered as much as being with you,”.

Your throat tightened at his words, the significance of his sincerity washing over you. “Joe…,”. you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. “You make me feel so…safe. Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,”.

Joe glanced at you again, his blue eyes soft and full of love. “That’s because you are,” he said simply. “And I am too. Right here with you,”.

The car fell into a comfortable silence after that, the hum of the engine and the soft sound of the ocean breeze outside the only noise. You reached over and placed your free hand on his arm, squeezing gently, as the glow of the Ferris Wheel grew brighter in the distance.

Being here with him, in this moment, felt like stepping into a dream. The memory of that first date at LSU seemed both so far away and yet so close, like it had all happened in another lifetime. And yet, every step since then had led you here—to this moment, to this life, to him.

It really did feel like everything had changed in the blink of an eye, but somehow, it also felt like it had always been leading to this.

“Y/N,” Joe’s voice pulled you back to reality, light and teasing. “You’re staring at me again,” he said, his lips curving into a smirk.

You blinked as your laughter bubbled up, “I know,” you admitted. You glanced back out at the boardwalk lights as they came into clearer view. You hadn’t even noticed how close you were to the pier—the car rolling into the lot barely registered in your mind. You’d been too busy getting lost in him.

Joe shot you a knowing look, his smirk growing. “Well…you gonna tell me why this time?”.

You let out a soft, content sigh, your heart feeling impossibly full. “I just feel so high school every time I look at you,” you confessed, the words tumbling out without hesitation. Your voice was light, almost dreamy; just like him. “Like, I feel 16 again. I’m dating the quarterback—the one who notices me in the stands and actually falls for me. It’s like every stupid fantasy I had when I was younger, but so much better. I never thought I’d have the courage to make a move, but you did. You knew what you wanted, and now, here we are. It’s like I’m living a teen rom-com with you,” you paused, glancing out at the pier where the Ferris Wheel spun slowly in the night sky. “Being here, doing all of this, it just feels like I’ve stepped into one of my favorite memories and brought you with me,”.

Joe parked the car, his hand still entwined with yours, but his eyes were now fully on you. His gaze softened as your words settled in, and you could see the way his heart melted in real-time. He leaned closer, his hand leaving yours to cup your cheek instead. His thumb brushed along your jawline, slow and tender, as he whispered, “Y/N, I love you,”. The raw emotion in his voice made your heart race. “You’re my dream, too. Then, now, and forever,” he added, his words barely audible but no less powerful.

You leaned in, closing the small gap between you, your lips brushing his as you whispered, “I love you too, Joe. Thank you for making my dream a reality,”.

The kiss that followed was soft, sweet—one that held the weight of everything you both felt but didn’t need to say out loud. The neon glow from the Ferris Wheel bathed you in its warm light, painting the moment in hues of magic. It was like something out of a high school movie—the kind of scene that stayed etched in your memory forever. Sitting there, in the car with the man of your dreams, at the very place where so many of your favorite memories were made, felt like a full-circle moment.

When you finally pulled away, breathless but grinning, your laughter bubbled up, soft and full of warmth. “You know how that felt?” you asked, your voice light but tinged with meaning, your eyes never leaving his.

Joe’s lips curved into that familiar, boyish grin that always made your heart skip. His voice was playful yet tender as he replied, “So high school?”.

A laugh escaped you, your chest tightening with affection. “So high school,” you echoed, your voice carrying a mix of amusement and something softer, something deeper. You leaned in again, brushing your lips against his for another quick kiss, but before the moment could last, a loud knock against the window shattered your little bubble.

“Come onnn, lovebirds!” Micheal’s teasing voice broke through, loud and full of mock impatience. “We don’t have all night!”.

Joe groaned, shaking his head as he chuckled. “They’re relentless,” he murmured, shooting you an amused glance before opening his door and stepping out. In one smooth motion, he rounded the car to open your door, as he always did. His hand was there immediately, warm and steady, as he helped you out. His fingers entwined with yours, fitting perfectly like they belonged there and you could just sink into him. 

“Let’s make this night ours,” Joe whispered, his voice low and intimate, meant only for you. His thumb brushed softly over your hand, a silent promise in the touch. You looked up at him, your heart full, and nodded, unable to do anything but smile.

Together, you walked toward the pier, your steps falling effortlessly in sync as if your bodies knew the rhythm of being together better than anything else. The neon glow of the Ferris Wheel reflected in his eyes, making them shine even brighter than usual. The salty ocean breeze danced around you, lifting your hair and kissing your cheeks, but all you felt was the warmth of his hand in yours and the unshakable joy radiating between you.

It wasn’t just a walk to the pier—it was a moment that felt timeless. Being with Joe felt like those endless summer nights you’d spent as a teenager, where the world seemed to stop spinning and all that existed was love, laughter, and the glow of possibilities. He made you feel carefree and infinite, like you could bottle this moment and carry it with you forever.

As the sound of the waves filled the air, and the lights of the pier painted the night with magic, you squeezed Joe’s hand, glancing up at him. His expression was soft, his smile easy, but the way he looked at you held so much more. It was a look that said you were his world, his dream, his forever.

The future stretched out ahead of you, glowing with promise like the lights strung along the boardwalk. With Joe by your side, it didn’t feel uncertain—it felt certain. Certain that no matter what was to come, you’d face it together. In that moment, your heart swelled with the kind of love you’d only dreamed of, the kind that made everything else fade into the background.

Joe glanced down at you, his grin turning playful as he nudged you lightly. “So, you wanna hit the Ferris Wheel first or grab some cotton candy?”. 

You laughed, leaning your head against his shoulder as you walked. “Both,” you said, your voice light with excitement. “We’re doing everything tonight, Mr. Quarterback,”.

He chuckled, his hand squeezing yours as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Anything you want, lovebug,”.

And just like that, with the Ferris Wheel spinning above and the sound of your cousins laughing in the background, you knew. This was your forever. With Joe, every moment felt like a dream you never wanted to wake up from—a love story that would only grow sweeter with time.

–The End–

[dawngyu]

THE ARCHIVE

pairing: choi soobin x reader

"Here. Please read each clause carefully dear."

The papers were handed in your hands, making your heart pound, each beat a hammer striking painfully inside your ribs. Your fingers tremble against the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ache, but the pressure doesn’t help you—nothing ever will. Your eyes trace the final lines, the words smudging under the sting in your eyes.

You have given extensive thought behind your decision and give "Brighter Days Inc." the exclusive permission to remove this person completely from your memory:

☐ Yes ☐ No

warnings: reader discretion is advised. neuro-science fiction au, set in the year 2125, romance, angst, psychological drama, character!death, depression!, anxiety!, stages of grief, flashbacks, self-destructive!reader, self!harm, accidents, everything written is a work of fiction. if any of the warnings above might be triggering for you, please step back. let me know if I missed anything.

wc: 13k — playlist.

notes: inspired by parts of ariana’s we can’t be friends music video aka eternal sunshine of the spotless mind... concept is there, but the plot itself will take a different path. oh, and buckle up.

a big thank you to my beta reader.

How shattered must your heart be, to long for oblivion over a name once uttered like a prayer?

"Sweetheart."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then, warm—featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

You laugh softly when you feel him press another kiss behind your ear. He always wakes you up like this—unhurried, endlessly affectionate. And no matter how much you loathe early mornings, he somehow makes them worth waking up for.

Turning over, you’re met with his familiar smirk, eyes already tracing every inch of your face like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. His hands find your cheeks, cradling them gently—like he always does. As if he hasn’t held you a thousand times before. As if you haven’t been his to hold since high school.

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" he teases, his nose bumping against yours before he gives your lips a quick peck.

"It's too early for your silly jokes, Soobin," you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep as you reach for him, burying your face against his shoulder blades. His warmth is familiar, comforting. Your eyes slip shut again, and he hums softly, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on your back.

"I'm not joking," he murmurs.

"Okay," you whisper back, not quite awake but not quite asleep either.

A beat of silence. Then—

"Are you sleeping again?"

"No."

"You’re going to be late."

"Uh-huh."

He exhales a quiet laugh, shifting beside you, and when you finally lift your head, his face is already turned toward you, bathed in the gentle glow of morning. His dimples appear with a smile—one he always saves for you, like tiny craters in the universe of his face. You reach out, pressing a finger into the tiny hollow of his cheek, and his grin only widens.

How does he never grow tired of looking at you like this?

"Come on, let’s eat, yeah?" he coaxes, pinching your cheeks.

You let yourself watch him—watch the way his eyes soften, the way he always waits for you, the way his love sits so effortlessly in the space between you.

"I love you," you whisper.

His fingers brush your cheek, his smile turning impossibly fonder.

"I love you more."

He somehow managed to pull you out of bed, though not without a few sleepy complaints. You lazily threw your hair into a ponytail—an attempt at looking somewhat awake. The moment he caught sight of it, though, laughter spilled from his lips, his dimples deepening with amusement.

“What is this?” he teased, reaching out to play with the loose strands. "A masterpiece of chaos?"

"It's ugly, isn't it?" You pouted, lips jutting out just enough to make his teasing falter. Panic flashed across his face before he quickly cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing over your skin as he pressed frantic kisses all over.

“No. You’re beautiful,” he murmured between each kiss. “Always beautiful.”

You let him win that small battle, if only because the warmth of his touch made surrendering easy.

It's always easy with him.

"Put some butter and milk in it," Soobin says, watching you whisk eggs in a bowl. He’s perched at the kitchen table, chin resting in his hand, his gaze fixed on you as you move around the kitchen. The pancakes on the stove have just started to sizzle.

"You like them better that way," he adds.

"Oh, right!" You laugh, hurrying to grab the missing ingredients from the fridge. You mix them in just the way he likes, and when the pancakes are golden and ready, you set the plates down in front of both of you, fetching the utensils.

"Thank you, love," he hums, cutting into his pancake as you take your first bite. A satisfied groan leaves your lips as the warmth of the food soothes your hunger.

"Nothing beats pancakes for breakfast," you sigh. "You and your obsession with them."

He chuckles, watching you with amusement, his elbow propped on the table and his chin resting in his palm. "Good job, chef."

You roll your eyes, dramatically bowing. "You're welcome."

He grins before his expression softens. "You have plans later, right? Be careful out there, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"And—"

Before he can finish, the sound of the doorbell cuts through the moment.

"I’ll get it," you say, pushing your chair back.

He nods at you with a smile, watching as you disappear toward the door.

You step toward the door of your apartment, fingers curling around the handle before pulling it open.

"Wonyoung, good morning!" you greet with a soft smile, but the way her eyes widen—just for a fraction of a second—doesn’t go unnoticed. She hides it quickly, clearing her throat as she shifts the bags in her hands.

"Morning," she says, stepping inside, her gaze immediately scanning you.

Her gaze sweeps over you, taking in the messy hair, the oversized shirt that’s swallowed you whole—the same one she saw you wearing last time. The deep shadows under your eyes, the pale exhaustion etched into your skin.

"Are you okay?" she asks, careful, cautious.

"Yeah, I am," you answer without hesitation, as if saying it fast enough will make it true. You turn to grab the house slippers meant for her, but your fingers hesitate when you notice Soobin’s slippers still neatly tucked by the door.

He didn’t wear them? But the floor is cold.

Shaking the thought away, you straighten up. "I'm having breakfast with Soobin. We made extra, by the way. You can eat with us."

Silence.

Wonyoung just looks at you, her expression unreadable, her lips parting slightly before closing again. There’s hesitation—pain, even—as if she’s searching for the right words.

"What's wrong—?"

You don’t get to finish.

The bags slip from her hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud as she strides toward you. Before you can react, her arms wrap around you, pulling you in tight. The force of it makes you stumble slightly, but she doesn’t let go. Her grip is desperate, as if she’s holding onto something fragile, something already breaking.

You feel her take a deep, shaking breath before she whispers, voice barely above a whisper.

"Y/N… Soobin’s been gone for two years now."

Panic grips you as your breath catches in your throat. Your head snaps toward the table—the very spot where you left him—only to find it empty—a plate of untouched food, sitting there like a ghost.

Everyone in the world fears something—even those who swear they don’t. And at the core of it all, there’s death. It is inevitable and final. It’s like spending years studying, only to fail every job interview. Like working yourself to the bone for months, only to walk away empty-handed. Like pouring your heart into a meal, only to take a bite and realise it tastes terrible.

But for you, fear isn’t just about endings. It isn’t just about pain. What haunts you more than death itself is the thought of being forgotten—or worse, forgetting.

Forgetting is terrifying. Yet, as you sit there, clipping your nailbeds, lost in thought, forgetting made you see him. You saw him this morning, standing there, just as he always had. And without thinking, you breathe.

For that fleeting moment, he’s here. Because you forget that he’s gone.

"Y/N."

You look up from the table, your fingers stiff against the wood. Your mom's eyes are swollen, glassy with unshed tears, rimmed red from exhaustion. She looks at you with so much pity it makes your stomach churn. "Are you even listening to me?"

"I am, Mom."

She exhales sharply, dragging a hand down her face. "I said we should go back to Dr. Park for another check-up. And maybe… maybe we should finally consider what she’s been recommending—"

"No." Your voice is firm, cutting through the air. "It’s just a waste of money—"

"That’s why I’m working two jobs, dear." Her voice shakes as she reaches for your hands. You flinch, but she doesn’t let go. Her grip is warm, trembling.

"You’ve been hallucinating again." She swallows hard. "I thought time would make it better. I really did." Her breath hitches. "But it’s been two years now. Your dad... he’s sick. He can't even get up on the bed, and—"

"You don't understand, Mom." Your voice trembles as tears well in your eyes. Crying has become second nature—easier than eating, easier than sleeping, easier than existing without him. "How am I supposed to act? I'm trying, I promise I am."

"Y/N." Your mom wipes her own tears, her breath unsteady. "It’s hard for me too. He was my son."

You drop your gaze, staring at the table, at the empty space in front of you, anywhere but at her.

"It haunts me," she whispers, "how deeply he loved you. He’s always here. Always with you. Always worrying about you."

The words steal the air from your lungs. Your chest tightens, the room tilts.

"But do you really think," she continues, voice breaking, "that he wouldn’t understand? That, of all people, he wouldn’t want you to keep going?"

The chair screeches against the floor as you stand abruptly. Your mother flinches at the sound. You turn to leave, but her voice stops you just before you step away.

"He loved you more than his own life," she says softly. "Do you really think it wouldn’t break his heart to see you like this?"

You bite your lip as you step out of your parents' house. Wonyoung had dropped you off earlier, she didn’t trust leaving you alone. No one does anymore. Everywhere you go, people watch you with that same look—pity, like you’re a glass figure they’re waiting to see shatter.

Like you’ll be the next one to disappear.

Your chest tightens as tears prick the corners of your eyes, blurring the edges of the world. A hiccup escapes, sharp and unexpected, and you clamp a hand over your mouth as if that might keep everything else from spilling out. You fumble with the car door, your fingers trembling against the handle. It’s only been three months since you managed to get behind the wheel again, but even now, the familiarity of it feels like a fragile lifeline—something that says I’m still here. I’m still trying.

Two years. Two years since his funeral. Two years since you last stepped into your office. Two years of nights that felt endless, of mornings that felt pointless. Two years of watching the people around you crumble under the weight of your grief, their hearts breaking because yours refuses to heal.

And for two years, the doctors have been whispering the same thing, their voices clinical, detached.

The procedure of erasing him from your memory completely.

Your knuckles whiten around the steering wheel as you pull out of the driveway, heart pounding harder than the engine. Every turn, every streetlight, every crack in the pavement feels like it carries his shadow. But there’s only one place where it feels bearable—one place where you can almost convince yourself he’s still there.

Choi Yeonjun’s eyes swept across your face, taking in the tear-streaked cheeks, the vacant gaze, the way you trembled just standing there. He didn’t say anything, just stepped aside and pushed the door open a little wider. You walked past him, your steps sure, like you were following an invisible thread pulling you toward the one place you needed.

"Do you need anything?" You shook your head. Because what you need isn't here anymore.

And then you slipped inside. His room.

Two years had passed, and Yeonjun never touched a thing. Dust had settled, time had moved forward, but this room remained frozen—trapped in the moment before everything shattered. They had been roommates for years, but after Soobin died, Yeonjun never found the will to replace him. Never found the strength to erase the evidence that he had once been here, that he had once been real.

No one was ever allowed inside.

No one but you.

You crossed the threshold like a sinner entering a church, hands trembling, breath unsteady. And when you sat down on the left side of the bed—his side—your chest caved in as you sob.

This was where he always slept. Where he curled into you on restless nights. Where he pressed sleepy kisses to your temple, murmuring half-formed dreams against your skin. The sheets no longer smelled like him. Time had stolen that, too. But the ceiling above was the same one you woke up to with him beside you, and if you closed your eyes, you could pretend.

Pretend that if you reached out, you’d feel his warmth. Pretend that if you called his name, he’d answer. Pretend that you weren’t alone.

But pretending could only take you so far.

You never found the strength to open the door again. You curled into yourself, gripping the blanket like it could hold you together. And when sleep finally came, it was with his name spilling from your lips.

A name that no longer had a future.

The knocking pulled you from the depths of sleep, insistent. You groaned, the sound barely more than a rasp, your throat raw from last night’s tears. Your eyelids felt swollen, heavy, reluctant to open. "Yeah?"

"It's afternoon," Yeonjun said through the door. His tone was careful, but you could hear the quiet concern woven between the words. "You’ve been sleeping for over twelve hours."

Shit.

You knew that wasn’t normal. But then again, nothing about you had been normal for a long time. Some nights, sleep was a stranger you couldn’t reach no matter how exhausted you were. Other days, it swallowed you whole, dragging you under until the hours blurred into nothingness. Staying in bed felt easier.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, "I'll come out in a minute."

Yeonjun hesitated. You knew he wanted to say something—to tell you that you didn’t have to apologize, that he understood, that he wasn’t judging you. But in the end, he just sighed. "Okay."

You listened as his footsteps retreated down the hall.

With a heavy heart, you forced yourself to move, peeling the blanket away like it weighed a thousand pounds. Every part of you ached—not just physically, but in a way that settled deep into your bones, into the spaces between your ribs. The bathroom mirror reflected a version of you that you barely recognized. Hollow eyes, a face drawn thin by grief, lips pressed into something that was neither a frown nor a smile—just existence. Surviving.

You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto your face, letting the chill bite into your skin. Your fingers gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white, as you sucked in a breath.

And then you saw them. On the shelf behind you; Soobin’s shelf.

Your hairbands.

The sight of them made you waver. Because it was proof, wasn’t it? Proof that once, you had a place here. That once, he was here to tease you about leaving them everywhere, to slip them onto his own wrist absentmindedly, to hand them back to you with a laugh.

"You always lose your hairbands, baby."

Soobin's voice was soft and teasing as he pressed lazy kisses along your cheek, your temple, anywhere he could reach. You tried to ignore him, focused on brushing your teeth, but he never made it easy. His hands slipped under your shirt, palms warm against your bare skin, tracing absentminded patterns over your stomach. He always did that—always found some excuse to touch you.

