#light and night chapter card

[aishangotome]

Main Story Chapter 17 Card: Osborn - Free Fall (自由落体) | Light and Night 光與夜之戀

Episode 3

CW: Suicide.

♡———♡

6 Years Ago. Late Winter.

A fiery sunset dominated the sky, and on the vast racetrack, several cars sped through the twilight, vying for the lead.

The lead car pulled ahead, stopping first at the finish line.

Osborn emerged from the car, removed his helmet, and flicked the sweat from the ends of his hair. He swept a few stray strands of hair back from his forehead, revealing his sharp, piercing eyes.

Pu Ning: Osborn, you were on fire today! Did you break another record?

Pu Ning: We're heading to the front street for barbecue later, want to join us?

Osborn: No, I've got something to take care of.

Pu Ning: Got a date? Darn, someone beat me to it!

Osborn remembered leaving that morning, when the usually warm and smiling caregiver stopped him, her expression serious.

-

Caregiver: Osborn, do you have time tonight when you get home?

Caregiver: Mr. Ye's been acting strangely these past few days. I thought I should talk to you about it.

-

Ye Chuan's condition fluctuated, and Osborn had grown accustomed to it. He took a quick shower, stuffed his helmet into the locker, and called the caregiver.

Osborn: I'm finished here. I'll be home in half an hour. Could stay a little later? I need to talk to you about my dad.

Caregiver: Perfect timing, I just finished grocery shopping. I'll pick you up on the way. Wait for me, okay?

Osborn was surprised, but he didn't refuse.

Osborn: Okay.

On the other end of the line, he heard the low hum of a car engine starting, barely audible.

To make it easier for Ye Chuan to get around, Osborn had bought a used car, and the caregiver occasionally used it for groceries to save time, but this was the first time she'd offered to pick him up.

-

After getting ready, he stood outside the club, waiting for her. The sunset had faded from the twilight sky, and darkness was gradually swallowing the remaining light.

Soon, the car pulled up in front of Osborn, its doors bearing scratches from some neighborhood kid's stone.

He opened the passenger door, saw the ribs and greens in the back seat, and gave the caregiver a greeting.

Osborn: Thanks, Auntie.

Caregiver: It's no trouble.

The caregiver looked at him and gave a small smile, her face backlit, appearing oddly gloomy.

The car started again, and Osborn made small talk about dinner, his day, and Ye Chuan's condition.

Osborn: Has my dad been acting unusually lately?

Caregiver: Mr. Ye was fine today.

Caregiver: But a few days ago, I saw him secretly hiding his medication, throwing it away when I wasn't looking.

Osborn: What happened?

Caregiver: I don't know, he won't answer when I ask. You should talk to him when you get home.

Osborn: Okay, I got it.

Osborn frowned slightly and immediately called Ye Chuan's doctor to schedule an appointment. Outside, the sky was dim, and the streetlights hadn't come on yet. The car turned left at a traffic light, entering a side street.

Osborn: Auntie, did you take a wrong turn? This seems to be the opposite direction.

Caregiver: No... how could I make a wrong turn?

Her tone changed abruptly. Osborn turned to look at her, alarmed, and saw that her eyes were bloodshot.

Caregiver: This is the road you always take to the underground racetrack, right? Have you forgotten?

Osborn's heart sank, and the car's accelerator was suddenly floored. The old car shuddered, making a sound like it was about to fall apart, and lunged forward.

Osborn was thrown back into his seat, the scenery outside blurring. The memories he had tried to bury from six months ago came flooding back.

He saw his own reflection in the window, being swallowed by darkness, falling into a deep, icy vortex.

-

Six months ago, as a rising star, Osborn won several championship titles in quick succession, attracting the attention of the entire racing world.

With his exceptional skills and wild style, he was sought after by major media outlets. But this mysterious racer refused all interviews.

Beyond his name, people knew nothing about him. Rumor had it that he was the son of a business tycoon, hence his incredible talent. Only Osborn knew that it all stemmed from a deal.

Flowers, applause, fame, and fortune... those glamorous things were too distant to erase the heavy burden on his shoulders.