"So," he murmured, grinning against your jaw as he pressed your cheeks to his. "I bought a whole stack of them."

You paused, raising an eyebrow at his reflection in the mirror. "A whole stack?"

"Mhm." His fingers tightened slightly, possessive. "So now you have one less excuse to leave—and one more reason to come back."

Your hairbands. Like you, were waiting for someone who was never coming back. You shake your head, snapping yourself out of it. Then you heard knocking again. "Yeonjun. I said I’ll be out in a minute."

A pause. Then, softer this time—

"It’s been an hour since you last said that. Are you okay?"

You exhale, the breath shaky, uneven. Time has slipped through your fingers again, and you hadn’t even noticed. But that’s nothing new.

It happens more often than not.

You sit with a book in your lap, determined to do what they say might help—immerse yourself in another world, let fiction be a temporary escape. But you blink, and somehow hours have passed, and you’re still stuck on the same page, the words forgotten.

You eat lunch, fork moving mechanically between your plate and your mouth, only to glance outside and realize the sky has darkened, the day gone without your permission.

You tell yourself you’ll go out, that today, you’ll meet Wonyoung like you promised. You put on your shoes, even grab your coat. But then the door never opens. And before you know it, she’s the one standing there, knocking, asking why you didn’t come—why you never showed up.

You know it’s getting worse. And the worst part? You don’t know how to stop it. You don’t want to stop it.

Because it means moving on.

Moving on has always felt like erasing him. Like accepting a world where Soobin is nothing more than a memory—left behind.

And the thought that one day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday—everyone, even you, will stop mourning him?

That terrifies you more than anything.

You eat slowly, each bite feeling heavier than the last. Yeonjun had made you bacon and eggs—simple, warm, something that should’ve felt like comfort. But the food is cold now, left waiting for you just like he was. He eats in silence, but you feel it—his eyes keep flickering toward your wrist, checking. He doesn’t say anything.

It yanks you straight back to those first few months after Soobin’s death.

"Y/N?" Yeonjun’s face is sharp with concern as he pushes open the door. He had knocked—once, twice—but you hadn’t answered. That alone was enough to send his heart into a spiral.

"I brought you some food—" His words cut off the moment his eyes land on you. You’re sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders curled inward, your body eerily still. But then he sees it—your wrist, the red staining your fingers, spilling onto the white sheets like ink bleeding through paper.

His breath catches. And then—

“What the fuck are you doing?” The words tear from his throat again, raw and panicked. The bags slip from his grasp, hitting the floor with a muffled thud, but he doesn’t care. He’s already rushing toward you, dropping to his knees, reaching for your wrist with hands that won’t stop shaking.

“What are you doing?!” He shouts—not out of anger, not at you—but because he’s terrified.

It scares him. God, it scares him. What would his best friend say?

"I—I don’t know," you sob, voice wrecked. Your body trembles under his hold, and the words spill out between uneven breaths. You just saw it and you couldn't stop yourself. "I don’t know what to do anymore."

Yeonjun clenches his jaw, his own tears burning behind his eyes. "You must not do this," He’s trying to be strong for you, but his hands betray him, quivering as they hold onto you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away completely. Because you might. Because you want to. "Please, Y/N. Please."

You were so beautiful in Soobin’s love, and now it clings to you like a disease.

"I know it’s hard," he chokes out, pulling you into his arms. "Fuck, I know. But think of his face." He pleads. "Whenever you see your wrist, whenever you look at your skin—think of him. Do you ever want to hurt him?"

"Jjunie." Yeonjun's eyes lift to meet yours. "You don’t have to keep looking at my wrists anymore,"

A breath leaves him, slow and measured, as if he’s been waiting to hear that. He tries for a smile, small. "It worked like a miracle, didn’t it?"

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. "He always is." The smile that flickers across your lips feels foreign, like something borrowed from a version of yourself that no longer exists.

"My dad…" you hesitate, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater. "I—I need to go back to work."

Yeonjun watches you carefully, as if afraid you’ll change your mind. He nods. "It’s only about time, Y/N."

Silence stretches between you before he speaks again, voice careful, "Are you considering the treatment?"

You don’t answer.

Yeonjun didn’t kick you out. He never would.

In the afternoon, the two of you sat on the couch—long enough to fit three, but only occupied by two. And yet, without thinking, without speaking, you both left a space between you. A space for him.

Infinity War played on the screen, a movie you’d both seen more times than you could count. It was muscle memory at this point—the dialogue, the fight scenes, the inevitable heartbreak.

The credits rolled, and the room felt heavier.

"Soobin always bawled his eyes out here," you whispered, voice trembling. You laughed, but it cracked in the middle. "Like a baby."

Yeonjun exhaled shakily, his own throat tightening. "It makes me wonder how such a tall man could cry that easily."

You nodded, wiping at your face as tears slipped free. "He’s a loser." Your sob broke through before you could stop it. "He’s my loser."

Yeonjun pressed his lips together, but it was useless. His own tears fell before he could even blink them away. "Fuck," he muttered, voice thick.

Neither of you moved.

Because some absences can never be replaced.

"It's time for you to move on," Yeonjun says, his voice steady but careful. "You tried going back to work, but you can’t. You should be out there, living your life."

A fresh wave of grief crashes over you. "It feels like I'm betraying him, Jun." Your voice breaks, and before you know it, you're fully sobbing, the weight of it pressing down on your chest like it might crush you.

Yeonjun exhales sharply, his hands clenching into fists. "I feel like he's going to haunt me any day now for letting you stay like this, and he'd probably call me an idiot for not shaking some sense into you sooner." he half-jokes, but it’s bitter. It’s pained. The two of you laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, dies as quickly as it comes.

"But if you're worried about him—about who will take care of his… grave," Yeonjun hesitates as if the word itself could break you. "I promise, I’ll do that. His family will, too. He won’t be forgotten, Y/N. Ever." You hate it. Hate that he’s making sense. Hate that every word he says feels like it's prying you away from Soobin, piece by piece.

"Your father, your mother, your siblings... they need you back," he presses on, his voice gentler now. "And you… you need to go on with your life. That treatment, it’s the only thing that can help you now."

You shake your head, barely able to breathe between the sobs. "I can't let him go."

Yeonjun swallows hard, his hands trembling as they reach for yours. "You’re not letting him go," he whispers. "He's already gone."

And then, softer, like he’s begging, "And I know, if he were here… to talk to you one last time, he would beg you to keep living."

It took him two years to say it, but Yeonjun cried with you that day, his own grief spilling over as you sobbed into the worn-out cushions of the sofa. Because he, too, was once afraid—to let go, to move forward. But he knows now, knows in the deepest part of himself, that Soobin, the kindest soul he had ever met, the person who loved you deeply, would understand.

Yeonjun will spend his lifetime visiting Soobin’s grave, honouring him in the quiet ways he can. For Soobin. For you.

Even if he has a family of his own one day. Even if his hair turns grey, and his legs grow too weak to stand. Even then, he will still go. And he’ll pass that promise down to his children, to his grandchildren, so that Soobin’s name is never forgotten.

But if he lets you waste away like this, there will be no future to carry on. And the guilt would eat him alive because Yeonjun knows—more than anyone—what Soobin would have wanted.

It’s cruel, cruel that he had to pull the names of your family into this, had to remind you of the people who are still waiting for you to come home. But it’s the truth. And if you can’t find the strength to fight for yourself, then at least let them be the reason you try.

You step out of the car, your breath hitching as your eyes sweep over the familiar neighbourhood—the one you used to visit so often, the one that once felt like a second home. Now, after two years, it feels like stepping into a past life.

"Y/N!"

You barely have time to react before Soobin’s older sister is pulling you into her arms, her laugh warm, her embrace familiar. It nearly unravels you.

"I missed you," she murmurs.

You swallow the lump in your throat. "I missed you too, unnie."

And then your eyes land on the small boy in her arms—the baby who was just two the last time you saw him. Now four, grown but still soft with childhood. His wobbly cheeks, the way his dimples deepen when he shifts shyly under your gaze—

It’s too much.

"Hi," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

"Hi," he replies, eyes wide, cheeks flushing as he clings closer to his mother.

You look away. Because he looks too much like him. Because for a second, your mind plays cruel tricks, and you almost convince yourself that if you just turn your head, Soobin will be right there, smiling at you like he used to.

But he's not. He never will be.

"Come inside," his sister says gently, as if she understands the storm inside you. "Mom knows you’re here." And you nod, forcing your feet to move, even as your heart screams for you to turn back.

In the first month after Soobin was gone, his mother stayed by your side. She held you as you cried, made sure you ate, whispered that she understood, because she had lost him too.

In the following months, she kept visiting, kept checking in. But as time passed, she began to pull away. Subtly, at first. The visits became less frequent, the calls shorter. And then, one day, they stopped altogether. Your messages, your calls—they went unanswered. His family, the people you once thought of as your own, had slowly closed their doors to you.

Except for his sister.

She leads you inside, her expression unreadable as she gestures toward the dining table.

And there she is. The woman you once called mother.

"Mother," you bow, the word slipping from your lips before you can stop it.

She doesn’t even turn to look at you. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?" Her voice is clipped, distant. "And why are you here?"

You swallow, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. "Because I wanted to see you. I wanted to talk to you."

Finally, she rises from her chair, her gaze locking onto yours. And it is nothing like before. It is cold. Empty. Unforgiving.

“Get out, Y/N,” she says, her voice devoid of warmth. “Don’t come here anymore.” Your chest tightens. You don’t even realize your hands have started shaking.

"Mom, don't be like this," Soobin's sister cuts in, her voice soft but firm.

And for just a moment—a brief, moment—you see it. The way her lips press together. The way her shoulders tense. The way her eyes, for just a second, glisten as though they, too, are on the verge of breaking. She blinks the tears away before they can fall, turning away from you, like it’s the only way she can keep standing. She walks away without any second glance.

“I’m sorry,” Soobin’s sister whispers.

You force yourself to smile, though it trembles on your lips. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “I just… I just really need to talk to her.”

You spent the hour with Soobin’s sister, unraveling everything you had kept inside. Every dark thought, every ounce of guilt, every desperate attempt to hold onto him. And she listened. She held your hand, pulled you into her arms.

But time moves forward, even when you don’t want it to.

You check the clock, exhaling. “I’m going to try talking to her again. I have plans after this, too.” She doesn’t stop you. But the way she squeezes your hand before letting go, it’s as if she knows how much this is going to hurt.

As you walk through the house, memories seep into every corner. His presence is everywhere. The framed pictures lined the walls, the dent in the couch where he used to sit. It’s overwhelming. It steals the breath from your lungs, forcing you to press a hand to your chest just to steady yourself.

You don’t belong here anymore. And yet, you can’t bring yourself to leave.

The kitchen light is on. The soft rhythm of a knife against the cutting board fills the silence.

She’s there.

Soobin’s mother stands at the counter, slicing vegetables with practised precision. You swallow, stepping forward, trying to find your voice. She doesn’t look up.

“Didn’t I tell you to leave?”

"Mom, I missed you." Your voice trembles, barely above a whisper, and for a moment, her hands still. The steady chopping ceases, but she doesn’t turn. She keeps her back to you, her shoulders rising and falling with each controlled breath. "I came here because… I wanted to let you know that I think it’s time. I’m going to get the treatment."

Your own arms wrap around yourself, as if bracing against the cold creeping into your bones. "It will alter my memory. There’s big a chance I’ll forget you, too."

The words shatter something inside you. "But I wanted to say it—just one last time. Thank you. For everything. For giving birth to Soobin. For raising him into someone who could love me so deeply, who made me feel safe, who made me feel like I belonged here. Thank you for accepting me, for loving me. And I love you. I always will. I just… I just hope you can forgive me for what I’m about to do."

At your last words, she turns. And for the first time in a year, you see it—the grief she’s buried, the pain she’s carried alone. Her eyes, red and wet, spill over as she closes the space between you, pulling you into her arms.

You don’t hold back. You collapse into her, sobs wracking through your body as she holds you like she used to. As if you were still hers. As if you always would be.

Her hands run soothingly over your back, her voice breaking. "My daughter… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you had to go through this."

She clutches you tighter. "I thought… if I pushed you away, if I kept my distance, maybe you’d find a way to stand on your own. I thought if I pushed you away, maybe it would force you to move forward. Maybe it would break whatever was keeping you trapped in the past. It felt like it was my fault you couldn’t move on. Our fault. That the love my son left behind has been anchoring you instead of lifting you. And I’ve been so afraid, afraid that his love, instead of saving you would destroy you." She cries, "I prayed for you every single day. That you would find the courage. That you would choose to keep going."

You shake your head against her shoulder, your grip on her tightening. "I understand. I do. I just—" Your breath hitches. "I’m scared. I’m scared to forget him."

She exhales shakily, her lips pressing against your hair. "Forgetting… it’s easier than suffering for the rest of your life." Her hands cup your face, her thumbs brushing the tears away even as her own continue to fall.

"You won’t lose him. Not really. Whatever Soobin left in this world, it’s you." Your breath shudders as she presses a kiss to your forehead.

"I want you to live, sweetheart. To build a life that he would be proud of. A new one, filled with love, with hope. And maybe, one day, we’ll meet again—whether you remember me or not. And even then, I will love you. Always. Just like he did."

It was a hard goodbye—one that clung to your skin like the scent of home you’d never return to. Their arms around you had been warm, their voices soft, their smiles trembling. And as you drove away, watching Soobin’s family grow smaller in the rearview mirror, you forced yourself to smile, to wave back.

But the moment they faded from sight, the mask crumbled.

Your hands tightened around the wheel as your breath hitched, but it was useless. You pulled over, burying your face in your palms, sobs wracking your body.

You knew you would never see them again.

A shuddering breath escaped you as you wiped your tears with shaking fingers, swallowing against the grief clawing at your throat. You couldn’t fall apart now. Not yet.

Because there was still one more goodbye to say.One more person waiting for you. One who had left but never truly rested. Because for two years, you hadn’t found the courage to let go.

To free him.

You don’t know how you managed to bring yourself here. Your legs felt heavy the whole way, like they knew what your heart refused to accept—that every step forward was another step closer to goodbye.

The grave is pristine, not a speck of dust in sight. Someone else had been here. Someone else still comes. And for a moment, a tiny splinter of relief wedges itself into your grief. He’s being cared for, even without you.

You stand there, your throat tightening, your lips parting—then closing again. The words are trapped somewhere deep inside you, tangled between the memories and the pain. What do you even say? How do you speak when just looking at his name carved into stone is enough to make your chest cave in? How do you even start? What do you say to someone who can’t answer back?

And then your eyes fall to the base of the headstone. White roses. Fresh. Untouched.

Your breath stumbles.

White roses—his favourite. The same ones he gave you that night, trembling fingers offering a bouquet, his eyes filled with so much hope. Now, they sit beside his grave, a brutal echo of the past.

And you wonder—when did forever become something so short?

You swallow hard. "Hey," you whisper. Just one word, and already, you feel yourself crying. "Are you somewhere nice?"

"I really… I really hope you are," your voice trembles, your vision blurring. "God, I cry so easily now. You’d tease me for it, wouldn’t you?" A broken laugh escapes your lips, but it fades as quickly as it came. "I’m nothing like the person you knew. I'm not that woman anymore. I’ve changed." You take a shuddering breath. "All because you left me."

The confession spills out before you can stop it, "You left me here alone, and I didn’t know what to do. Because you were my world, and our plans—" Your voice cracks. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. "No. No, Soobin. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean any of it. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry."

Your knees buckle, and you let them. You fold into yourself, pressing your palms against your face as the sobs finally come, wrenching their way out of you. "I’m weak," you choke out. "I’ve been nothing but weak without you."

Time slips away. You don’t know how long you sit there, trembling, letting everything have its way with you. At some point, people come and go, visiting the graves nearby. They stay for a while, whispering prayers, placing flowers, saying their goodbyes. And then, one by one, they leave.

But you don’t.

Because you know—this is the last time you’ll ever be here.

What does it truly mean to forget?

Is it letting go of the bad memories, even if it means losing the lessons they left behind? Erasing the trauma, even if it forged the strength that kept you standing? Wiping away the heartbreak, even if it unmade the love that once felt endless? If forgetting means unravelling the version of yourself shaped by every moment... then is it really freedom? Or is it just another kind of loss?

And if you don’t forget—who carries the weight of those memories with you? The nights spent in quiet conversation, the laughter that once echoed in familiar streets, the warmth of his hand in yours. Does one painful ending justify the erasure of everything that came before?

It doesn’t. Because memories do not vanish. They are not erased like ink wiped clean from a page.

The streets still remember the way you walked together. The wind still hums with the echoes of his voice. The people who once saw your love still hold its remnants, even in passing glances. And perhaps, this is the only way to keep it beautiful. Your memories, deserve to be left as they are. You should not taint it any further.

"I decided to do it," you whisper, your voice barely carrying over the wind. "I’m finally doing it, love. It took me so long, but… I will."

"I don't want you to think that I'll forget you. Because you're my life." A shaky breath escapes your lips, your fingers tracing the edge of cold stone as if it were his hand, warm and real, just one last time. "But you don’t have to worry about me anymore," you murmur. "You can rest now."

Your eyes lift, meeting the name carved into eternity—Choi Soobin. A tear slips down your cheek, catching on your lips as you whisper, broken and raw—

"I love you. And I’m sorry."

Sorry that it took this long. Sorry that you held on when you should have let go. Sorry that no matter how much time passes, some wounds never really heal.

Your wounds will never heal.

The overhead lights burn against your swollen eyes. You blink, but it only makes the sting worse. You thought they would’ve dried by now. That at some point, your body would just refuse to keep grieving.

Do people have a limit? Is there a point where you simply run out? Or does the body just keep producing sorrow, as long as there’s pain to feed it? Has anyone in history ever cried so much that their body just… gave up?

Maybe not.

Or maybe, if you stay like this long enough, you’ll be the first. Because this is all you know how to do now.

Cry. Cry for him. Cry for yourself.

Cry because it’s the only thing that makes the weight in your chest feel even a little less suffocating. Because if you stop, even for a moment, you’re terrified you’ll realise just how empty the world is without him in it.

You're not strong enough.

"Are you sure you don’t want me to come in?" Your mother’s hand is warm as she pats your back, enough for you to let out a breath you were holding.

"Yeah," you whisper. "You can wait for me in the waiting area." Your eyes flicker toward the entrance as another person steps in. She carries a box, full of things and when your gaze meets hers, you swear you see your own reflection staring back.

Haunted.

Your own box grows heavier in your hands.

"I’m a big girl, you know," you murmur, forcing the words out as if saying them makes them true.

Your mother gives you a small smile before kissing your cheek. "I’ll be here," she says softly. "After all of this, I’ll be here to pick you up."

Something tightens in your chest. Such simple words, so ordinary, yet they make your throat close up. One less worry, a hundred more to carry.

But she’ll be here after.

No matter what happens behind those doors, no matter how much of you is left when it’s over—your mother will be here, waiting on the other side.

And that should be enough, right?

You take a step. Then another. Three steps before something in you falters, pulling you back. You turn around, and your mother, standing right where you left her. Her eyes meet yours, and one of them glistens now, like she’s holding something back. She’s trying to be strong for you.

"Does it have to be today, Mom?" Your voice wavers, barely above a whisper. "I mean… can we, can we just—" The words die in your throat. You swallow hard. You promised him.

You promised.

And if you don’t do it today… you might never do it at all.

“Honey, we can always come back.” Your mother’s voice is soft. She’s in front of you now, hands warm on your shoulders. “We can reschedule, and—”

“It’s fine.” You shake your head, refusing to meet her eyes. If you look at her, if you see the way she’s looking at you, you might shatter right here, in front of her. So you turn away. The door is just a few steps ahead. White. Sterile. All you have to do is cross it. You can do it. You have to do it. Because—

You promised him.

"Miss Y/N?" The sound of your name barely registers. You don’t even remember sitting down. One moment, you were outside and now—now you’re here. In this cold, sterile waiting room, surrounded by people clutching their own silent burdens. Boxes. Everyone has one. Resting on their laps. Some are dressed in stiff work clothes, like they came straight from their jobs. Others wear the softness of home... sweatshirts, slippers, a kind of exhaustion that no amount of rest could ever fix.

No one speaks.

No one looks at each other for too long.

It doesn’t matter where you came from. It doesn’t matter who you were before this moment.

You’re all here for the same reason.

"You need to sign the waiver. Please read each clause carefully dear. The nurse will call you once it's your turn." The papers were handed in your hands, making your heart pound, each beat a hammer striking painfully inside your ribs. The relentless ticking of the clock thumps in your ears, a fierce reminder of the gravity of what you’re about to do. Your fingers tremble against the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ache, but the pressure doesn’t help you—nothing ever will.

You sigh, biting your lip so hard you taste a bit of blood. Your stare drifts ahead, settling on a woman a few seats away. Her eyes are red, swollen. She isn’t crying anymore, but she looks like she hasn’t stopped in days.

You follow her stare, down to the box in her lap. It’s small. Too small. A bib, baby rattles, tiny clothes meant for someone who never even saw their first birthday. Your throat tightens. You force yourself to look away. Swallowing hard, you check your own papers. Your box sits beside you, shut tight. Your mother had suggested covering it with a cloth—to make it easier, to keep you from looking at it. And it worked. Because if you had to see what was inside…

You don’t know if you’d still be here.

Your hands tremble as you stare down at the waiver, the words blurring in and out of focus. You read the clauses again. And again. And again. Your eyes trace the final lines, the words smudging under the sting in your eyes.

You have given extensive thought behind your decision and give "Brighter Days Inc." the exclusive permission to remove this person completely from your memory:

☐ Yes ☐ No

You shakily checked what you knew... he'd want for you. You need to think this is what he would've wanted.

“Y/N?” The nurse’s voice is gentle, but it still makes you flinch. She stands in the doorway, dressed in white, looking at you. You wipe away a tear, but another one slips free before you can stop it. “You can come inside now.”

“Okay,” Your legs barely carry you as you stand. Your trembling hands clutch the box, holding it so tightly.

Inside, the room is cold, sterile. Three people wait—one dressed in blue, one who looks like the doctor, and the nurse who fetched you. The chair in the middle looms, surrounded by wires, screens filled with numbers and statistics you don’t understand. But the moment your eyes land on the headrest, on the equipment waiting there—your stomach drops. Your body moves before you can think. A step back, then another, until a hand gently stops you.

The nurse reaches for your box. Your fingers twitch as they slip away from it, “Let’s get you on the chair,” she says softly. You nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak. You started crying again. Not with sound, not with sobs... just endless, silent tears slipping down your face, one after the other.

No one tells you to stop crying. No one even reacts. You wonder how many people they’ve seen like this.

How many they’ve seen as wrecked as you.

Her hands are warm against your shaking ones, steadying you just enough to guide you down into the chair. You let her. You don’t have the strength to resist. The doctor moves quickly, securing straps around you—across your wrists, your chest. Another band wraps around your finger, likely for your heartbeat. It’s already racing. You don’t need a machine to tell you that. The person in blue starts placing wires against your temple, the cold press of metal settling on the right side of your head. It sends a shiver through you, but you don’t move.

You barely breathe.

“Okay, so now—” The doctor’s voice is calm, clinical. “As you’ve read, you’ll need to recall the moments tied to the things you brought. We asked you to choose items that hold the strongest memories because only then can they be altered. These machines will help bring them to the surface. You don’t have to force it—we’ll go slow, one step at a time.” A pause. “Are you ready?”

Your throat closes. Your hands curl into weak fists against the armrests. All you can do is nod.

The man in blue moves quietly. You barely notice him at first, lost in the weight pressing down on your chest—until he reaches for your box. The cloth is lifted. Your breath catches.

The first item is pulled free, and the moment your eyes land on it, something inside you crumbles. "Wa-wait," A sob rips through you, raw and unrestrained, your whole body trembling. The nurse kneels beside you, her eyes unbearably soft, understanding. "It will be much easier after this," she murmurs.

You swallow back another sob, hiccupping through shallow, gasping breaths. It's ridiculous, isn’t it? That at your weakest, you're placing your trust in strangers. That you can't even find the strength to speak. But this isn’t for you.

For him. For your family.

For him.

Your nails dig into the synthetic material on the armrest. You close your eyes, surrendering to their instructions, to the machines humming around you. A sharp beep echoes in the room, signalling the process to begin. A single tear slips free, tracing a path down your cheek, and despite the agony twisting in your chest, you manage the smallest, most broken smile because you see his face.

Memories. It all flashes.

THE PEN

"Let's take a 30-minute break, and then we'll go over the discussion again, okay?" Your ten-year-old eyes lock onto your homeroom teacher, a sigh slipping past your lips. Math has never been kind to you. Numbers blur together, equations twist into impossible knots in your head. If you had it your way, subjects like this wouldn’t even exist. You’d much rather read—preferably a hundred books. Or better yet, a hundred manga.

You reach for your bag, already deciding that a "break" means exactly that. No memorizing. No thinking about numbers. Your brain deserves rest. With a small pout, you pull out your current manga, flipping through the worn pages with practiced ease.

Your friends prefer watching anime, gathering around their phones or talking about the latest episodes. But your mom—she's strict about screen time. Too much of it, she says, will rot your brain. So, you stick to reading. At first, it was just a substitute, a way to keep up with your friends. But over time, it grew on you.

You're barely on the second page when a shadow falls over your desk.

"Uh, Y/N? Do you have, uh… an extra pen?"

You glance up, mildly irritated at the interruption, only to be met with the tallest boy in your class—Choi Soobin. A transfer student. You’ve only been classmates for a few months, and until now, you’ve barely spoken.

"I don’t," you reply flatly.

His eyes dart to your open pencil case, where at least five pens sit in plain sight. "But… you have so many," he points out, looking almost betrayed. "Please? I swear I’ll give it back!"

You sigh, flipping another page of your manga, already regretting this conversation. "Fine."

He grins, reaching straight for the glitter pen.

"Not that one—" Your head snaps up. "That’s off-limits, it’s my favourit—"

"Wait, is that Inuyasha?!" His voice practically jumps an octave, eyes wide with excitement as he plops down in the seat beside you without a second thought. "I love this series! I read them all the time!"

Your annoyance falters, replaced by something close to surprise. You glance at him, then at your manga, then back at him. "It’s my favourite," you say, flipping the page. "I have all the volumes."

His eyes widen. "Whoa. Lend me some?"

You raise a brow. "And what do I get in return?"

"Uh… strawberry milk?"

"I hate strawberries."

"Hand massages?"

You pretend to consider it, tapping your chin. "I’ll think about it."

He nods eagerly, leaning in a little. "Okay, but—serious question. Kikyo or Kagome?"

"Kagome," you answer without hesitation. "I pity her." At that, he studies your face.

"But Kikyo…" he murmurs, gaze dropping for a second. "I pity her more." His voice is softer now, "Because she doesn’t get to be with Inuyasha anymore. And I think… that’s sad."

For ten whole minutes, the two of you went back and forth—voices overlapping, hands flying in exasperation—until your classmates abandoned all pretence of studying just to watch. Some whispered bets under their breath, stifling laughs as you and Soobin yapped at each other like two kids fighting over the last piece of candy.

And then, finally, Soobin sighed, slumping in defeat. "But at the end of the day," he muttered, rubbing his temple, "Kikyo is Kagome, right?"

You scoff, shaking your head. "That’s not how it works." You roll your eyes, turning back to your manga. "Loser,"

And then—he laughs. Not just a chuckle. A real laugh, the kind that makes his eyes scrunch up until they almost disappear, deep crinkles forming at the corners. His dimples dig so deep it’s like someone pressed a pencil into a soft dough, and his cheeks, full and round, look annoyingly pinchable. You catch yourself staring, warmth crawls up your neck, spreading to your ears.

That day, for the first time, you let someone else use your glitter pen.

THE POLAROID CAMERA

Your feet dangle lazily in the air as you scribble in your notebook, your laptop propped open in front of you. You scroll through pages, searching for answers, when a notification pops up.

Meet me at the playground?

You sigh, fingers hovering over the keyboard. But I’m doing homework…

I’ll let you copy mine.

Your lips twitch. Okay. Be there in 10 minutes.

Excitement bubbles in your chest as you throw on a hoodie and a pair of shorts, not even bothering to check if they match. You bound down the stairs, brushing past your mom just as she calls after you. "Be careful—!"

"I’m meeting Binnie, Mom!" you shout over your shoulder. Her resolve crumbles instantly. She sighs, but there’s a small smile in her voice as she mutters, “Be home before dark!”

The walk to the playground is short. When you arrive, you spot Soobin awkwardly lingering by the swings, kicking at the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

"Soobin!" His head snaps up, and the moment he sees you, a grin spreads across his face.

It’s been three years since you first met, three years of him becoming your best friend. Everyone at school knows it. High school doesn’t feel as scary because he’s always there—hovering, teasing, sticking by your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. People assume you’re together, which is ridiculous. He’s your best friend. Sure, he goes everywhere with you, sure, you’ve fallen asleep on the same couch during sleepovers, sure, his family adores you, and your mom—well, sometimes it feels like she likes him more than she likes you. But again, he's your best friend.

You slow your pace, tilting your head playfully. "What’s up? Finally giving in and letting me copy your homework?" You wiggle your eyebrows, smirking as you catch the faint pink dusting his cheeks—something that happens more and more these days.

But instead of rolling his eyes or firing back with a sarcastic remark, he just exhales. "Happy birthday," he says. "Happy 13th birthday."

Before you can react, he holds out a neatly wrapped box. Confused, you take it, fingers fumbling with the ribbon before you lift the lid. Inside, is a brand-new Polaroid camera. The exact one you’ve been rambling about for weeks. You gape at him. "No way."

Soobin shrugs, scratching the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. "You wouldn’t shut up about it," he mumbles. "Figured it’d be easier to just get you one instead of listening to you whine forever."

Your throat tightens, something warm spreading through your chest. You can't stop yourself from hugging him. His hands stilling on his sides. "Shut up," you whisper. "And thank you."

If you weren’t pressed against him, your face buried in the fabric of his hoodie, the hoodie you gifted him, you would’ve seen the deep flush creeping up his neck, turning his cheeks a fierce shade of red.

THE TEDDY BEAR

“Stop staring.” You nudge his foot under the table, twirling the lollipop in your mouth—the strawberry ones. You used to hate the flavour, the fruit too, but it was impossible to keep up when it’s his favourite. “Am I ugly or something?”

Soobin hasn’t stopped looking at you since you showed up at his house. Not the kind of stare that lingers, but the kind that keeps sneaking glances every five minutes, like he can’t help it.

You cut your hair. The long strands that used to reach your back now barely brush your shoulders. Because I’m turning 18 tomorrow, you told him earlier. And of course, he laughed.

“Okay, okay,” he finally says, chuckling. You’re sprawled out on his bed now, while he’s still at his desk, spinning a pen between his fingers. “Do you wanna sleep over tonight?”

You freeze. Hands dropping from your face, you stare at him. “Why?” you ask, voice laced with suspicion. “Seriously? I’ve spent the midnight of my birthday with you for almost… five years now?”

“Four years.” — “What?”

“It’s four, not five.” He pushes up his reading glasses—the ones that somehow make him look even more handsome. Not that you’d ever admit it. He leans back in his chair, casual as ever. “Stay over, okay? Let’s play League.”

You scoff. “So you can bully me the whole time? Yeah, no thanks.”

“I’ll go easy on you.”

You grab a pillow and chuck it at him. He catches it effortlessly, smirking. “That’s worse!”

You stayed. One pout from him, and you caved. You acted annoyed, but in truth, you just didn’t want him to know how easily he could sway you. You will do anything to hide the fact that he had you wrapped around his finger, whether he knew it or not.

And so, you played. You laughed until your stomach hurt, cursed loud enough that Soobin’s sister pounded on the door, yelling at you both to shut up. But it didn’t matter. Nothing outside that room ever really did when it was just the two of you.

Your birthdays used to be simple, just another day with family, another year passing by. But ever since Soobin came along, they became something special. Something that felt irreplaceable. And the thought of him not being there, of waking up to a birthday where he wasn’t the first person you saw, made your throat tighten in a way you couldn’t explain.

Maybe you didn’t want to explain it. Maybe you were scared to.

"Let's go out to the balcony," he says, shutting off his computer with a final click. You glance at the clock—11:45 PM. Fifteen minutes till you turn eighteen.

"Why?"

"Just because." He nudges you forward, hands settling on your shoulders, his touch impossibly light. No matter how much taller or broader he’s gotten over the years, he never holds you too tightly. It’s always careful. And that’s why your heart stutters in your chest every time.

You step outside, the night air crisp against your skin. The trees sway below, dark silhouettes against the dim glow of the streetlights. You wrap your arms around yourself, glancing at him. "So… are we spending my birthday just standing here?" you tease. "Shouldn't we be doing something? Eating ice cream, maybe?"

He smiles, "We’ll do that after," he says, already stepping back inside. "Wait here."

You're confused as he leaves you outside. Through the thin curtain, you see his shadow moving; shuffling, hesitating. "Soobin, don’t tell me you got me a cake or something," you call out, teasing. He doesn’t answer right away, and that alone makes you smirk. "So you did get me a cake."

"Sh—no. Yes. Ugh, I hate you," he groans, but when he steps out, there it is, a cake in his hands, eighteen candles flickering in the night breeze. He clears his throat, awkwardly starting, "Happy birthday to you…" His voice is unsure, barely above a murmur, but it’s enough. You smile, and as cheesy as it sounds, your heart clenches in your chest. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of the moment settle over you.

Please let forever be like this.

You blow out the candles, and when you open your eyes, he’s grinning. "I baked this, by the way."

"Wow, looks amazing," you breathe, taking the cake from him. The effort, the slightly uneven letters of your name written on top—it makes your throat tighten. You don’t say anything, just sit down beside him, forks in hand, digging straight into the cake. The wind picks up slightly, ruffling your hair, but neither of you cares. You talk, laugh, and steal bites from each other’s sides, like time doesn’t exist.

"Y/N," he says, your name rolling off his tongue softer than usual. His gaze lingers, watching as you hug the big white teddy bear he got you. Your fingers clutch the plush fur, cheeks pressed against it, lips curled into a quiet, content smile.

His chest tightens.

"Eight years... For eight years, I, I've been," He falters, blinking, momentarily losing himself in the way your eyes widen at him. God. You’re beautiful.

"Hmm?"

He exhales sharply, fingers twitching at his sides. His heartbeat stumbles over itself, but before he can think, before he can think of the script he rehearsed over and over, before he can convince himself to hold back—

"Could I please be your boyfriend?"

THE SILVER METAL BAND

"Sweetheart."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then, warm—featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours. "Wake up, sleepyhead. It's almost midnight,"

You laugh softly when you feel him press another kiss behind your ear. Turning over, you’re met with his familiar smirk, eyes already tracing every inch of your face like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. His hands find your cheeks, cradling them gently—like he always does. As if he hasn’t held you a thousand times before. As if you haven’t been his to hold since high school.

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" he teases, his nose bumping against yours before he gives your lips a quick peck. "I love looking at you,"

"We're seriously keeping up with the tradition?" you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep as you reach for him, burying your face against his shoulder blades. Your eyes slip shut again, and he hums softly, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on your back.

"Happy 25th birthday, baby," he murmurs. Then, softer—like he’s letting the words settle between you before he dares breathe again, "I love you." His voice pulls you from the edges of sleep, and when your eyes flutter open, you find him already watching you.

Is there anything in this world more beautiful than love? More sacred than being loved?

"Thank you," you reply, smiling. He sits up beside you, and you chuckle softly as he fumbles for something on the floor beside the bed. "What did you get me this time?"

But then your breath stumbles. White roses. A small black box in his hands. Your heart clenches. "Soobin,"

"I’ve been thinking about how I should do this," he starts, chuckling nervously, though his fingers tighten around the box as if anchoring himself. "I thought about renting a place, throwing a party, taking you to some fancy dinner, or even an overseas trip." His gaze finds yours, earnest. "But the truth is, nothing makes me happier than waking up beside you. Nothing feels more right than this—just us, here, like this. So I chose this moment, this place… because I want it forever."

His voice trembles, his hands unfolding the box before you. The silver ring with a single diamond sitting atop. "So please," he whispers, his throat tight, his eyes searching yours. "Could you—will you—marry me?"

“Fuck.” The word rips from your throat as reality slams into you. The room is chaos—voices rising, bodies moving, the cold bite of metal and plastic pressing against your skin. The doctor’s hands fly across his keyboard, adjusting something you don’t understand, while the nurse grips your shoulders like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You’re crying.

You don’t remember when it started, but the tears won’t stop. Your breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps as your hands scramble to your chest, fingers clutching desperately at the thin chain around your neck. The ring is warm against your skin, pressed into your palm, solid and real. His ring. The one he slid onto your finger with shaking hands.

“Please,” your voice cracks, “please—just let me keep this.”

The nurse exchanges a glance with the doctor. Their hesitation is suffocating. “We need to take it,” someone says—calm, detached. Like this is just another part of the process. Like it doesn’t matter. “It goes with the rest of your belongings.”

Your heart seizes. The box? What else was in the box? You try to remember, but your mind is a blur of static, you can't. You can't remember now. “No,” you sob, curling around it, pressing it to your lips, your chest, anywhere that might keep it safe. “Please. Not this."