After signing the contract with Merodach, Osborn received his first "deposit" and paid off Ye Chuan's outstanding medical bills.

He underwent a year of intense training, pushing his physical limits, learning racing techniques, and participating in various programs. He often collapsed from exhaustion, suffering from spasms and vomiting.

With Merodach's influence, he quickly obtained an international racing license.

All of this was in preparation for fixed races—his real job for the bounty guild.

In the underground racetrack betting pools, money was merely an intoxicating number, driving countless gamblers to madness.

As Osborn's fame grew, more people bet on him. With a little manipulation of the results, the guild easily won vast sums of money.

Every racer craved victory, but that desire and pride were not insurmountable for Osborn.

Initially, he thought he would resist, but in that split second, he gently turned the steering wheel, deviating from the optimal line.

People thought he was unlucky to have a tire slip, but he was simply claiming his share of the reward. That dirty money could buy the medication to keep Ye Chuan alive.

When he received the money, he found himself strangely calm, even faintly pleased. Without a conscience, he felt no guilt in any action.

By day, he practiced on the track. By night, he competed in the underground races. To the public, he was a prodigy racer, barely an adult. To the guild, he was a member moving in the gray areas.

His young life oscillated between day and night, constantly crossing the lines between black and white.

Occasionally, when Ye Chuan was lucid, he would look at him with worried eyes.

Ye Chuan: Why are you so busy all the time? You look exhausted.

Osborn: I'm fine, just working a couple of jobs. I get bonuses if I work a little harder each month.

Ye Chuan: You don't have to push yourself so hard. I still have some savings.

Osborn opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Ye Chuan didn't know that his meager savings were long gone.

Ye Chuan: You're still young. What if you ruin your health?

Osborn: What could happen to me? You know I'm as strong as an ox.

Osborn: Once you're better, I'll go with you to your hometown to see the snow, and you can stop nagging me.

Ye Chuan: The snow in my hometown is beautiful, like goose feathers. I haven't seen anything like it since coming here...

The nostalgia in Ye Chuan's eyes glowed warmly. Since falling ill, he'd been constantly talking about the snow he saw as a child, as if he feared forgetting it entirely.

But Osborn had already etched that image deep into his mind.

He would take Ye Chuan to see the snow, to see the beautiful scenery he'd missed in his youth, while he still could. He was willing to sacrifice a lot for that.

-

The days blended into each other, and the growing fame became an even heavier burden of guilt.

Osborn silently isolated himself from everyone, except for the sufficiently outgoing Ke Yang, who became his only "friend" in the guild.

Ke Yang was only a few years older than Osborn, and had an unkempt, weathered look. He always wore a smile, making him seem approachable.

The first time Osborn went to the bounty guild, Ke Yang forcefully put his arm around his shoulders and dragged him to a roadside food stall.

Under dim lights, the rickety tables and chairs bore a layer of indelible grease, and the smoky barbecue hung thickly in the air.

Two men who couldn't scrape together a few bucks ordered the cheapest fried rice. The greasy fried rice wasn't exactly delicious, but it was devoured down to the last grain.

Ke Yang kicked back comfortably, sipping tea from a disposable plastic cup, boasting to Osborn as if he were a knight-errant discussing matters of the martial world over a large bowl of wine.

His life was always spontaneous. When he was broke, he’d eat a few dollars' worth of fried rice, and when he had money, he’d drag Osborn out for fun.

He knew when the city's bars threw out recyclables, and with the money they earned from selling beer bottles, they bought a used electric scooter.

-

After becoming motorized, they’d go for rides in the suburbs, pick fruit, skip stones on the water, and sneak into someone's fishpond to fish—mostly things that earned them glares.

Occasionally, Osborn envied this carefree life, but in reality, everyone was a rootless duckweed, tossed about in the wind and rain, eventually stumbling back into the dust.

Ke Yang: Why don’t you have other friends? Why do you like hanging out with me?

Ke Yang squatted on the roadside, rattling off the makes and models of the passing luxury cars. Osborn, asked this question for the first time, watched the car lights disappear like sparks in the night.