The nurse looks at you with something that almost feels like pity. A softness in her eyes that only makes your chest ache more. “You’re almost done, honey,” she murmurs, her voice gentle, coaxing. “A little more. You can do this. Just close your eyes. You just have to close your eyes.” Your hands won’t stop shaking. The tremors run up your arms, through your ribs, settling somewhere deep in your throat. You feel the prick of a needle, the slow push of something cold into your veins. It soothes the sharp edges, dulls the panic—but not enough. Not enough to stop the tears from slipping down your cheeks. “Close your eyes,” she whispers again.

You do.

Your hands are in his. The car hums beneath you, the city lights flashing by in a blur, but all you can focus on is him. He drives with one hand, the other wrapped around yours, bringing it to his lips every time you hit a red light. Soft, lingering kisses against your knuckles, “How many babies would you want?”

You nearly choke on your drink, coughing as you turn to him. “What?”

He laughs, eyes flicking toward you for just a second before focusing back on the road. “I mean… I’d love as many as we can have. But of course, it’s your body, baby. You get to tell me.”

Your heart flutters. “We don’t even have a wedding date yet.” Another red light. Another kiss against your hand.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “It just crossed my mind. Last night, I dreamt of a little girl… she looked just like you.” He pauses, his thumb brushing against your skin. “She was so beautiful. Like you. And I—”

His words are cut off by the violent, shattering force of metal colliding with metal. The world twists—spins—flips. A scream rips from your throat as the car is thrown into chaos, gravity shifting, glass cracking, the deafening sound of impact swallowing everything.

In the middle of it all, his hand finds yours. Instinctive. Desperate.

Then—stillness.

A ringing in your ears. The distant sound of voices, footsteps pounding against the pavement. Shadows moving outside the wreck. Someone is calling, you think it's for an ambulance. Your chest heaves as you groan, the taste of blood thick on your tongue. Pain radiates from everywhere, your head throbbing as you press trembling fingers against your scalp. Everything hurts.

You turn, breath shaky, searching. Soobin.

You look to your right and he’s already looking at your face. Pale, dazed, blinking too slowly. "Y/N, are you okay?" His voice is hoarse, weak, but when you nod, he exhales a shaky, "Thank fuck."

His grip tightens around your hand. You can barely feel it, your body is numb, adrenaline rushing through your veins. But you squeeze back. Hold on. You breathe. It’s going to be okay. The ambulance is coming.

Then your eyes drop. And your stomach lurches. "Soobin?"

A jagged piece of debris—large, sharp, too deep—juts from his stomach, trailing up his chest. Blood blooms around it, staining his shirt, spilling over his hands where he grips it like he’s not sure whether to pull or hold on.

Your world tilts again. This is just a dream. "Soobin, what—what—how the—"

There’s so much blood. Too much. Your hands press against the wound trembling, trying to keep it from spilling out, but it’s everywhere—warm and sticky between your fingers, staining your skin, pooling beneath him. You’re sobbing, whispering frantic words that don’t make sense, but you can’t even hear yourself. The panic is eating your face, roaring in your ears as you struggle to breathe. “How should I—”

Then his fingers find your face.

His touch is weak but certain, cradling your cheeks, forcing your wild, tear-filled eyes to meet his. His voice is hoarse when he speaks, but stronger than it should be. “Look at me.” His grip tightens, thumbs brushing your tears away. “Baby, shhh, look at me.”

You shake your head, choking on a sob. “Soobin—”

“I don’t wanna see you cry.”

You’re unravelling. He’s bleeding out beneath you, and you can’t do a damn thing to stop it. “Help! Please, someone help us!” you scream, voice cracking. There are people—so many people—but no one can touch him.

His breath stutters, but he still holds onto you. “Y/N.” Your eyes blur with tears as you grip his hand, pressing his palm tighter against your cheek. “Look at me, yeah?” His lips tremble, but he’s still here, still fighting to keep you calm. “Just keep looking at me. Please.” His forehead rests against yours. “It doesn’t hurt when you’re looking at me. We’re gonna get help soon. You're gonna get help soon, okay?”

The last memory crashes over you, pulling you under. Your chest feels heavy, unbearably so, but then… slowly… it gives. The weight that has kept you drowning eases, just enough for you to take a breath. The sound of machines hums beside you. A final tear slips down your cheek.

It feels like the end.

You close your eyes, just for a moment, just to see him one last time—the Soobin you knew like the back of your hand. And then, you see his face. That soft, lopsided grin that always made your heart stumble. His voice is a whisper, just a breath against your skin.

“I’m proud of you.” Your lip trembles. “You’ll be okay.”

"Congratulations, it's successful."

The doctor shakes your hand, his grip firm, reassuring. You smile, nodding along. The nurse beside him looks at you with warmth, and before she can react, you throw your arms around her. She lets out a small gasp before melting into the hug.

You feel light. Weightless.

They tell you the treatment worked. They tell you your mother is waiting outside. You nod again, absorbing their words, but for a brief moment, your fingers drift to your neck, expecting something to be there. But it’s bare.

You push the thought away as you step outside. The air feels fresh against your skin, and then you see her. Your mother. She looks thinner than you remember, her cheeks a little sunken, her eyes holding something you can’t quite place. Had she lost weight?

"Hi, Mom," you say, smiling. She looks at you—really looks at you—and her lips part. She smiles back.

"Oh, honey," she breathes, pulling you into her arms.

You giggle, warmth spreading through your chest. "What’s wrong?"

She pulls back just enough to cup your face, shaking her head. "Let’s go home, okay?" You nod, letting her guide you toward the entrance. Everything feels new, yet oddly familiar, like a dream you barely remember but somehow miss.

You're about to step outside when someone walks in. A bouquet of white roses in their arms. Your breath catches, feet falter. Your head turns instinctively, eyes following the flowers, something deep in your chest stirring, something you can’t name.

Your mother notices. "What is it?"

You blink, exhaling softly. "Nothing." You force a small smile, eyes lingering on the roses. "Those flowers… it’s beautiful."

"Yeah, I'll go home after class, Mom," you say, balancing your phone between your shoulder and ear as you adjust your bag. "Plus, I'm nineteen. An adult now. I can take care of myself."

Your mom chuckles on the other end, the kind of laugh that says she doesn’t quite believe you but won’t argue. "Alright, alright. Just don’t stay out too late."

"I won’t." She sighs, but you can hear the smile in her voice as she bids you goodbye.

The campus is buzzing with energy, students milling about for the event. It’s a collaboration between three schools—art students showcasing their work, others just here to admire. Beside you, Wonyoung loops her arm through yours, eyes scanning the crowd. "Girl, I’m getting us drinks," she announces. "Wait for me here."

You roll your eyes with a laugh. "Okay, okay. Don’t take forever." She winks before disappearing into the crowd, leaving you standing in the middle of it all.

Your eyes drift over the canvases, taking in the strokes of colour, the textures, the stories woven into the art. And then, you stop. Something about this one halts you mid-step. Oh. It’s a painting of—

“You’re a fan of Inuyasha?”

The voice beside you is warm, curious. You turn, finding a tall boy with black specs watching you, his hands tucked into his pockets. He shifts slightly when you meet his gaze, and after a beat, he offers you a small, hesitant smile. It’s barely there, just a quirk of his lips. And yet… his dimples poke through anyway.

He’s cute.

“It’s my favourite,” you reply, tearing your eyes away from the painting.

He nods, a quiet hum escaping him. “Mine too.” Then, after a pause, “Kikyo or Kagome?”

You blink at him. He stares at you, and something in your chest stirs.

Not deja vu—no, it’s not that fleeting, ghostly sense of repetition. This is different. Deeper. It feels like a memory you never knew you had, something tucked away in the quiet corners of your mind. Like a song, you don’t remember learning but somehow know all the words to. Like a book misplaced on a shelf, rediscovered years later—its pages worn, its story intact, as if it had been waiting for you to return.

It feels like something preserved, sealed in the vault of you.

Something... archived.

"What's your name?"

taglist: I love you @.beombunni @.lovingbeomgyudayone @.virtaideen @.hyukascampfire @.fancypeacepersona @.bamgeutori @.lilbrorufr @.beomieeeeeeeeeeees @.xylatox @.yunverie @.imlonelydontsendhelp @.moagyuu @.soobinbunnie5 @.usuallyunlikelyfox @.txtzyallinme @.younbeanz @.fatbixchwithanopinion @.bakudon @.readinmidnight @.flowzel @.zaynspidey @.joieouioui @.kiyof @.tubasmiracle @.bamgyuuuri @.heechwe @.takimakiiiii @.whatblop @.frankghgr @.lostgirlysstuff @.philijack

[secretlysamcro]

Black female reader x Jax teller PLOT SPOILERS! smut, explicit language & violence If you're under the age of 18. haven't finished the show or dislike any of said topics, please read no further.

Request: Jax x black reader where reader is his old lady and deals with imas or Tara’s jealously/flirty comments and puts her in her place by beating the shit out of her in front of the club and Jax supports her control over lady’s business and ends with smut or not

Backstory: Jax Teller had always been a man of fleeting connections. Casual hookups and one night stands, that is until y/n came into his life. She was the little sister of T.O, the former Grim Bastards president, now turned SAMCRO. It wasn’t long before y/n became known as Jax’s old lady. Jax and Ima had a brief history. Meaningless encounters that were more convenience than connection. Even with y/n in the picture, she continues to flirt and beg for Jax’s attention, being the trifling whore that she is.

Jax strolls over from his bike as he began to approach the bar which was once the heart of the Lodi chapter of the Grim Bastards. With the former president T.O now a member of SAMCRO, an agreement has been made. The bar was now going to be used as a front, a place to launder any dirty money rolling in from future SAMCRO dealings.

“You lost, white boy?” T.O calls out to Jax as he strides down the side path of the bar. He lets out a laugh, Jax joining in. They pull each other into a tight embrace, Jax taking a moment to look T.O up and down, his gaze fixated on the new kutte he now wears.

“Looks good on you, brother” he says, a sense of pride from within, he’s proud to now call T.O a member of SAMCRO. The Grim Bastards had always been there when needed. Having their backs in ways that other clubs never did, their loyalty running deep, proving time and time again that they could be trusted when it mattered the most.

They step into the bar, Jax noticing a few familiar faces amongst the sparse crowd. Even the faces he doesn’t recognise, seem to know who he is, their respect clear in the way that they acknowledge him. As Jax continues to scan the room, he notices the GB memorabilia being taken down from the walls and carefully packed into boxes.

“What’s happening with all the old club stuff?” Jax questions, leaning against the bar beside T.O, he takes in the scene with a sigh.

“Sending it to the South Gate charter” T.O replies, slipping off his signature black shades and setting them on the bar “I'm sure them mother fuckers’ can find somethin’ to do with it all”.

They continue their conversation, discussing the future of the club, T.O’s new role within SAMCRO and the logistics of setting up the bar. They talk through how things will work and how they’ll manage everything moving forward. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Jax notices you.

You walk towards them, your knotless braids moving softly with each step. Jax’s gaze is immediately locked onto you. The lights above catching your perfectly lined lips, brown liner paired with a slick of clear gloss - chef’s kiss. The sound of your knee high boots grow louder, drawing T.O’s attention. He glances over, following Jax’s stare. The moment he clocks its you his jaw tightens, he turns back just as quickly. “off limits” he mumbles under his breath with an eyebrow raised, almost as if he could read Jax’s mind.

“Where the fuck you goin’ dressed like a ten dollar hooker?” T.O snaps, his eyes narrowing at the little black dress hugging your curves and your long leather jacket draped over your arms. “Fuck you, bald ass” you fire back with an unapologetic smile.

Jax leans back, arms crossed, holding back a laugh as he watches the interaction unfold. his curiosity getting the better of him as he tries to piece together the dynamic between the both of you.

You move around the bar, pouring yourself a drink without any hesitation. Jax cant help but notice how comfortable you seem, though inside your heart is racing. The man sitting with your brother is so damn fine its almost infuriating.

“You know you gone’ pay for that right?” T.O mutters, keeping a close eye on you.

“Put it on my tab” Jax cuts in smoothly, a grin tugging at his face as his eyes linger on you just a little too long, ignoring T.O’s first warning.

“Jax Teller” he says, extending his hand, the playful smirk never leaving his face as he eye fucks you just a little. No introduction was needed from him. You already knew who he was, even if he didn’t know you.

You place your hand in his, the slight squeeze of his grip sending a wave of tension between the two of you. Both of you have rings decorating your fingers, the soft clink of the metals meeting each other breaks the silence between the locked stares.

“y/n” you reply, maintaining the eye contact without faltering. “so... you're my brothers new boss?” you ask, a slight teasing in your tone as you throw a look towards T.O.

“Brother?” Jax repeats, his brow raised slightly, now understanding why you were off limits.

“Yeah, this my little sister” T.O confirms, giving Jax a stern look, that says everything without even saying a word.

It was the night of Jax’s birthday and despite his insistence that it wasn’t a big deal, his brothers couldn’t let the day go without a celebration. The SAMCRO clubhouse was alive, filled with laughter, music and conversation. Everyone affiliated with the club had shown up for the Presidents birthday, from patched members to close friends.

You were sat beside your brother at one of the central tables in the clubhouse. At the table with you were a few of the other patched members you had become more familiar with over time. Opie, Happy, Chibs and to your left, was Lyla. She was Opie’s girl, and although you had spent most of your life around your brother and his MC world, this club was different. There were new dynamics alongside a new set of rules. Lyla had been quick to help you when it came to any unspoken codes that came with being a part of this new family.

“Ugh” Lyla’s eyes flick to the entrance as she lets out a sigh. “I thought she wasn’t coming” she remarks, her voice portraying a hint of disgust, as she takes in the woman who just made an entrance.

She walks in confidently, as if she was familiar with the place even though you’d never met her. The boys glance at each other, their own irritation proved by their faces, especially Opie's. The way he looks between Lyla and the blonde, there’s definitely a history there, just one you weren't aware of.

You glance around, noticing the less than thrilled expressions on everyone’s faces, “Anyone gonna fill me in?” You ask, confused by the tension.

“That, my friend…is Ima, one of the Diosa girls” Chibs starts, only for Juice to cut in with a grin as he joins the table.

“Did anyone actually invite her, or does she just crash wherever she wants?” He jokes, finding her brazen confidence somewhat awkward.

“Word probably spread around Diosa” Happy adds, a man you’ve discovered, of very few words. You catch Opie fidgeting, avoiding Lylas gaze. When you meet eyes with her, she gives you a look, one that clearly says, I’ll tell you later.

“Well, that’s Jackie’s birthday ruined” Chibs chimes in with a chuckle, fully aware of how Jax will react to her presence. Juice nudges him to shut up as Ima confidently strides past the table, not acknowledging anyone sat at it.

The boys begin to disperse, leaving you alone with Lyla. She leans closer, the scent of alcohol evident on her breath.

“So.. you two have beef or what?” you ask, eager to get to the bottom of the tension. Lyla sighs, draining the last of her drink, “A while ago, me and Ope had a stupid argument. He never came home that night...” she starts, your face screwing with disappointment, already guessing where this is going.

“With her? are you foreal?” you interrupt, eyebrows raised. She nods, her expression now dim. “Yeah, I mean, you know... I wasn’t always behind the camera at Red Woody. I used to be in front of it...with Ima” she cringes. “When me and Ope first got together it put a lot of pressure on us” she sighs deeply, her eyes becoming distant.

“Girl, please tell me you beat her ass” you say with a sly smirk, your attempt at lightening the mood. Lyla lets out a soft laugh. “Not my style” she admits, her tone now sounding defeated.

“So why is the bitch still around?” you ask bluntly, the frustration creeping in.

Lyla shrugs, “The clubs dealing with a lot right now, you know and she’s the main attraction at Diosa. She brings in the money, and the club really needs it” Lyla, being a members old lady obviously knows a lot more than she’s letting on. However, you nod your head in understanding even though you think she still should have caught a beating someway or somehow. “and... her and Jax?” you try to sound casual, not wanting to sound too concerned.

“Ima and Jax?” she laughs, shaking her head. “that’s not been a thing for a while. They hooked up back in the day, on Jax’s terms obviously, but to be honest I don’t think he can stand her now, especially after the Opie thing. He doesn’t get involved with her Diosa stuff either, Nero handles all that. Its like he does whatever he can to avoid her”. She chuckles softly, gesturing with a tilt of her head “see what I mean?” you glance around and spot Ima following after Jax like a lost puppy. He’s clearly uninterested, his body language screaming avoidance but she’s relentless.

“Damn” you drag the word out, as you use your hand to discreetly cover your laughter. “It's giving desperate”. The two of you burst into laughter, leaning into each other and bumping shoulder’s as you can’t contain your amusement any longer over Ima’s shameless antics.

You haven’t actually had a chance to talk to Jax tonight, he is of course, a popular guy and always in demand. And when things did finally quite down, Ima was stuck to him like a fly on shit. None of that stopped either of you stealing looks at each other all night, just like you always do when you’re in the same room. It’s funny though, and not in a conceited way, but you’ve always known you were pretty, and so did everybody else. But being T.O’s little sister, none of the men around you would dare try anything. None of them, that is, except Jax.

This time, when you locked eye contact, he looked around to make sure no one was watching, motioning for you to come over. As you approached, you noticed he already had a drink waiting for you. “Happy Birthday” you say with a smirk.

“Thank you, y/n” he replies, his lips curving into a smile, raising his arms to pull you into a hug. It’s not the first time you’ve hugged Jax, but just like the first, it stirs something warm in your stomach, and lower. Igniting a feeling you cant quite ignore.

He takes a moment to admire you, his eyes, as usual, lingering a little longer than they should. He takes in every detail, biting his lip softly as he catches his distorted reflection in your chunky gold hoops as they sway with your movements. “I like what you’ve got going on there” he says with a small smile, lifting his beer to his lips as he casually twirls a finger in the air, gesturing towards your hair.

You slide onto the stool beside him, settling yourself into the corner. “And what’s that?” you respond, your voice teasing and your eyes holding his with a slow taunting glare as you sip your drink.

“Your hair” he says, his tone confident and eyes locked onto you.

“My hair?” you echo, raising an eyebrow as you cross one leg over the other, leaning back slightly, your upper thigh now exposed.

“Yeah, the twirly bits” he says with a soft chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed. You bite back a laugh, nodding in response to him. “You mean my baby hairs” you add, nudging him gently with your shoulder, a silent reassurance that you’re not offended.

“If that’s what you call them” he grins, his laugh more relaxed now. “How’d you do them?” he asks, genuinely curious now. “It’s an art”, you tease, tracing your nail around the rim of your glass “Not as easy as you’d think” you take a slow sip, giving direct eye contact.

“Ahh, so you’ve got to be good with your hands?” he says, his voice dipping into a more playful tone, his eyes scanning over you in a way that mirrored the first time you met.

“You got that right” you reply, your smile widening as you shift slightly on your stool, trying to ignore the heat building inside of you.

“And are you?” his aura more serious now, like he’s asking for something much deeper than what he’s letting on.

Your tone, now matching his “Wouldn’t you like to know” a knowing smirk on your lips. You can feel Ima’s eyes burning into the side of your slicked back bun, but you really couldn’t give a shit.

“I mean, I wouldn’t say no” he chuckles, his face flushing slightly as he looks away for a moment, trying to mask the slight excitement.

“Hmm, not sure your lil’ friend would like that” you say, looking in Imas direction. You knew it was a cheap shot bringing her up but you can’t help yourself, you want to see how he’ll react.

He lets out a quick laugh, shaking his head. “Nah, I’ve learnt my lesson with that one” The way he says it, makes it clear there’s nothing left on his side and he really does regret it.

You giggle softy, “Post nut clarity and all that” you tease, giving him a knowing wink “happens to the best of us” you add.

“Wouldn’t happen with you though” he replies smoothly, his eyes lifting slowly to meet yours, waiting to see how you’d react, so he could work out if he should make his move or not.

Before you even have the chance to respond, Jax’s attention shifts to someone standing next to you. You turn to your left, of course. it’s Ima. You look her up and down, already bracing for whatever drama she’s about to start.

“I’ve got that birthday present for you, Jax” she says, twirling her hair and giving him a look dripping with lust. You hold your glass in front of your face, doing your best to not laugh at her mere desperation.

“Nah, I’m good” Jax shuts her down instantly, not even sparing much attention. You don’t miss the way her posture stiffens, her body language switching to frustration. She turns her attention to you instead, it’s obvious she’s got an attitude. “Sorry, and you are?”she asks, her tone irritable. It’s clear she’s annoyed that Jax’s attention is on you, and not her.

“y/n” you answer, giving her a sharp look before cutting your eyes back to Jax. You catch the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “Well, I’m Ima” she says, trying to assert her dominance.

“Good for you” you reply casually, finishing off your drink with a deliberate sip, refusing to give her the reaction she’s looking for.

You rise from the stool, adjusting your skirt as you do. Just to get under her skin, you lean in close to Jax, your lips brushing his ear as you whisper “I wouldn’t say no either, by the way” A sly smile spreads across your face as you pull back, sharing that same eye contact again, before you stroll towards the bar, a purposeful sway in your step.

“What’s her problem?” Ima snaps, watching you walk away with a scowl.

“She doesn’t have a problem” Jax responds flatly, his patience already wearing thin. He looks her up and down, silently willing her to leave him alone.

“Seriously Jax?” She scoffs “she was a total bitch to me. You’re just gonna let her talk to me like that?”

Jax raises an eyebrow, his expression a mixture of confusion and annoyance. “Let her? Ima, what the hell are you even talking about?” He hangs his head down.

“She disrespected me!” She insists, raising her voice slightly. Jax exhales sharply. “And why would I care? You’re not my problem” he retaliates. His voice steady but covered in irritation. Ima freezes, her mouth pressing into a thin line “I was just saying-”

“Yeah, well, dont” he shakes his head, turning and walking away from her. Clearly done with the conversation.

Jax then bumps into Juice, slapping him on the shoulder. “You good brother?” He asks, noticing Juice’s glazed over eyes as he tries to form a coherent response.

Jax chuckles, shaking his head “damn, you’re out of it man… hey you seen y/n?” He adds casually, but Juice just laughs, too high to fully grasp the question.

“You’re walking a fine line there, Jax” Tig cuts in, appearing at Jax’s side. His tone amused but the raised eyebrow says enough. Jax smirks, brushing off his comment “come on, Tiggy I can handle it”

Tig sighs “she stepped out not long ago” he says pointing his head in the direction of the door. Then, with a slight grin, he adds “Guess I better go distract big brother” Jax laughs, patting him on the shoulder. “Good man” he says, before heading for the door, already set on finding you.

Jax steps outside, discovering you tucked away in a quiet corner near the clubhouse door, the orange glow from the joint in your hand giving you away. “So this is where you disappeared to” he says with a smirk, his usual teasing tone present.

You take a slow pull from the joint, then hand it over to him gracefully. “Needed a breather from all the desperation” you let him know, he laughs, knowing you’re talking about Ima.

You watch him take a drag, exhaling the smoke smoothly. He presses his lips together, tasting the sweetness left behind from your gloss.

Wiping his thumb across his mouth, he tilts his head with a smirk “Vanilla?” He questions, his voice low and teasing. You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Coconut, actually” you say, biting your lip, daring him to disagree.

“Nah” he says, standing firmly. “That’s definitely vanilla” he says, keeping his eyes locked on yours.

“Why don’t you come and make sure?” You tease, your voice dripping with challenge, forcing him to make the first move.

He steps closer. His stride slow but the confidence impossible to ignore. His hand brushes your cheek, the warmth of it sending a shiver down your spine. Then, without hesitation, he leans in, kissing you deeply.

His tongue explores your mouth and yours doing the same to his. He pulls back slowly, catching your bottom lip gently between his teeth. He deliberately runs his tongue over his lips, “Vanilla” he says, smirking knowing he’s right.

You chew the corner of your lip slightly, unable to hide your grin. “Vanilla” you admit, you knew all along, you just wanted to see if he’d take the bait. He lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head as if he can’t believe he fell for your game, a glimmer of admiration in his eyes though.

Suddenly, the air shifts. The silence between you both speaks louder than words. The weight of the moment settling in. It’s a rare moment for you both to be alone like this. No distractions, no eyes watching, just the two of you. Both of you knowing it will most likely be a while before you find yourselves like this again, so why not make the most of it?

He pins you against the wall with an urgent intensity, his hands moving over you with a hunger that speaks of all the times he’s had to hold back. You lean into his neck as his lips find your skin. Your fingers fumbling with his belt buckle, making your intentions crystal clear.

“You okay with this? Out here?” He asks softly, between kisses. His voice still low and full of concern, making sure you’re certain before he agrees.

“Why not?” You smirk, biting your lip just enough to drive him crazy. He leans back slightly, glancing past the wall towards the clubhouse “anyone could come out” he warns, though the hunger in his voice proves he’s more than willing.

His eyes flash with mischief, “gimme your leg” he says, gripping your thigh as you lift it, bending his knees and manoeuvring himself so he’s placed exactly where you want him to be.

You moan softly throwing your head back a little in pleasure as he unfastens his jeans. He places his throbbing cock between your legs, sliding your dampened panties to the side with his hardness.

Gathering your slickness with his tip just before he pushes himself into you. He bends down slightly, adjusting his stance as he scoops you up, holding you securely against him now.

You let out a loud whimper as he finds his way inside of you, his hand instinctively covering your mouth, loosening his grip on you. “If…you…want…me…to…keep…fucking…you…shut…the…fuck…up” Jax murmurs in a low hush, the words punctuated with each thrust.

He lets his hand fall away, wrapping his arms around you tighter. His movements are a bit uneven, caught between holding you steady against the wall, keeping you quiet, and giving you everything you’ve been craving. He can tell that you’re loving it though, the way you keep whispering his name and how your hands grasp at his hair like you never want to let go, lets him know that he’s doing just fine. The sounds of your pleasure pushing him further, making it harder for him to hold back.

The sudden creak of the clubhouse door startles you both, freezing you mid motion. Your breath catches, your body tense as you feel him still pulsing inside of you. Jax’s hand flies to your mouth, covering it firmly. His own breathing heavy as his eyes dart towards the sound. Your dark brown panicked gaze locks with his, like a deer caught in headlights, both waiting to hear who it is.

Gemma steps out with Nero, their laughter filling the quiet night. “Not bad for an old man” Gemma teases, covering her cigarette from the wind as she lights it.

Nero grins, pulling Gemma in for a kiss. “Old man, huh? I didn’t hear you complainin’ a minute ago mama” he says, pulling her in for a kiss. Jax cringing, shutting his eyes in disgust as your laugh bounces off the palm of Jax’s hand.

As they talk, you move ever so slightly, one of your gold hoops sliding from your ear, clinking softly against the pavement. Both you and Jax instinctively follow it with wide eyes, as it rolls just out of reach.

“What was that?” Nero asks, his head snapping in the direction of the sound. Jax clamps his hand tighter. “Don’t move” he mouths silently.

“Probably nothing” Gemma says, not paying much attention. “This place is falling apart” she takes another drag from her cigarette, looking upwards to the ‘Teller Morrow’ garage sign.

Nero tilts his head thoughtfully. “That girl, y/n, that's T.O’s sister, right?” Gemma nods, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Yeah, why?” she questions.

He clears his throat. “Nothing, you know just saw her whispering somethin’ in Jax’s ear. Ima was standing there too... looked pretty pissed” Gemma smiles knowingly, flicking ash from her cigarette. She had sensed something brewing between the two of you though she’d kept her observations to herself, Nero’s comment now confirming her suspicions.

“I thought something was happening there” she tells Nero.

“and how do you feel about that mama?” he asks, now holding Gemma by the waist.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing. I know she’d keep my boy in line, that’s for sure”. She smiles gently, thinking about it.

Nero smiles in response, nodding his head slowly. “She’s got that fire, huh?” he laughs, guiding Gemma back into the clubhouse as she finishes her cigarette.

The clubhouse door closes behind Gemma and Nero. Jax finally able to move, pulling away from you and adjusting himself back to normal. You smooth out your clothes and fix your hair, doing your best to look innocent.

Jax’s grin still plastered on his face. “Think my mom’s ready for some caramel grand babies” he jokes. You laugh shaking your head and smacking his chest “Shut up, Jax” you say, trying to hold back your own smile.

“Go on” he gestures towards the door, motioning for you to head back inside first. “Don’t wanna make it too obvious”. His dick is still hard, being restrained behind his jeans. He fidgets slightly waiting for it to settle, as you turn to leave, he suddenly calls out your name. You glance back, seeing him holding your hoop. “Don’t forget this” he says, handing it back.

“Thanks” you mumble, noticing ever so slightly how he’s shifting back and forth.

As you turn to leave, you raise your skirt just enough for him to see your ass cheeks, slipping out from the bottom.

“Not helping y/n” He laughs, biting his ringed knuckles. you giggle as you head back inside, that ‘I just had sex’ sway in your step.

As you step back into the clubhouse, still fiddling with your earring, T.O spots you immediately. His gaze sharpens, tracking your every move as you slide into the space next to him.

“You good?” You ask, keeping your tone light as you twist the hoop back into place. “Where you been?” He asks, his voice calm but a hint of curiosity there.

“Needed some air, just went for a smoke” you reply, looking around the room, as if you weren’t just getting sloppily fucked by your brother’s president.

He nods, almost convinced, until his eyes catch Jax, walking in through the doors minutes after you. Pulling at the waistband of his jeans, his expression relaxed, maybe a bit too much.

T.O’s jaw tightens, his teeth gritting together as he glances between the two of you. “You and Jax been breathin’ the same air out there?” He questions, the suspicion shining through.

You shrug pretending not to notice the obvious tension. “Didn’t see him” you reply before taking a sip of your drink. Your brother doesn’t respond, just leans back and keeps a sharp eye on Jax as he moves through the room. “Aight” he mutters, but you can feel the heat of his doubt.

Lyla slides into the seat opposite to you, her easy smile offering a welcome distraction from the tension with your brother. “Hey, where you been?” She asks, noticing you’ve been absent for a little while.

“Just stepped out for some air and a smoke” you smile in her direction. She leans closer, lowering her voice as if she was telling you a secret. “Ima’s pissed about whatever happened at the table earlier, with you and Jax”.

You open your mouth to respond, but your brother interrupts, his tall frame casting a shadow over the table. “Scuse me” he says, his voice deep, waiting for you to move your legs aside so he can step out. You do as he asks, your eyes narrowing as you watch him head straight for the bar where Jax is currently standing, another beer in hand.

“Oh shit” you sigh under your breath, your heart racing as the tension follows T.O to Jax.

“You and y/n outside together? What was yall talking about?” Jax chuckles, trying to play it off “Nothing serious, just talking” trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, but he knows T.O can sense the truth, he narrows his eyes slightly analysing Jax’s words.

“Look,” Jax says, finally meeting his gaze. “Id never disrespect you, or your family. You know that, brother” he’s telling the truth, sort of anyway, fucking his sister against a wall minutes away from him, could be classed as disrespect. T.O nods slowly, his stance now softening.

He trusts Jax, and knows that Jax respects him and wouldn’t do anything to purposely hurt you. In a way, he wouldn’t even mind if you and Jax became a thing, Jax is a good man and T.O sees that.

“It’s not about disrespect, brother” T.O replies, his voice calm. “It’s about her being my little sister”

“Yeah I get it” Jax nods, fully understanding. He’s your big brother of course he’s gonna do what he can to look out for you, and the idea of you being with any man is probably the last thing he wants to think about.

T.O gives him a long look before finally letting out a small laugh. “Just don’t make me regret trusting you with her, man” Jax smirks, slapping T.O on the shoulder. “You won’t, brother”.

It had been a few months since you officially became Jax’s old lady. To your surprise, the relationship was treated with total support and respect from the moment you both announced it. Even your brother, who you suspected might have a hard time with it, embraced it without hesitation. In fact, it seemed to have brought him and Jax even closer, solidifying their bond in a way you never expected.

The air in the room was a mixture of tension and banter as the sons sat around the table, the club meeting in full swing. Despite the serious matters at hand, everyone couldn’t help but notice how Jax seemed particularly cheerful today.

“So, what does T.O stand for then?” Rat whispers to Happy, his voice low. Happy glances at Rat, knowing that if T.O catches wind of the conversation, he’s going to be pissed. “Taddarius” Happy responds, hushed and with no emotion.

Rat laughs, thinking happy is just messing around. “Wait, you’re not joking?” he asks, slightly sceptical.

Quinn then pipes up, “Call him that and see what happens”.

The others, T.O included begin noticing the quiet conversation. He narrows his eyes “what are you guys whispering about?” he asks, in a low tone.

Happy and Quinn exchange a brief glance, a silent warning, which Rat, does not pick up on. “Nothing...Taddarius” he says aloud, almost proud of the newfound information he has discovered.

Chibs, overhearing mutters under his breath “Jesus Christ”.

T.O’s expression hardens. “Unless I came out of your goddamn womb, don’t ever call me that, ya dig? Lil indie biker boy” he snarls.

Chibs has his face hidden in his hands, shaking his head trying not to laugh, whilst the others chuckle.

Opie, leaning back in his chair, and a smirk on his face tries to break tension. “Alright, man. Spill it… why do you look so damn happy this morning?" He taps his pen against the mahogany table, pointing at Jax when the word 'you' leaves his mouth.

Jax tries to keep a straight face, leaning forward his usual unbothered demeanour. “Can’t I just be in a good mood?” He tries to deflect, though his mind briefly wandered back to this morning, his head buried in your perfect pussy.

He catches a faint trace of you still clinging to his upper lip. Every so often, he slyly brushes his tongue over his lip, reliving the taste and the way you left him wanting more.

Tig also leans forward now, grinning wide. “Come on man, we all know what’s up. Chocolates good for the soul” he gives a small wink.

T.O groans, “watch it” he warns, pointing a finger at Tig, though the small smile tugging at his lips shows he’s only playing.

“Don’t look at me brother” Tig interjects, with that signature smile on his face. “We all know what’s got him smiling like that. Ain’t it true, Jax? the darker the berry-” he raises his hand as if he was conducting an orchestra.

“The sweeter the juice” the others finish for him, as the table explodes into laughter, everyone expect T.O.

Jax shakes his head, trying to hide his amusement as he looks over at T.O “you gonna let em talk about your sister like that?” He says, sarcastically, making light of the awkward situation.

T.O finally looks up, shaking his head in disgust. “Man, I don’t even wanna know” he says, though he couldn’t help but laugh along with the rest of them. Jax raises his hands in a false surrender, flashing a knowing grin towards T.O. “All love, brother, all love”

On the other side of the chapel doors, y/n and Gemma sit sipping coffee and chatting casually. Gemma noticing a little glow about you, too.

“How's Jax holding up?" She asks, curious about her son “coping with the club okay?” she follows up. You let her know that Jax is doing okay. Of course he has his moments but that comes with being the president.

She soon shifts her questioning, her tone turning more curious. “and you? how are you adjusting to the whiter side of the biker life? You doing okay sweetie?” Before you can answer, the door swings open, Ima walking in, dressed in next to nothing, she struts in like she owns the place.

Gemma looks to you, her coffee cup in front of her face “what the hell is porn princess doing here” she retorts.

Ima flips her hair, getting closer to you both “I’m here to talk to Jax. My Diosa check hasn’t cleared” she says, leaning against the bar.

“Jax doesn’t deal-” Gemma starts, standing from her seat, you cut her off before she can finish.

“Jax doesn’t deal with your Diosa shit” you say firmly, staring her down.

Gemma gives you a quick look, her expression proud, clearly impressed with how you're standing your ground regarding Jax. Ima, however, doesn’t seem fazed and folds her arms. “Well, Nero hasn’t answered my call and I need to get paid” she insists.

You shake your head, voice sharp. “Then call him again, Jax ain’t handling shit for you” you say, rising from your own seat.

Ima still, not backing down, takes a few steps closer towards you “Ill just wait for him in the dorm” she begins taking off her coat.

You grit your teeth, letting your eyes trail slowly over her. Sizing her up as you weigh your options. The frustration simmers beneath the surface, your mind racing between keeping your composure or flipping the fuck out.

As the tension between you and Ima reaches boiling point, Juice is peeking through the blinds, his eyes widening at the scene unfolding. “Uh...” he stammers, unsure how to handle what he’s seeing.

“Jax...T.O...” he calls out, unsure of who to summon, your brother or your man. Everyone in the room looks over to Juice with puzzled expressions.

“Looks like things are about to kick off between y/n and Ima” he says, everyone now intrigued.

“What is that gash doing here?” Chibs questions Ima’s presence.

Jax, who’s been expecting something like this for a while now, exhales deeply, rubbing his hand over his face. Without a word, he gets up and the rest of the guys follow. Filing out of the room one by one.

As the door opens, Ima immediately zones in on Jax. She wastes no time, sliding up to him and grabbing hold of his arm, her voice dripping with forced sweetness.

Jax locks eyes with you from across the room, his expression apologetic. It’s Ima's next move that pushes things over the edge. She leans in closer to Jax as if she was about to whisper something only meant for him. T.O, who’s standing just behind Jax, immediately clocks the shift in your expression. The familiar fire in your eyes and the way your jaw is currently set. “Here we go” he mutters under his breath, bracing for the inevitable.

You lunge towards Jax and Ima, grabbing a fistful of her hair and wrapping it tightly, twice around your hand. Without hesitation, you drag her backwards just a little before throwing her to the ground, the back of her head hitting the concrete with a sharp slam. T.O starts to move forward, ready to pull you away, but Jax steps in, holding him back. “No” he says calmly, getting comfortable against the wall with his arms crossed. “She’s got this” he says unfazed and fully confident you can handle yourself.

You give Ima a moment to steady herself as she stands, but instead of backing down, she sneers “stupid bitch” she throws herself at you. Her bloody hands grab at your necklace. Snatching it clean off, shattering to the ground.