Osborn: Do cars count?

Ke Yang: Cars are inanimate objects, they're not friends.

Osborn: Then I don't have any other friends.

Osborn concluded. He thought of the people he met at Yuda Academy, and of the more distant past, those blurred shadows. But they were long gone.

Ke Yang: Do you want to leave the guild?

Osborn paused at the question. He had no real choice.

Osborn: Why did you come to the guild?

Ke Yang: I owed a lot of money. My family pawned off everything, except for my little sister. So, I pawned myself off instead.

Ke Yang: You shouldn't get involved in places like this, if you can help it. Especially since you’re still young, and you're in school.

Ke Yang: I didn't tell my sister. I found a good boarding school for her. I just want her to grow up happy and innocent.

He became earnest, shedding his usual nonchalant demeanor, but his eyes revealed an underlying helplessness.

Children understand everything. Hiding things from them is pointless. Once they understand, they won't be happy. Osborn opened his mouth, but then swallowed his words.

Osborn: I don't want to leave. I'm fine here.

Osborn: I know what you mean, but I've thought it through. Don't think of me as an innocent kid forced to come here.

Osborn: Even without all this, I'd still end up here.

Osborn looked at the passing cars, his cool evening breeze sweeping into his pale green eyes, as Ke Yang looked on in surprise.

Osborn: Someone like me was a mistake from birth. I hit teachers and principals in school, and I've been locked up.

Once a clean white paper has a stain, it's dirty.

Osborn: I belong here.

Ke Yang: That's nonsense! You’ve been influenced by those trashy movies and novels.

Ke Yang shook the beer can in his hand.

Ke Yang: What's that saying? To err is human, everyone gets confused and makes mistakes.

Ke Yang: Even a dirty white paper has correction fluid.

Ke Yang: The fact that you think this way proves that you know you've done wrong, and admitting your mistakes is good.

Ke Yang: I believe if you could start over, you'd do anything to make up for it.

Ke Yang: So, you have to forgive yourself.

Osborn: But can mistakes be forgiven? Will people trust him again?

Ke Yang: Of course, they can. Come on, hit me.

Seeing that Osborn didn't react, Ke Yang grabbed his hand and slapped himself.

Ke Yang: That hurt a bit, but I forgive you.

Osborn: ...

Ke Yang: Don't think of people as that stupid.

Ke Yang: We can tell the difference between intentional and unintentional, and we can tell when someone is genuinely sorry, or just pretending.

Osborn: What if—just what if—I was born evil? Without a kind heart?

Ke Yang: If you don't have one, you’ll grow one. Won't it just come out eventually?

Ke Yang: No one is born knowing to respect the elderly and love the young, or to stop at red lights and go at green lights. We're all taught.

Ke Yang: If you don't know, learn. Society will teach you.

Ke Yang: Don't always listen to the news about antisocial personalities. Do people with antisocial personalities always become criminals?

Ke Yang: Then they might as well do an ultrasound and check. If there's a problem, don't have the baby. See if they dare to implement that.

Ke Yang: If society didn't always label them as antisocial, and didn't deliberately lead them that way.

Ke Yang: If their parents were a little nicer to them, they would become good kids too.

Ke Yang stood up, his voice loud.

Ke Yang: Your life is long.

Ke Yang: Look ahead. Once you save enough money, stop gambling on races. Go enjoy your future openly and honestly.

That "open and honest" future seemed to be slowly coming true. The debts were gradually paid off, savings started to accumulate, and he won more and more races.

Osborn discovered he was very successful at fixing races, as if he had an innate sense for it, leaving no one suspicious.

He found a hidden sense of purpose in it. What should have been shameful, he did with ease. Until that incident.

That day was like any other. Osborn, holding the race winnings, was preparing to go home. It was raining heavily outside, the downpour drowning out all other noises, and the streetlights cast a hazy glow in the night.

Out of the corner of his eye, Osborn saw a man walking despondently in the rain. He had no umbrella, his gaze vacant and numb.