The sound of your chain hitting the floor fuels your anger. You grab her wrist, shoving her back against the bar, trapping her. With no hesitation, you start swinging, each punch landing, forcing grunts of pain to spew out of her.

Blood trickles from the corner of her mouth, smearing across her lips as she spits a crimson pool onto the floor. Her teeth flash red when she tries to speak. “stop” she manages to say, through her swollen trembling lip.

You don’t stop, in fact you carry on, each punch connecting harder than the last. “She’s gonna kill her” Gemma says, turning around to glance at Jax, both concerned and impressed. “I know” Jax replies with a proud grin, his eyes fixed on you.

T.O watches on, torn between pride and caution. “Jax, you know she really gone’ kill her right?” he mutters, agreeing with Gemma’s unease.

“Jax!” Gemma shouts, louder this time. She’s not defending Ima, but the last thing she needs is to help clean up after another dead body.

Jax glances over at T.O, who gives him a look that confirms Gemma’s right. With a heavy sigh, Jax pushes himself off the wall. “Fine” he grumbles, striding towards you.

He forces his way between you and Ima, grabbing your fist just as its about to land. “Enough!” he shouts, his voice firm. You struggle against his grip, trying to break free but he tightens his hold. “I SAID ENOUGH!” this time, his tone carries authority and it cuts through your anger.

“Look at me!” he demands, gripping your face. Ima’s blood splattered across your skin. Jax’s eyes meet yours, calm but commanding “Thats enough” he echoes. He steps back, pushing your arm gently towards your brother and then gesturing towards the dorm “T.O, take your sister in there” he orders. T.O nods, his face unreadable as he guides you away before things escalates even further.

As T.O pulls you away by your arm, you manage to twist and break free, charging back to Ima. Your fist connects with her face one last time. “That was for Lyla, Bitch!” You shout in her face, Jax pushes you back, but you just laugh. T.O finally getting hold of you again, and forcing you back to the dorm.

The guys watch Ima for a moment as she slumps against the bar, hand pressed against her bloodied face. A few mutter amongst themselves, shaking their heads before heading back into the chapel, leaving her alone with Gemma and Jax.

Gemma stays back, her expression cold as Jax steps forward. Ima, looking up at him, not wanting y/n to have the last laugh. “you should learn to control your whore” she sneers, spitting her dirty blood directly onto his kutte.

Jax’s expression darkens, a snarl curling his lips as he grabs the back of her head, slamming it against the bar with brutal force. Ima lets out a sharp cry, but that doesn’t stop him. He spins her around, pressing her back against the bar as his hand tightens around her throat. “You ever bring that rancid pussy near my club or my family again...” he growls, his voice venomous. “I’ll kill you. You understand?”. Ima doesn’t respond, too stunned to speak, but Jax doesn’t care to hear her answer.

He curls his tongue, gathering a mouthful of spit before forcefully spitting it back straight into Ima’s face, pointing a finger directly at her, his voice drips with anger as he growls “Whore!”.

He shoves her face hard as he lets go, giving his mom a small nod, silently telling her to ‘deal with it’. Picking up a cloth from the side, he casually wipes Ima’s spit off his kutte, his movement calm but deliberate.

Chucking the cloth to the side, and without looking back, he strides down the hallway, his steps heavy with purpose. He has a swagger in his walk, but the rage is still unmistakable.

The anger fades slightly from his face, replaced with concern as he approaches the dorm door, making it clear his only focus is making sure you’re okay.

Gemma, tasked with the job of getting Ima out of here, picks up the same cloth, tossing some ice into it before shoving it into Ima’s hand.

Leaning in slowly, she locks eyes with her, the eye contact sharp and unforgiving.

“She’s not his whore” Gemma hisses, her voice filled with poison.

“She’s his old lady” She drags out each word, making sure Ima fully understands her place.

Photos & gifs do not belong to me, just edited them together.

Honestly, I fucking loved doing this one. I had so much fun writing this, literally played out in my head like an actual episode. Hope you all love it just as much. I also always try to write from a perspective so that multiple readers can connect with the story, so like not to describe skin or hair colour/texture etc. However this story is looking through the eyes of a black female reader. I, myself am black. So please don’t take anything said, described or done as a generalised or stereotypical view. I was literally writing as if it was me in the situation (which I always do, duh) but yes, I hope it portrays well! Oh and also I am from the UK which is why sometimes spellings are a little off depending where you’re from lol.

Jax Teller Masterlist

xoxo secretly samcro

[missarchive]

wait bc im sitting here reading dostoevsky and thinking about how spence would love having a partner that loves reading as much as him.. but im also thinking ab how he’d want to eat them out while forcing them to still focus on reading… i need an ice bath.

i hope this is what you were wanting <3 i had a lot of fun writing this for you

cw; +18 minors dni, munch!spencer, fingering, dom!spencer, fade to black smut, praise

The soft hum of the world outside fades into the background as you lounge on your bed, face up, knees pulled up to your chest. A pillow is nestled between your thighs and chest, propping up the latest romance novel you've become utterly lost in. The pages blur slightly as your eyes dart over the words, the story pulling you in deeper with each sentence. You’re so engrossed, you don’t even hear the faint creak of the door opening or the soft shuffle of footsteps.

The bed dips slightly, jolting you out of your reverie.

“Spence?” you mumble absentmindedly, your gaze still fixed on the page. The weight on the bed barely registers as you flip to the next chapter, too caught up in the plot to pay attention.

“What are you reading?”

The voice, smooth and familiar, startles you. You glance up, meeting Spencer's curious gaze. He’s standing at the edge of the bed, his shoes already kicked off, clad in jeans and a snug t-shirt that clings to his lean frame.

“Just a new romance novel,” you reply with a small smile, lowering the book slightly. There’s always something about the way Spencer’s eyes darken with intrigue whenever you mention one of your romance reads.

Without a word, Spencer moves around the bed and perches on the opposite side. He unbuttons his jeans with practiced ease, slipping them off before settling against the headboard. His hands reach out to gently tug your feet into his lap, his touch warm and grounding.

“Tell me about it,” he says, his tone soft yet insistent.

Smiling, you let yourself sink back into your comfortable position, your feet resting against the firm warmth of his thighs. “It’s a historical romance,” you begin, “set in the 1600s. There’s forbidden love, political intrigue…”

As you delve into the story, Spencer’s hand idly traces the curve of your calf, his fingertips brushing the bare skin beneath your pajama shorts. His touch is subtle, yet it sends tingles up your leg, making it harder to concentrate. You glance at him briefly, but he looks relaxed, his lips curling in a faint smile as he listens to you.

“Are you almost done with that chapter?” he asks, his hand sliding higher.

“Yeah, just a few more pages,” you murmur, not fully processing how high his hand has wandered. Your focus wavers as his fingers linger on the inside of your thigh, the gentle pressure impossible to ignore.

You’re jolted fully into the present when he hooks a finger into the waistband of your panties and slides them down to your knees.

“Spence!” you squeak, clutching your book tightly as your head snaps toward him. His expression is maddeningly calm, though his eyes gleam with mischief.

“What are you doing?”

“I figured you liked that position so much for reading, I’d help you multitask,” he replies, his voice low and teasing. His fingers dip between your thighs, brushing against your already slick center.

A gasp escapes your lips as his thumb begins circling your clit with deliberate precision. Your hips twitch instinctively, opening to him even as your book tumbles to the side.

“Spencer,” you moan, your voice breathy with need.

“Keep reading,” he commands, his voice firm but gentle as his fingers plunge into you, curling perfectly against your walls.

You try to obey, picking up your book and skimming the next few lines, but the words blur as his movements intensify. The pressure of his fingers combined with the steady rhythm of his thumb has your breath hitching, your chest heaving with the effort to concentrate.

“Spence, I can’t—” you start, but he cuts you off by stilling his hand.

“You need to keep reading,” he says, his tone laced with amusement.

“Spencer!” you whine, glaring at him through half-lidded eyes.

“Read a page, and I’ll give you more,” he bargains, withdrawing his fingers.

Frustrated but desperate for his touch, you scan the next page as quickly as your trembling hands allow. The moment you finish, you glance up, and he rewards you by slipping two fingers back inside, stretching you deliciously as his thumb resumes its torturous circles.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice sending a shiver down your spine.

This pattern continues, the cycle of teasing and reward driving you closer to the edge with every page. By the time you finish another, Spencer leans down, his tongue replacing his fingers.

You cry out, the book forgotten as his mouth works you over with unrelenting skill. His tongue licks and swirls, his lips closing around your clit to suck gently, and you’re utterly undone. Your hips buck against him, your hands gripping the sheets as he pushes you higher and higher.

Finally, your release crashes over you, your body trembling as he coaxes every last wave of pleasure from you. When you’re spent and boneless, Spencer pulls away, his lips glistening as he crawls up beside you.

“How was that chapter?” he asks with a cheeky grin, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close.

“Best one yet,” you reply, your voice hoarse but content.

“Glad I could help with the multitasking,” he teases, pressing a kiss to your temple as you drift off, thoroughly sated and utterly his.

[eldrith]

˗ˏˋ Dead Men Don't Sing ˎˊ˗ Jacaerys Velaryon

jacaerys velaryon x fem!stark!reader words: 9.5k requested: yes synopsis: “it is rather custom to marry within the bloodline,” jacaerys admits, hesitating, “but there are other duties,” he murmurs, “–ones that even the Gods cannot ignore.”  notes: thank you to the anon who requested this, it was months and months ago <3 i found this written and dusty in my drafts and realized how much i liked the concept of it so i finished it up, changed up a lot of plot (sry). peace & love (thinking abt when @softspiderling said that cregan & r had chemistry in this fic. fuck you) warnings: canon-typical marriage betrothals. something something heavy belief in the divine right of kings (cringe!), jace is so in love again guys, fluff and flirting, feelings of anxiety & worry, heavy on politics and the targaryen prophecy. doubts of magic and light religious tones. kissing. requests closed. masterlist.

THE CRYPTS BELOW WINTERFELL ECHO WITH FOOTFALL.

A dripping thing, echoing through low ceiling and sliding over stoned walls; your pace moves slow, measured. 

Aboveground yields a morning snow; it is no harvest season, yet you worry so of the rime which curls its way over the tender shoots of crop; kissing a delicate crust atop glacial lakes in the near distance, lining the roofs across Winter Town. 

Down below such crust of earth, the crypt holds no true warmth, instead boasting a rather eerie silence; though you’ve always felt drawn to such quietude in certain times – moments punctuated only by the rustle of fur cloaks, the steady drip of tallow wax candles that burn beneath the proud visages of ancient stone.

A gentle sigh escapes your lips. 

Your breath, barely visible in the cold, dissipates like a whisper of a cloak around a corner; The man beside you paces with deliberate slowness, though still his long strides force you to quicken your own. 

A familiar rhythm from childhood. 

He broods – or perhaps merely reflects; it is difficult to tell, though his introspection proves an unwelcome distraction and concern alike. 

“You think far too loudly, brother.”

Your voice, a stone dropped onto the serenity of a glassy pond; stirring, your brother beside you lets out a soft huff of amusement, turning to glance at your profile. "Aye, it seems I do,” he acquiesces, though he seems more than content to leave it as such.

And the ensuing quiet – his scrutiny of your features becoming almost unsettling. You purse your lips, folding your arms over the furs that ward off the chill, slowing to a halt – he, in turn, slowing beside you.

“Cregan,” you cast a guarded glance his way, “I appreciate your company, but…” You pause, clearing your throat, “Why did you ask me here?”

You cannot ignore the furrow of his brow, nor the weary sigh that escapes him. “I do not wish to burden you with troubles, sister,” he murmurs, his gaze drifting – mindful of spirits; watching, listening. “But there is something we must discuss.”

You, softly gesturing for him to continue under the flicker of torchlight. 

Yet, he does not speak at once; instead, guiding you further along the shadowed path. You allow him the moment of silence, a foreboding drop stirring unbidden in your chest. Has the time come to prepare for the Wall – will you set the Greybeards alone to fight in the Southern war? Dribbling wax slides over the edge of a wyck - a white tear falling to the frozen earth below. Winter is coming, you know; and so does war. 

You stop before a weathered stone – Cregan, his face so hardened even with young age; you recall in the earliest recess of your memories a more youthful visage – the brother who dangled you by the ankle in the Great Hall; who dragged you along to target practice in the yards, who met your gaze with mirth when you were scolded at the dinner table. Much has changed. 

“A raven came from Dragonstone this morning,” his voice is steady – the mention flares a mild concern in you; your brows furrow. 

“Different from the letter that arrived at my chambers just moments ago?” You wonder – the scroll was penned by Prince Jacaerys; though this is an occasion not extremely uncommon, as you’ve grown to write to him often in the past months of his departure. 

But your brother nods. “Aye.” He affirms, “It was signed by Queen Rhaenyra.” 

You blink up at him, breath bated – palms, growing moist though the cold nips gently at your nose: Never has the Queen herself sent letter by raven. Cregan utters your name, and you meet his gaze. 

“Prince Jacaerys has asked for your hand in marriage.”

Of the many possibilities you’d imagined, this was not one of them; shivers of flattery over your spine, quivering your breast in an icy shock.

And a scroll unread, perched upon your drawing table in your quarters – has Jace written to you to ask you himself? Your lip, plump under the pressure of your teeth. 

Though not wholly unpleasant, it is still a sudden shock to you, and your mouth opens – then closes with a soft click. You find yourself momentarily lost for words.

A breath, warm against the cold, escaping your mouth, fingers restless within your thick gloves. “Did–” You pause, clearing your throat, willing your heart to steady its foolish race. “Have you sent a response?”

A flicker in an otherwise stoic facade, gone in an instant: Some amusement laced into his visage that vexes you in a way only a sibling can.

 Quietly, your brother denies. “It was requested by the Prince for you to send a response yourself. The Queen wishes to be assured this is a marriage that will bring strength to the realm – one that will be strong from the beginning. She does not choose the future queen regent lightly, it seems.” 

A heat that grows twofold; and a sprouting dizziness as the proposal hits you. The future queen regent – Gods be good. 

The proposition is far from traditional. 

As the sister of the Warden of the North, you have always assumed your path would lead to a marriage with one of the High Lords of your own region – though with great war comes change, you understand well – and Cregan has mentioned it satisfactory to find a Targaryen princess among your House; perhaps you and Jacaerys will serve in such a steed. 

 A glance to the stone man before you; an ode, to Torrhen Stark. The King Who Knelt. 

A shiver of reality. Leave Winterfell, as a Targaryen bride – to go to the war brewing in the South – and there grows a flicker, beneath your concern. Hunger, pride. 

You’ve always known what’s expected of you; and Starks do not shy nor cower from responsibility. 

“This is no small task.” Your words, quite blunt as they often are – another nod from Cregan. 

“I remind you,” He assures, “It is no done deal.” 

A flicker of your lashes as your breath clouds before you; above your head, you wonder if the flakes which flutter from the sky have ceased in the wake of the day’s far sun. 

It is indeed a thought to consider; the North, your endless horizon of snow and stone – of moors and fields, of steep slopes and commanding eminences, carved by the hands of gods more ancient than the first of men. 

That cold kiss of wintered forests, of towering pines in snowed shadows; gnarled branches of the Wolfswood, icy rivers of threaded silver untouched by the frills of southern decadence; and the cold less endured than revered, a landscape of beauty drawn within the fierce devotion of its people. 

An unshakeable and profound sense of soul that tugs you towards the frozen earth, to the bodies brought back through turns of Winters, of endurance, of love, of life. 

“I would mislike to leave Winterfell,” You admit; a child once more, tucking toes beneath warmed covers as you hid from shadows upon walls. 

Perhaps he recalls those same nights; when you’d stayed awake against the syrupy droop of eyelids, listening to your Lord father’s tales of hunts and beasts beyond your comprehension. 

“As would I regret to let you leave,” His voice comes after a moment. “Your insight is not to be understated. Perhaps this is why the Queen wishes you to join her council in my stead.” 

Another shock to you – to marry the Prince, yes, but to join the Queen’s council? A flash of pride, conspicuous, licking up your spine – though you’re lost in the trappings of memory; of loss, of life. 

“What is it father said?” You muse quietly, watching shadows flicker over a contoured face of stone. “The South…Where men smile with daggers behind their backs.” 

Some huff from weary lips. “I hold no concern for how you might fare against a dagger, sister.” He reminds you; your fingers, calloused in the grooves of a longbow – you placate a wry huff, mind saturated with thoughts. “A serpent's lair, the Crownlands are.” He gruffs.

It is solemnly that you nod; a wistful memory of your Prince, curls entangled with the sharp wind, embedding pearled snowflakes into tresses. 

“I am not without my own doubts,” Cregan slowly admits, “Leaving the North – in wartime, as well – holds few assurances of safety, even at Dragonstone.” 

Your voice is considerably less steadfast than it’d been an hour past, when you’d directed the letter from the Prince to wait until your duties with Lord Stark were through – “I would not leave my home, my charge, merely for some Prince.” You mutter. 

Yet, the glance from your brother brings a small grin to your lips. 

He perhaps agrees with your stubborn resolve; you two, cut and sewn from the same sturdy cloth, borne with the same pelts upon your back. A tilt in his visage, looking at you. 

“Our father’s word was given. It is our duty to uphold it.” He murmurs; and then, a melting of such a look – as if Lord Stark has retreated, yielding Cregan in his wake: “You’d be queen one day, long after the war.” 

Still reeling, a warmth to your face as you consider the Prince – rosy cheeks, with that smile brighter than snow; he, with a fur cloak gifted to him in his visit to treat with your brother those months ago – a regal face, if you’ve the grace to know what such a thing is. 

The boy with kind words and genuine laughter; a fleeting brush of his hand on yours as he’d greeted you to his ancient beast; The square of his shoulders as he’d solidified Northmen for his Queen mother’s banners. A look, shattered and wet, as he mounted his beast in the wake of his brother’s death. Septa’s voice from the vestiges of adolescence: Heavy is the crown, my dear. 

“It is my duty,” you murmur more to yourself than to your brother, “To Winterfell, to the North. To our Queen… and the realm.” 

Cregan’s hand finds your shoulder in a grasp, “Sister.” Your eyes meet his own. “I would not have you do it if I did not believe it was the right choice. Jace is a good man. He will treat you right.” 

Indeed, a union of your house and the Prince’s would strengthen the North; you could ensure the maintenance of autonomy – and loyalty, a venerable duty long upheld by your house for hundreds of years. A marriage that serves not only your people, but such enduring legacy of kin. 

“Just as well,” He adds, “the prospect of marrying Jacaerys might prove rather agreeable to your sensibilities, would it not?”

He jests. The corner of your eyes narrow as you shoot him a sharp look; a smile emerging despite your efforts to conceal it. The warmth of anticipation creeps across your cheeks, a delicate flush across your face despite your valiant efforts to contain it. 

"You overreach, brother,” you speak, though both you and he can hear the fondness in your voice. 

A quiet moment, in which a memory surfaces – Jacaerys, bidding you farewell months past; a pain in his eyes, ragged with grief and urgency to return – his younger brother, killed by Aemond One-Eye.

A shaky kiss upon your knuckles, the cracking of a voice otherwise proud; the last glance of that massive beast swallowed up by the clouds. Your heart skips a beat at the knowledge of him, as your own. 

“I will marry Prince Jacaerys,” You agree, hoping to conceal the eagerness from your tone, “...for the good of the realm."

Cregan huffs, pulling you into a brief embrace, your eyes both stuck on the statue before you. "Aye, and perhaps a bit of warmth for your heart, too.” He jests; a rare occurrence, and certainly in these days of war and the eve of winter. 

“Is that not what you’d wish for your sister?” You jest in return, hiding the fluster of your cheeks. 

His expression sobers minutely. “You bring honor to our house.”

The long, stone face of Torrhen Stark watches your breath rise and fall from your lips. 

Hesitance melts away, leaving a giddiness, a sense of duty softened by an affection in your heart. “A wolf in the South,” you murmur. 

And a dragon at her side.

VERMAX IS RATHER DISPLEASED TO FLY NORTH AGAIN. 

Huffs and whining screeches; saged scales that melt tiny flakes of snow around the saddle - Jacaerys consoles his steed with a huff of amusement. “Se iōrves kessa daor umbagon syt mirre, Vermax.” He insists; The cold will not last forever. 

It is not until the sloping valleys and rolling mountains give way to dusting of snowcaps and frozen-earth that his stomach begins to burn with that odd feeling; excitement. 

Trees that reach up towards the heavens – ever green in their life, barely stirred by the beating of Vermax’s wings high above. 

Otherworldly, the North is; and Winterfell, with towering walls, sprawling courtyards, the frosted roofs that glint even through the thick of cloud – pure earth, that ancient knowledge within the ground, held for thousands of years past. Wisdom, sewn into rings upon rings within trees – depths of icy pools, glistening cold as glacier’s tears even in the dead of summer. 

Something, an aching feeling returns; not an ache for home, but for you. 

Eyes, amber and anticipatory, searching the grounds so far below – a wall, dark and thick in the sprawl of the low cirque. Vermax breaks through the clouds with a call, the whipping Northern wind blowing icy shards into Jacaerys’ inhale. Still, he looks with a fire, an intent – battlements, courtyards, all bustling and brimming.

The familiar banner of black and red, raised by the men sent weeks ahead in anticipation of the Prince’s arrival – and the Stark banner, hanging large enough to just see from the outskirts of Winter Town. 

The East Gate opens; a company awaits his arrival, bustling in the yard of the Great Keep – squinting against sharp air as Vermax circles in agitated descent. It is an odd thing, to see the expressions of men, women, and children become clearer in descent – to see the fear, the astonishment, the reverence in the ancient being in the sky. But he searches each visage turned up towards him; and then, there – with a grin and a flip in Jacaerys’ stomach, he finds you. 

Piled, swathed in thick furs that bring out your hair; standing straight beside your mass of a brother; a warmth that blossoms into heat as your head tilts, tracking Vermax in the sky.  

A heavy thud against the muddy ground encrusted with a fresh layer of crisp rime; the rich shades of green across the North have been kissed by some fae of frost that barely cowers under the heat of his ancient creature – and though it retreats in his molten wake, Vermax huffs at the feeling of frost and snow. 

Jace dismounts Vermax; pressing his forehead to the dragon’s thick neck, the warmth a final solace before he faces the unforgiving weather of the North – a mutter to his steed, running his palm over the scales, “Sȳz, vermax.  Ao ipradtis; ao gōntan sōvegon sȳrī.” 

Good, Vermax. You must eat; you flew well. 

He is accompanied, then; two dragonhandlers bowing to him, draped in borrowed furs as they tend to his weary beast. It is rather comfortable, to hand him off to them; a luxury, he supposes, when they are here to tend to the Valyrian rituals that will come in just over a week’s time. A skip in his heart as he thinks of the night to come: You and he, bound for life. 

His title is announced in the quiet of the Keepyard; he enters, feeling rather foolish as just one man faced with such a company – his eyes, unable to unstick themselves from you. The young Lady Stark; the Northern Star, some have called you; He finds himself agreeing. 

Head high, he walks as the prince he is, nodding to Lord Cregan; Formal proceedings that are blinked away in moments with a very present preoccupation of trying to keep his stare off your face. 

And then, after a lingering moment, ravens circling the sky, wind howling down the slopes of distant mountains, Cregan steps forward, arm extended – Jacaerys returns his grin, a camaraderie returning in his chest. 

In the grasp of his forearm, in the rough hug he shares with his friend, Lord Stark murmurs. “I see now why you were so reluctant to leave the first time, my Prince.” Cregan’s voice, rich with mirth; a sheepish grin that grows upon Jacaerys’ expression. Laughter between them, as easy as it ever was, the weariness that’d built in Jace’s flight northward dissipating. “I’ve been told a wise man knows when he’s found something worth returning to, Lord Stark,” Jace quips in response, the heat on his face deepening when his gaze darts in a glance towards you. Your brow, lifted at his words; full of grace but with a smattering of warmth across your cheeks, a small smile. 

The cold air seems to have brought a flush to you – dipping into a graceful curtsey, the wolf clasp of your cloak catches in the cloudy light of afternoon. His heart flips as you greet him: “My Prince,” and gods, your voice – “I hope you and Vermax found no undue hardship enduring such a journey.” 

It’s all Jacaerys can afford to bow deeply in return, eyes remaining on your own gaze; a gesture of respect and courteousness, but a strike of something far more personal lingering behind his stare. Your palm is bare, he’s shocked to see; and lifted within his own, his lips brush over your knuckles. 

Your cheeks darken, and he feels his heart race. “The purpose is far worth the journey, my Lady.” His voice, earnest, polite. 

Your smile widens just so. 

THE GREAT HALL IS DOUSED WITH LIT HEARTHS. 

The celebration is a swell feast – Jacaerys sits, having dined on a hearty meal and several goblets of wine: Roasted game, honeyed bread, mulled wine. At the high table he sits, and the din of the hall rumbles around him, drifting slowly into the high-beamed ceiling. 

A lingering storm has momentarily lifted in the warmth of familiar faces, of the unrelenting bite of cold that still yet lingers in bones weary from flight. There is a dread that has stayed within Jacaerys for many turns of moon now – a mourning thing, one that has left him with less and less smiles to divulge with each passing day. 

The horizon brews; a clouded thing, one dark and full of smoke and whispers – and yet here he sits, warmed by furs, by hearth, by ale – and by you, aside him. 

A girl no older than himself – a friendship kindled merely in the beginnings of formality, of happenstance; polite smiles and high chins, eyes lingering as he followed your brother into the study. 

A peculiar thing it is now, to sit beside you, to feel that string pull between you so inevitably; and though he is turned away from your warmth, well engrossed in a discussion with Lord Stark, he feels that tension – that tautness that soon will be severed with unseen shears, which will seal a dream conjured years before your birth. 

And throughout the evening, his gaze has more than often wandered to your own visage, carved in those same harsh winds of beauty – a smile warm and true, a depth sinking into his stomach; for as Jacaerys has dined heartily, his appetite for food has given way to an appetite for conversation. 

The hall boasts cheer, laughter; an odd thing, in the tide of coming war, in coming strife even this far North; the Lord returns to the Wall not even a fortnight after the wedding, and with him goes half the rations of crops saved through the Northern harvest. 

With Jacaerys will go his new wife – and with you, a secret untold to any but those who sit the throne. 

The fire in the hearth is great, and it swallows Jacaerys’ eyes as he sips from his cup; licks of flames, screams unheard through halls – the final breath of many, the staggering gasp of death. 

Outside, snow blows harsh and cold against the walls – a breath of winter, howling and iced. 

It is a song that lingers in Jacaerys’ mind, even as the music inside the hall crescendos and the ale flows; and finally, he is torn from his trance with the departure of a lord from White Harbor from before you, leaving you finally by your lonesome. 

Jacaerys turns to you – and at his stirring, you glance to his hoping gaze; your cheeks warmed in the same breath as his own, you glow in the firelight. 

He gestures gently before you, towards the hall brimming with people, “A celebration in our honor, yet it seems finding a moment alone has proven rather difficult.” His voice remains as warm as he’d hoped, though evergreen and mantled by duties, by composure. And you, a flower of grace and stoicism, nod kindly - he's always found the dance of formalities to be amusing.

“It seems the whole land has anticipated your arrival once more, Prince Jacaerys.” Your voice is tinged with that same warmth he remembers from those moons ago.

He ought to accept your kindness with compliment; or perhaps ask how the owl that’d nested in the rook outside your chambers during his last visit fares – but indeed he is met with that insistence of passing time, of his mother’s words fallen onto his shoulders; of a whispered dream of years to pass and years still to come.

When he looks at your visage, honeyed by the glow of firelight, some warmth mixes shockingly with an icy knowledge of what is to come. 

“It has been too long since we last met,” He says - and, perhaps in a moment of insecurity, his lip is bitten and pulled from pearled teeth. “I have missed your company.”

He does not miss the soft growth of affection that blossoms upon your countenance, nor the shift in your hips as you turn to face him more, your fingers absently tracing the rim of your goblet in a mirror of his own nervous habit. 

“And I have missed yours,” your voice is equally quiet to his own, in some conspiratorial hope to remain private while remaining in a room full of guests. Your lip is caught between your teeth just as his was – he wishes to unfurl it with the soft of his thumb. “Though, I confess, it is strange to know that soon we will no longer need ravens to speak to one another.”

A soft chuckle from his lips – a thought indeed that crossed his mind after sending his last raven Northward; and in the shadow of looming war, what a relief it may be to have you beside him. 

If he were any more a fool, Jacaerys might worry indeed for your safety in the coming times – and though that thought lingers still in the stoop of his mind, he is no more ignorant to your abilities than he is admiring them. 

A memory, one of fresh falling snow and the youthful innocence of only half-year ago; before the shift of tides, before the moonlit jaws of Death found his brother – before the death of the young one in the Red Keep, and the fall of Rhaenys and Meleys just days ago at Rooks Rest; before it all, when still the horizon brimmed with a more peaceful hope for settled war, there was time of laughter. Of a hunt drawn about for a Royal Guest in Winterfell, when he came with wishes of an alliance, of oaths sworn in blood and brotherhood. The hunt brought anticipation - and, in his foolish Southern ways, Jacaerys had wondered if you’d see he and your brother off in the courtyard of Winterfell – perhaps with a favour of yours to gift him, and a kiss upon his cheek for well-hunting. 

It was not such delicate smiles and whispers he was met with; no, instead he found another horse, saddled with your frame and a bright grin upon your face, your hair plaited away from your peripherals and a longbow strewn across your back. 

A fond memory, those days watching you traipse across snowstruck Wolfswood – and the snap of a string, the fall of a buck into the earth below. Your grin, your appearance; so unlike your kin, and yet so shared in hardiness with your brother – a warmth now so foreign in a world laced by such ominous ideas as fate. 

Jacaerys chuckles at the memory, and also at your words, sobering as they are light. “Strange,” He repeats, tilting his head to you. “-But welcome, I’d hope?” 

And though it is a tease sent with the efforts of putting the thick tension of betrothal at ease, there still lingers a fear of the answer; and a leak of hesitance in his words. 

When you hold his gaze for a moment, he nearly doubts the flicker of affection that still drips from your rosy cheeks. But your expression softens, and your earnesty is undeniable. “Of course,” You beam and it sends his heart into a flutter, “It will be quite welcome.” 

And it is in this moment, a quiet one, that Jacaerys nearly cracks; a split that would leak out the foreboding world of prophecies, of danger and fear and worry – if only in search of some comfort, of some assurance that the truths he lives are merely the whisperings of a bloodline destined to rule. 

Though he loses the moment when you turn to the revelry before you; and Cregan rises from his seat beside Jacaerys, drawing his attention away from blistering flames and flurries of chill that strike through his heart. 

YOU FIND A MOMENT TO CATCH YOUR BREATH IN THE MORNING.

The sun is high in the sky for such an early hour; perhaps a reflection through of the sheet of thin gray which stretches from one horizon to the other. A sweet light over the rather empty training grounds – and your skirts drag along snow as you brush hair from your cheek, nocking another arrow. 

The target, more than plenty paces away, is riddled with arrows from your work – the bow in your hands, warm and smelted to the form of your grip, carries that same woody scent from youth. You draw back with an inhale. 

Though you know very soon of a presence in the morning courtyard; You can feel the gaze upon you as soon as he enters. And with a small tremble, it occurs to you – no matter where the Prince goes, it seems you can always feel him near. 

You resist a small grin, exhaling as you release the arrow; it embeds itself into the center of the target, a light thud that presses your heart against your ribs. 

Jacaerys watches you; this, you know – and you nock yet another arrow. 

The prince leans rather casually against a post just a few paces to your right, though there is little casual about the heat of his stare upon you – your glance is merely through the side of your lashes, a short thing in effort to pretend you are less effected by his presence. 

Though, you cannot deny the burning in your cheeks, a determination in your throat as you draw the bowstring once more. 

A murder of ravens scatter across the sky to the South – you let the arrow fly; It notches just to the right of your previous shot. A smile, tugging the corner of your lips once more before you drop your arms, glancing to your audience. 

“Impressive as ever, my lady,” Jacaerys muses; his gaze is imbued by lashes and the sun, though there is some esteem within his stare that brings a flutter to your stomach. 

Impressive. 

A heat on your cheeks – as if you’re a blushing little maiden, complimented for the very first time. Though, you remind yourself, he’s spent his life in the highest courts of the land; he himself squired for many years, acquiring fair skill in such trades – and you hum, mind filled with visions of men from all stretches of the realm and beyond – jousts, tourneys, all to show at the King’s court. 

 “Well,” You brush the hair from your cheek once more against the faint wind, nocking and drawing a fresh arrow, much less focused this time, aware of his gaze burning through your frame. “I’m sure Southern men like you have seen feats far more impressive.” You tease, eyes locked down the line of the arrow.

Jacaerys huffs a small laugh at your jest, stepping further into the training yard. The wind blows, and you wonder if you should have taken another fur; but his voice is warm and you are put at ease.

“Perhaps,” He agrees, voice nearing your focus, “But some Southern men certainly know to appreciate what we cannot find back home.” 

You’re lucky you’ve released the arrow just as he finishes his sentence; your stomach flips, butterflies sprouting within your chest at his gentle flattery. He is quite the charmer - and though you find amusement in his attempt, still grows your warmth at the attention.

It is still in the courtyard, and Jacaerys nods toward the target, where your arrow has hit the mark. An approving hum, brows lifted to underscore some coming point: “Like a woman who can outshoot any knight in the realm.” 

A blatant praise – and you lower your bow, hoping to suppress the blush creeping up your cheeks. “Why don’t you try your hand?” you suggest, your tone teasing in attempt to flit such fluster upon the Prince instead. 

He grins in a way that brings to mind a time less full of strife – always one for a friendly back-and-forth; Hands upon the hilt of his sword, Jacaerys shakes his head. “I’m not foolish enough to challenge you, my lady. I’ve learned to respect northern steel – be it by sword or arrow.”

You tilt your head, unable to school such a playful glint in your eyes. “So you’ve come all this way just to be bested by a woman?”

A provocation; perhaps testing the waters. And it shows in his expression, the stark divergence between your brother’s personality and your own; you suspect he is pleased with the opportunity. 

His grin, as you’d hoped, only widens – cheeks reddened by the morning chill, eyes bright against the sun. “I’d consider it quite an honor.” A flick of his gaze to the target and back. 

A roll of your eyes – highly inappropriate for a lady, especially to the Prince - but he only seems to find it more amusing. The smile tugs at your lips; you tamper it with your teeth, “I don’t believe flattery helps your aim, Jace.”

At his nickname, his cheeks seem to glow – a name he’d insisted you’d call him in the dark solitude of the Godswood during his initial visit to Winterfell those many moons ago. 

He shakes his head, ever the charming Prince: “My aim is of no consequence. I am more than content to watch you hit the mark every time.”

The space between you has begun to narrow, and you can just make out the freckles which kiss the bridge of his nose. You hold the bow to him, “Come now, my prince.” You insist – and he acquiesces, stepping forward with a growing smirk. 

You, in effort to see the blush upon his cheeks again, send him a smile. “Aim for the center, and you might impress me.” 

The look he gives you is mildly amused; his shoulders, proud and brushing against yours as he handles your weapon. Deft fingers wrap around the bow as he tries to mimic your stance; and it is rather clear, as it’s been the handful of times you’ve seen him in the yard sparring, that he is far more comfortable with a sword in his hand than a bow. 

And your smile grows at this; the heir to the Iron Throne, trying to impress you with a weapon that is not his own. 

Your amusement is not so concealed; in a moment, he glances to you and huffs, arms still stretched to aim for the target. “I see your confidence growing, my lady,” he chides, and you lift a brow – he grins boyishly, eyes returning to the target, “Perhaps you mean to humble me.”

A feigned thoughtfulness as you tilt your head, tresses of silken hair glinting against your furs, “Humble you, Jace?” You feign surprise, blossoming at the growing smile upon his countenance, “That seems an impossible task.” 

There's a warmth lying low beneath your jest – and whatever sharpness delivers with your wit is softened by the candid affection you hold for your newly betrothed. He laughs, and it is a song you wish to remember for the rest of your years.  

His cheeks are that same very pink you’ve cherished for many moons - and he lets the arrow fly; though it strikes the target, it lands fingers shy of the center, and you conceal a laugh. 

Your prince sends you a look, and though his mouth opens with some likely sharp words of humility, he is interjected by another voice in the yard. 

“–Impressive,” Cregan’s voice cuts through the morning wind, startling you and Jacaerys alike. Jacaerys turns, hands lowering the bow as he nods almost sheepishly; Cregan steps closer – an expression only mildly imbued with amusement. 

He regards you first, then your betrothed. “I see our prince has found a new skill.” 

Flustered as though caught stealing wine from the feast table, you busy yourself adjusting the bowstring; and though Jacaerys chuckles, the sound is tight. 

“It seems I’ll need more practice,” He says easily, eyes flickering to your own warm gaze and leaping away when heat creeps onto your cheeks. Cregan merely claps him on the shoulder, a grin small and amused upon his visage, “Come with me, then. You’d best not distract my sister.”

A sheepish glance with hot cheeks between you and Jacaerys before you bow to him, sending a sharp glance to your brother.

The two leave you to your practice in search of a hearth in which to discuss before; and you nod to them, cheeks alight and eyes trailing over the silver dragon holding together the Prince’s furs. 

THE DAY JACAERYS TELLS YOU IS A DAY BROUGHT ON BY A SQUALL OF ICE AND SNOW.

Since his arrival, days have fallen in succession of clear skies and silent winds; and with the weather has brought a change in your betrothed. You have spent most days watching frost curl over begging pines from your chamber windows with growing unease - though your warmth is still shared well and kind between you, Jacaerys grows agitated in his time away from the war; a thing you understand too well, and wish to ease in the coming days. 