He looked to be in his forties, but his hair was completely gray, his thin frame hunched. One hand tightly clutched a crumpled racing bet slip.

Instinct told Osborn that the man had lost in the race earlier, and he followed him, almost against his will, hearing the muttered words carried on the rain.

Middle-aged man: I was so close to winning, why did I lose... How am I going to pay back the money I borrowed? I can't even afford treatment now...

From his words, Osborn pieced together the story: the man was seriously ill, had borrowed money to bet on the race, and had lost everything.

The man suddenly stopped at the bridge, turning to look at the cold river below. Osborn felt a sense of dread.

But it was too late. In the blink of an eye, he had vaulted over the railing and plunged into the water.

His action was decisive, as if he had nothing left to lose. The dark river was like an abyss filled with despair.

-

"Clunk"—the speeding car jolted over a speed bump, throwing Osborn high in his seat, only to be snapped back by the seatbelt.

The rationality in his mind quickly overcame the momentary negativity caused by the memory. He reached out to grab the steering wheel from the caregiver.

But, as if she had anticipated this, she pulled out a knife, thrusting it straight at him. There was no room to dodge in the cramped car.

Caregiver: It's all your fault! It's all because of you!

The knife plunged into Osborn's hand, bringing searing pain. He gritted his teeth, seized the knife, and pressed it against the caregiver's neck, while using his other hand to forcefully grip the steering wheel.

Osborn: Stop the car!

The car's front slammed into the roadside barrier. Osborn struggled with her erratic steering wheel, swerving aside just in time.

The car screeched along the barrier, finally grinding to a halt.

Caregiver: You ruined my entire family! May you rot in hell!

Osborn: ...You're Zhou Jianping's wife.

Hearing the name, her eyes blazed with even greater hatred. Ignoring the knife at her throat, she spat each word through clenched teeth.

Caregiver: Do you know how desperate he was?!

-

The rushing river swallowed the man in an instant. Osborn stood still, the rain hammering against his umbrella, like blows to his heart.

If the underground racing bets were exposed, everything he had built would collapse. He didn't care about his reputation, but he feared losing his income, feared he couldn't save Ye Chuan.

He kept telling himself: Just walk away, pretend you saw nothing. There are many unfortunate people in the world, you can't save everyone.

He walked forward step by step in silence, the splashes soaking his trouser legs. Suddenly, he stopped.

Without knowing why, Osborn dropped his umbrella and ran back, leaping into the river.

The river water instantly submerged him, the biting cold freezing all consciousness and senses, everything becoming distorted and surreal in the swirling water.

Cold, suffocation, silence, despair. For a moment, he thought he was back at Yuda Academy, undergoing punishment.

His limbs began to convulse involuntarily. He tasted the metallic tang of blood, and something sharp seemed to have cut his instep. The surging malice dragged him down into the depths, but his consciousness still seemed to be struggling to call out.

His hand closed around a fish, and he squeezed it with cathartic force, finally regaining his sanity.

Osborn opened his eyes and saw the man slowly sinking. A faint light emanated from him, seemingly from a phone screen lighting up.

He struggled towards that flickering light, like chasing the only glimmer of hope in the darkness.

He laboriously dragged the semi-conscious man to the riverbank and stuffed the entire reward into his arms.

As he did this, Osborn felt a wrenching emotion—his darker self resisting and mocking this ridiculous act.

After using a passerby's phone to dial 911, Osborn left the scene, thinking it was over.

However, when he went to the hospital the next day, where the ambulance had taken the man, he suddenly heard several terrified gasps.

No one knew how the man had opened the locked door to the rooftop. He fell from the sky like a broken kite, drifting down...

Such cases were not uncommon in the hospital. When people were terminally ill and unable to afford treatment, they chose death to avoid burdening their families.

And this man, Zhou Jianping, ultimately chose to leave that unexpected money for his wife and children.

Osborn retched into the trash can for a long time, the scene before him blurring and distorted, the world seemingly shattered into countless pieces.

-

Zhou Jianping's wife gripped Osborn's neck tightly. Perhaps fueled by despair and resentment, the woman's strength was such that he couldn't break free.