And, unlike the days of his arrival, there is too much to do now to any longer relish in the still-present small moments – the times which bring in the smell of holly and pine, of clove and spiced wine, of wide smiles and the steaming scales of your betrothed’s ancient accompaniment. 

The wedding has been planned – and in only a few more days, you and Jacaerys will become one; you will whisper words long thought and wondered, you will bind your palms, you will share your blood. 

Though in no way unsure of the union, still lingers the presence of something unspoken – in the growingly distant amber eyes, in the insecure stuttering of words, in the shaky palm which soothes over your own underneath leathered gloves. It seems Jacaerys furrows his brow in riddles more and more these days – and a darkness follows, some weight that brings his lips to drop and his voice to taper in the ends of sentences. 

You have begun to wonder once more why indeed a union between you and Jacaerys was so suddenly proposed by the Queen. 

Your breath shows against the casement; The day has brought with it more than a chill – and in search of an excuse, you wonder if the Prince has drawn a large enough hearth, if he has found furs thick enough to stave the chill. Yourself, a girl sewn and grown from Northern soils, still finds a strike of shiver from your veins when you rise from your own hearth; and so, with a small flash of worry and a gathering of pelts from your own bed, you set off to the guest quarters. 

JACAERYS SITS BEFORE HIS HEARTH. 

He welcomes you with a nod and a gesture to join him upon the settee; you deposit the armful of furs upon his bed with a gentle breath and murmured words – and though it is well into the morning by now, Jacaerys looks as though sleep evaded him in the night previous – teeth-bitten lips, mussed curls, a heavy gaze that lingers upon the melting flakes of snow in your hair. 

It is only moments of gentle conversation; a tale of the nesting owl above your chambers that brings a gleaming smile to Jace's eyes, a wonder of the turned crops coming from the Neck; mere half-hour passes before he, ever mindful, shifts towards your visage. 

“What troubles you?” he wonders – a stare that leaks with some unknown vulnerability, that stiffness that has still pervaded the pair of you despite your comfortability. 

And perhaps that very observation is it; you swallow down the rising resistance - a melting of icy hesitance, a heavy weight shared between shoulders so different yet destined.

Jacaerys watches unblinking – you notice for perhaps the first time the signet ring that perches upon his smallfinger, glinting black and ruby in the daylight. Your own ring – a wolf, dark and proud, sits upon your middle; and you wonder how indeed a wolf will fare in a den of dragons. 

You’ve spent enough time with Jacaerys – though this has been swaddled in the nest of the North; your own comfort of life, of family and that sweet soul-binding heritage. Perhaps what troubles you is this – of the impending binding of your life to his own by duty and blood: To know him and be known for the rest and beyond; of fighting a war not of your own making but of your own fate – and yet, with your love and devotion for him fostered and growing, leaking from your very core, it still feels foreign.

“I do not know,” you admit in a surge of emotion, glancing into the open pit of emotion within his gaze. “I cannot help but wonder…why,” you utter slowly, eyes shifting under the uncomfortable embrace of vulnerability. 

And his own vulnerability shows upon his sleeve as he turns to face you fully, drawn in silhouette from the glowing embers that warm the chill in your heart. “Why?” He repeats, eyes searching your own. 

You do not fear your betrothed; you know nothing but faith and conviction laced between your hand and his own. Jacaerys is of good blood; not in the sense perhaps that his ancestors might boast, but that of the same very blood your Northern people acclaim – honorable.

He, even in the unlikely instance of a lack of a lasting affection or love, will always hold you honorably as his wife, and in time his Queen – and this, indeed, you hold in common.

You will perhaps always hold flame for Jacaerys, even if time passes in your marriage and he does not hold such equal affections – and this is some comfort in itself, to know that he will protect you no matter where you lie within his heart. 

 Your words come easier in the passing moment, as Jacaerys awaits your gospel with the veneration of a knelt pilgrim – and you come to understand that somewhere within his breast is a flame alight; an affection returned, with your name burning there. 

Your lips part, and his eyes track the motion. 

“Our union. It is…” You swallow, “Unusual.” 

Your heart aches only in the flickered trace of sorrow that paints his gaze; he leans back to the settee, an expression clouded by unnamed emotions. It is not any absence of affection, then, from either of you – a coupling not lacking in love, then, but instead marked by a trace of fate that drags your heart into worry. 

After some time, your prince speaks. “It is rather custom to marry within the bloodline,” Jacaerys admits, hesitating. Amber eyes, flickering deep into the hearth, as if trying to light the embers that die down with just his stare; you wonder, faintly, if he could. His words are an echo of many nights swirling in doubt above your bedposts – and to hear them, a warmth of relief in your breast.

 “But there are other duties,” He murmurs, “–ones that even the Gods cannot ignore.” 

His tone has reduced to a rather trance-like state; your eyes, roaming the rich of his furs before focusing in the distance; a ring of clouds, circling the light of the sun just out of view. 

Beams of heavenly breath, breaking through the cold sky; a break in the squall, some gasp of mercy from the Old Gods – and a ring of light, sprouting from Jacaerys’s head. It is some ancient song, an echoing you’ve only truly felt in the silence of the crypts low below your feet – you blink twice at the sight of such a reverent sight, his grace outlined in the slope of his nose, the pout of his lips. 

His voice is lower than a whisper when it comes once more. 

“Aegon.” 

Rather struck by the light of heaven’s breath breaking around Jacaerys, your brows furrow; you tilt your head, rising to follow as your betrothed leaves the settee. His eyes are stuck on the flutter of snowflakes from the heavens, his back aflame with the fire of the hearth – and he stops before the window, blinking away frost. 

An odd, ancient feeling stirs in your mind – your shoulder brushes the fine tailoring of his cloak as you join him at the casement overlooking the Godswood; Your voice is clear against the blanket of quiet. 

“The Usurper?” 

His lips are pursed for a moment before a gentle shake of his head. “The Conqueror.” 

It is once again awakened – this seed of uncertainty, the knowledge of the trickling poison which drips from the old blood of Valyria and poisons the minds of those men upon their Stone – but you tilt your head to your Prince, considering his words. 

A breath that plumes against the crawling chill of snow, and Jacaerys’ voice is distant once more. 

 “I’ve heard his song.” 

Perhaps Jacaerys has been kept inside too long: In that way the cold can take a man’s mind – curl around it with frost, trickle ice into veins so sewn with fire; turn him mad. 

You take a small step closer; cold air upon your face, the warmth of his arm brushed against the peak of your shoulder.

It is an attempt, youthful and unsure, at comfort – though he accepts it as he turns to look at you. A gentle gaze, the kind he’s always saved for you, warming the side of your visage; you’re much too gone in thought, eyes stuck at the peek of red bleeding through the pines in the distance. 

The leaves are frosted, though they remain ever crimson, ever watching. You whisper to Jacaerys, eyes upon the godswood. 

“Dead men don’t sing, my prince.”

YOU FIND YOURSELF REFRESHED IN THE BREAK OF WINTERSNOW THAT AFTERNOON.

The Godswood; a sheltered overhang provided by the sprawling branches of the Weirwood – your knees floated within the chasmous snow pelted fresh-fallen and sweet onto the frozen earth.

Jacaerys rests near you – perched on what below lies a boulder, he watches the flakes fall gentle onto the surface of the pooled spring behind you, your quiet words deadened in the blanket of snow. 

The wind is forgiving today – and you can only hope, as you rise from your knelt position before the tree, that it will extend its mercy unto the ceremony in three day’s time. 

There is only the plume of your breath and the muffled compaction of your boots against the settled snow that accompany the short distance to your betrothed. 

Steam rises in tendrils from the warmth of the pond’s depths; a simmering fate from the icy flakes which flutter onto its surface, giving the last breath of their life in sacrifice for its own. 

“How fares Vermax?” 

Your voice carries with it that sullen evergreen repose – Jace looks up at you from where he sits, a small smile gracing his countenance. “He has found a cave to the West.” 

You nod with a knowing smile, lowering yourself to perch beside your betrothed upon the soft snowed earth, your furs dark against the bright kiss of the Gods. “I wondered if he might,” You murmur, recalling the natural springs not unlike the one you sit before; their warmth a relief to any who are graced by their presence within the caves of the slopes. “It would do him well to return home soon.” You murmur, eyes roving over the hands, ungloved and calloused with cold and fight, which rest in Jacaerys’ lap. 

Perhaps in resistance to the weather or from the heat of your attention, he flexes his lithe fingers; and with the breath he takes, he looks to you. “He’s never quite agreed with the North.” He admits with a soft smile. You nod thoughtfully, wondering indeed how such a being of fire could fare against the land of ice. 

“And his rider?” You wonder then, eyes hinged on a swaying pine in the distance, its needles shed of snow as a pile falls to the ground. 

Jacaerys looks at you with that expression once more – a warm one, but one hesitant by nature. “I’d say he is learning to weather it,” Jacaerys answers with a lingering smile, though his gaze shifts momentarily to the horizon, where the faintest sliver of dusk begins to creep through the flurry of snowflakes. “He's come to learn that it grows on a man, much like its people.”

Your lips curve in a bout of shy flattery, and you shake your head. 

A loss for words stretches on into more; the water is calm in its reflection, and you watch snowflakes flutter from the stretch of gray, kissing your hair and tangling in your lashes. The clearing is large, though still so very intimate – it is not long before your thoughts meander to the days ahead, to the many preparations still to be done despite your moment of respite. 

After a beat, you speak into the blanket of quiet. 

“Three days.” You muse, blinking away flurries of white and turning to your betrothed. “Does it not feel strange to you, that in so little time, we are to be bound?”

Jace exhales, his breath clouding the air which swirls before you, and you look up to him in wait. He tilts his head just so, blinking away flakes as they come to kiss his flushed skin. You watch them melt to his lips with some faint lick of envy. 

His voice is hardened by the deadened air of winter, though you know there is nothing but kindness laced within. “There is no hesitation in me, if that is what you ask.”

A warmth pools within you at his chosen words, at the thought of he and you, under the very tree which you now sit, joint in hands and bound by blood. 

Perhaps it is that small yearning that festers unsaid in your heart – or it is the residual worry of his words of songs and men long-dead this morning in his chambers; but you press on gently. “And why is that, my Prince?” 

He looks into your eyes, then – and you see some search for verity amidst the downfall of snow; your fingers are cold, and they itch to hold his own. “Do you hold your own reservations?” In his tone holds no such judgement; merely the curiosity of a boy no older than one and twenty – and you, in the same turn of years, shake your head. 

“No, I–” Your lip is bitten once more, and his eyes remain upon them despite the flush on your cheeks. “I suppose I just wish to know,” You whisper, swallowing thickly, “If it is all… for strategy.” 

Jacaerys takes a moment; you allow it, watching as the flakes fall into the curls, as his eyes skim over the Northern edge of Winterfell, falling somewhere far, far beyond. “It is not simply a duty for me,” He chooses, tracing your visage with the care befitting of one who’s known you for life. “I believe you know this.” 

And perhaps you do; you smile under his accusation, tilting your head. “I suppose so, though I should like to hear you say it,” You admit, looking towards the very horizon he’d worried over. A murder of ravens, cutting dark through the gray blur of afternoon. “You speak too much in riddles these days.” 

It seems as though your words penetrate whatever foggy worries swirl within his sharp mind; and he nods solemnly. 

“You’re right,” and his voice is quieter now, guarded; unsure whether to reveal what such odd whisperings might mean. “I must have you know,” he starts, glancing to you, “that my care for you goes beyond duty.” 

His words are a balm to the brunt of fate that now befalls you; his cheeks as pink as your own, and he whispers kindly. “I have long held an affection for you in my heart, and hoped you might feel the same.” 

Any words of agreement are halted upon your lips when Jacaerys takes another breath, one laced with the weight of a realm divided: “But after Lucerys…” He clears his throat once more and you are struck with his pain.

Your palm finds his knee in some hope of comfort provided; his own falls atop it. “Princess Rhaenys and Meleys fell at Rooks Rest while I travelled North; a war wages still - and yet I had to come. I know you wonder why, and you deserve to know.” 

And you wait with breath bated, as you have for many days in wonder of why indeed now seemed fit for the Prince to come to the North for you. 

“My mother… shared something,” he begins once more, his tone low, “Passed down through our blood, through King and King – from long before Viserys, to my mother, and now me... A prophecy.” 

Your stomach has grown a pit of anticipation, some dreadful cloud gathering above you. Your Prince blinks to you shortly, brows drawn in consternation - as though it is a far crime and violation, what he is to tell you. 

And then he begins: words strung with the cloudiness of destiny, of doubt lingering in a stream of worry – and you sway where you repose, in a blinking dread when mentions come of a common enemy, of a terrible winter long to come.

And you, then, are struck with thoughts – of the long nights at Castle Black; of the men who patrol the wild lands, who speak in hushed voices and train with hard hands – of the old memory of Death, which lingers in the dreams of Northern children and on the tongues of Septas sat before hearths. 

You turn your gaze from the Weirwood’s branches above to Jacaerys, who looks out over the horizon to the breath of twilight leaking through.

A song – a dead man’s dream; of the ice of the north, he explains, and the fire of Valyria. 

It is a cold many minutes in which you breathe, a dread lingering between you and your beloved prince, hands clasped together and hearts beating as one. It does not do well to play on a foolish man’s beliefs – though your prince is no foolish man, and the hands of fate are too tightly bound. 

“You speak of fire and blood,” you whisper finally, “Of dreams that burn through the night?” 

The eve that falls is quiet, and the wind forgives your trespassing. He nods solemnly, your prince; and his absence of further response lets your mind wander.

Swirls of snow dance along the footprints left in your previous wake; the wind blows strands of hair across your vision.

Jacaerys’ eyes are amber pools and you drown in them, in the heat that has grown in the knowledge of words dreamt by a long dead man, in the legacy which leaks through each new crowned Targaryen. You drown in the knowledge that perhaps, in some way, a truth rings within this so-believed prophecy; secret as the lands which lie far to the North.

Your lips are wetted gently, shaking your head as you continue your thought. “But magic does not only run hot,” you murmur, “It does not only belong to the South.” 

His expression turns – and a weight which indeed shrouds him finds you too, cocooning you and your betrothed, binding you with threads of fate long ago tied and drawn. The woods whistle with the breath of winter, and you hear their song. 

“It is in the roots of the tree, in the bones of this land,” You admit, “My ancestors prayed to the Old Gods, and in return they whispered in the wind, spoke in the silence. And they, too, endure.”

Jacaerys shifts beside you and your palm is taken into the cradle of both his own. “I do not wish to burden you with such things.” He murmurs - and a memory of your brother's same words the day this very betrothal became so; it is forever, then, that the men of your life will wish to protect you from harm.

In the moment’s breath, you speak quietly: “–But such things are ours now, are they not?” You wonder aloud; and in the relief of a smile, he nods smally.

“There are threats to face sooner; I know it is no small ask to bring you into the throes of conflict. But perhaps our blood,” He murmurs, cheeks tinged pink, “might one day save the Realm.” 

An odd thought – but still one that does not change the truth: You go into the heart of the fire in three days’ time; but you will go with Jacaerys, and you will not be alone. A wolf in the South – and a dragon by her side. 

In the lingering peace of companionship, Jacaerys huffs gently. “I wish I could have done more,” He murmurs, “Ensured a proper betrothal.” His cheeks remain stained in that crimson colour against the fading light of the sky, and you resist the longing feeling to feel his lips against your own. 

You laugh, a short thing in the muffled quiet, “It matters not, Jace,” You promise, a smile small and kind upon your visage. In his shift, you slide gently between his knees – and your palms squeeze his own. 

“I’d have courted you,” He insists in that boyish nature you remember from those moons ago – and the air that’d frozen your lungs in the moments fallen behind has thawed into a budding giddiness. You smile at his tone, tilting your head. “Is that right, my Prince?” You tease, lifting your brow, “Taken me for strolls in the gardens, picked me flowers?” 

His smile is so boyish and hopeful; your heart skips as he nods. “Of course.” His grin grows softer as you shift. 

It is when the space between you narrows in a moment that you purse your lips gently, eyes tracing the curve of his own cherried lips. “Though my duty is to the North, it is also to the Queen,” You begin. His eyes fall to your own lips. “And to you. I hold love for you in my heart, Jacaerys,” You admit, cheeks warm, “And I am quite pleased to be your wife.” 

His hand leaves your own – and in its ascent, you see a slight tremor; when your face is cradled by his palm, you let your eyes flutter shut. 

It is only a momentary shock when lips, cold and light, press to your eyelid; a brushing so gentle, you wonder if it will not melt into the snow itself. 

Jacaerys’ breath lingers, a quiet warmth as he moves to your other eye, kissing away the flakes of snow which cling to you in reverence. A stirring in your breast as your hands find his cloaked arms, strong beneath your grasp; a whisper into the earth around you as snow falls. 

He pulls away only in a plume of warm breath that you feel against your visage; your eyes open to find his own, warm and wanting. A fire burns in you, and it calls his name – somewhere in the distance, Vermax roars. The edges of the pond lap over a small crust of ice, and your touch warms against your betrothed. 

“I was made for you,” He murmurs, lips chilled against your warm cheek; and you believe it. He says your name, and it falls from bitten lips with a desperation that sets your nerves ablaze; "I will love you with everything I am," He promises; and fingers trace the curve of your jaw, a gentle thing – a lingering of breath with your own, a hitch to your lungs as desire claws at your throat. Your smile is small and melts under the weight of heat.

In a moment, you cannot bear the space which lingers, small and unforgiving, between you; Without hesitation, your palms slide over his furs, kissed with snow – and soon, you card your hands through the curls at the nape of your betrothed’s neck. 

It is a pull towards your awaiting lips, and soon Jacaerys kisses you soundly. 

Hands slide to your waist, dropping from your jaw to cradle you between his legs, flush in the heat of shared life; and you, a blossoming flutter of affection and anticipation for nights to come. Hands tremble – yours, around his neck, his, curved around your waist. 

The snow falls heavier still – and a howl of wind that blows you closer to Jace, a short share of giggles between you, giddy and alight with some small kernel of hope. The Godswood is quiet, and your lips slide together in a shy, lingering sweetness; he pulls away from you only to press small kisses upon each exposed breath of skin you offer, and you laugh into the quiet, heart beating as one. 

“I am yours.” 

And for some time, a soft exploration of affections beneath the sprawling limbs of the tree – and the words fall from lips taking and giving, smiling and sighing, pursuing and pressing. 

The woods sing with the bells when supper is called; and so with hair tangled, cheeks warm, you rise together. 

Arm in arm, your betrothed and you retrace footprints kissed with the gift of fresh-fallen snow; words quiet and half-burdened with the weight of the future – but still remains the lingering of hope, the promise of love even in the dreary eve of fate. 

The Godswood of Winterfell echo softly with footfall; The warmth of the Great Hall awaits you both. Jacaerys presses a kiss to your knuckles, and you push open the doors together.

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