Caregiver: Die! Just die!

Osborn's vision began to blur, and the approaching death filled him with a strange fury. The knife in his hand moved uncontrollably.

For a moment, he had the urge to kill, a surge of malice. He forcefully pried the woman's arms apart and slammed her head against the car window.

Car audio: Little boat gently swaying in the water...

Someone had accidentally hit the button, and a children's song suddenly filled the car, the child's voice as clear as a spring.

Car audio: A cool breeze blows towards us...

Osborn felt the grip on his neck loosen slightly.

The sudden surge of malice vanished, and he abruptly released her, realizing he had just done something despicable.

"Why didn't you kill me?" he murmured.

Only silence answered. The hatred had gone from her eyes, making him feel even more ashamed.

Caregiver: Go. Consider that you've repaid him with your life.

She looked down at her bloodied hands and finally covered her face, crying out in grief.

Osborn was pushed out of the car. Listening to the woman's wailing, he felt an inexplicable premonition—perhaps she wouldn't survive for long.

The wind howled like a desperate cry. Osborn looked at the blood on the knife in his hand, a glaring red, like a spreading stain on the ground.

He suddenly raised his hand and slashed at his own neck, but the sharp pain brought no sense of relief.

Only more suffering.

The sound of sirens approached, but his consciousness was already drifting away.

Woman: Osborn? Osborn, are you alright?

-

Osborn frowned, his eyes snapping open. He was sitting in a car, and a gentle-faced middle-aged woman was looking at him with concern.

Osborn: Sorry, I must have fallen asleep.

His mind still held fragments of the earlier scene. Osborn rubbed his throbbing temples, clearing his head.

Woman: You must be exhausted. You can't overexert yourself at your age.

Woman: Zhou Zhou talks about you all the time. He'll be thrilled to see you. You're his role model.

As if to confirm her words, the school gates across the street opened, and a boy came running.

Zhou Zhou: Osborn-gege! Did you bring me a gift?

Osborn: Yes, but only if you've been good.

Osborn reached out and ruffled the boy's hair, seeing the shadows of his parents in his features.

Zhou Zhou: I've been very good! I help Mom with chores every day, and she rewards me with half an hour of soccer!

The woman smiled warmly at the boy and reached out to stroke his fuzzy head.

Osborn: No wonder I heard you only scored a 79 on your math test. You're spending all your time playing soccer.

Zhou Zhou: You used to run off and play all the time too! Don't talk about me.

Osborn: I got perfect scores when I was a kid.

The boy pouted in protest, but eventually, he awkwardly took Osborn's hand and ran toward the table tennis hall, demanding that he fulfill their promise from last time.

Zhou Zhou: You didn't finish the story last time. What happened to the uncle who lost the bet?

Osborn moved his fingers, the ping pong ball dancing nimbly between them. He lowered his eyes, a self-deprecating smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Zhou Zhou: That uncle got the money and got better. They lived happily ever after.

The real story had a different ending. After Zhou Jianping's departure, his wife, the woman who had worked as a caregiver at Osborn's house, silently succumbed to exhaustion one night.

When Osborn arrived at the impoverished home, only the young boy sat on the floor, bewildered.

That look of not understanding what had happened was disturbingly familiar.

For a moment, he seemed to see his younger self.

In the boy's clear eyes, Osborn suddenly confronted the truth he'd been running from.

He eventually took the boy in, finding him kind and gentle foster parents.

He kept everything hidden, but the stain remained, etched into his life, never to be forgotten.

-

The car parked at the curb, and Osborn got out. Zhou Zhou, holding his gift, waved happily.

Zhou Zhou: Goodbye, Osborn-gege!

Osborn: Goodbye.

Osborn watched the car drive away, exhaling a puff of white breath.

A cold touch landed on his cheek. He looked up and saw that it was snowing.

Ye Chuan: You're back?

The familiar voice rang out behind him. Osborn turned around and saw Ye Chuan waiting for him in the yard.

Ye Chuan: I heard the car, knew it was you coming home. Didn't expect it to snow this early. Are you cold?

Osborn: I'm fine. Why are you out here dressed so lightly?

Osborn let Ye Chuan's warm, rough hand take his, and they walked toward the house like they always did.

The snow in the yard fell heavier, drifting down as if to bury and cover all the filth of the world, offering a chance for both good and bad to start anew.

He went back to the yard and stood with the withered trees for a long, long time.

The snow kept falling, and perhaps when he woke up tomorrow, everything would be pure white.

-

5 Years Ago. Spring.

Osborn: It's me.

Merodach: Come in, have a seat. Send him out first.

Merodach: What'll you have? Whiskey or cola?

Osborn: Nothing. I'll be leaving right after I speak.

Merodach: Right, at this hour, you should be prepping for the race.

Merodach: A star racer suddenly showing up, something I should know about?

Osborn: I came to tell you I'm pulling out of the fixed race.

Merodach: That's mighty principled. Why agree to it in the first place? Suddenly your conscience kicking in?

Merodach: Xiao, didn't you once say you weren't the moralizing type?

Osborn: You're overthinking it. It's not about conscience.

Merodach: Is that so? Or do you think if you back out, the fix is off, and no one loses money?

Merodach: Well, listen up. Even if you don't do it, there are plenty who will jump at the chance.

Merodach: Besides, it's not like we're doing anything truly evil. We're just nudging the odds a little. No need to turn down a ton of cash.

Osborn: I'm just tired of driving like that.

Merodach: A reason, but not enough to convince me.

Osborn: I don't like being controlled. Driving with your restrictions is pointless.

Merodach: Osborn, you came in here all guarded the first time. Now you dare to talk to me like this.

Osborn: I've never been afraid of you.

Merodach: You afraid? Is there anything you fear in this world?

Merodach: Knew it. You're an untamable wolf cub.

Merodach: If you're not racing, how does the guild make money? This isn't a charity. We don't take freeloaders.

Osborn: You can have the bulk of my earnings from legit races.

Merodach: Not nearly enough. You think a single rigged race doesn't multiply the payout by a huge amount?

Osborn: I can do other things, like being a bounty hunter for the guild.

Merodach: Bounty hunting isn't just dirty work. It's risking your life.

Osborn: I'll trade my life for money.

Merodach: Ambitious. But beyond your current reach. You mess up, and no amount of fixed races can cover it.

Osborn: I'm not that weak. Most of the guild's hunters can't touch me.

Osborn: They've gotten too comfortable, like a pack of wolves with their teeth pulled. I just need experience, and that comes with time.

Merodach: Not bad. A lot of those losers are worse than you, kid.

Merodach: But we're a legitimate guild. We don't hire kids. Not interested in being a guardian.

Osborn: I don't recall those restrictions.

Merodach: Now you do. Come back and talk to me when you're an adult.

Merodach: Since you find the fixed races so dull, go do something else.

Merodach: Keep an eye on that conscience of yours. Don't let it grow back.

A Few Days Later

Wen Wan: Brother Xiao, this is the place.

Wen Wan: The files say he owes ten million. He promised to pay it back within a year. It's almost time, and he's only paid the interest.

Wen Wan: I asked around. They say he's a tough customer, slick and hard to deal with. How do we collect?

Osborn: Simple. Be more ruthless than he is.

Osborn: Open up! Chen Rongsheng!

Wen Wan: Xiao... Brother Xiao, don't force it. These guys will kill for money.

Osborn: Chen Rongsheng, don't pretend you can't hear me!

Chen Rongsheng: What do you want? You can't just barge in...

Osborn: Fine, I'll stand here. You have three minutes to pay up.

Chen Rongsheng: I'm a bit short right now. Give me another month, please. I'll definitely pay then!

Osborn: A month, huh? Have you written your will? I can give you an hour to do it.

Chen Rongsheng: No, no, no! Let's talk this over. Sit down, sit down.

Chen Rongsheng: You look a little unfamiliar. What's your name? You don't know, it's not that I don't want to pay, I have my reasons.

Chen Rongsheng: It's so hard to do business these days. Every company, every industry has delayed payments. Who can say they've never had cash flow problems?

Chen Rongsheng: They owe me for months too. What can I do? Look at me, I barely have rice left at home!

Wen Wan: Osborn, he really does seem to be in a tough spot...

Osborn: Really? I heard you bought a new car two months ago. You could get 850,000 for it if you sold it now.

Chen Rongsheng: That... that's my friend's car. I borrowed it. You need to drive a nice car for appearances in business.

Chen Rongsheng: I'll show you my bank texts. The funds are already in process. It's the honest truth.

Chen Rongsheng: I didn't mean to delay payment. I just need a little more time. I'll pay it all next month!

Osborn: I don't have time for your nonsense. If you don't have money, use something else as collateral.

Chen Rongsheng: What are you trying to do? Don't do anything rash! I have old folks and kids at home. You can't afford what happens to them!

Chen Rongsheng: Thief! There are thieves here! Robbery in broad daylight!

Osborn: Let's go.

Wen Wan: Osborn, wait for me! Where are you going?

Chen Rongsheng: You think you can mess with me, kid? You don't even know your place. Still wet behind the ears. What's with the crying? Shut up.

Chen Rongsheng: Still barking? Shut your mouth. I feed you, give you water, and you whine like that when I kick you? You want me to boil you?

Chen Rongsheng: You... what do you want?

Osborn: What do you think we want?

Osborn: You need more time, right? You need to put something down as collateral. Your legs look pretty good to me.

Osborn: What's wrong? Weren't you having fun kicking that dog? Pick one. Left or right?

Chen Rongsheng: This is a society with laws...!

Osborn: Don't worry, we'll find someone who will not tell. Besides, we are not afraid.

Osborn: First month, two legs. Second month, two arms. What's left for the third month?

Chen Rongsheng: I'll pay! I'll pay right now! I'll go get it!

Osborn: Did you count it? Does it match the amount?

Wen Wan: Yes, it's all there.

Wen Wan: Osborn, you're amazing! He paid right away!

Osborn: I've dealt with plenty of scoundrels like him. Let's go. Time to report back.

Wen Wan: Osborn, that yellow dog from his place is following us.

Osborn: Walk faster.

Wen Wan: Okay.

Wen Wan: Osborn, it's still following us. It's been following for almost a kilometer. What's up with this dog? Does it think you're its master?

Osborn: Tsk.

Osborn: Hey, go back. If you follow us again, I'll boil you and eat you.

Wen Wan: Haha, it's still following you. It's really taken a liking to you.

Wen Wan: It's pretty cute. Maybe... we should take it back and keep it?

Osborn: I don't have those kinds of hobbies. Walk faster.

Wen Wan: If you don't want it to follow, we can take a taxi. It's so skinny, it won't be able to keep up.

Osborn: Why do you talk so much? Walk faster.

Wen Wan: I am walking fast, I was waiting for you...

-

5 Years Ago. Early Summer.

Stay away. My dog bites.

Wen Wan: Osborn, you're here?

Osborn: He's inside?

Wen Wan: Yep. I've been watching. He's been hiding in there the whole time.

Wen Wan: Should we go in now?

Osborn: Do nothing. Just hold onto the dog.

Dog: Woof woof!

Wen Wan: Lucky! You're here too! You've gotten so fat!

Osborn: What did you just call him?

Wen Wan: Lucky. Look, Osborn, ever since this dog started following us, we've never failed to collect a debt. What else would he be?

Wen Wan: You never gave him a name, so I just started calling him that.

Osborn: I'm not his owner. Why would I name him?

Osborn: Lucky? Tsk, how awful. Can't we change it?

Wen Wan: What should we call him then? I'm not good at naming things. I'd have changed my own name by now if I could.

Osborn: Where are the debtor's files?

Wen Wan: Here! This old guy is in a bad situation. His son died from illness, his daughter-in-law is gone too. He already had a mountain of debt, and now his only granddaughter has brain cancer.

Wen Wan: I don't know if it's benign or malignant, if it can be operated on, if she'll recover. She's so young, how could she get a disease like this?

Wen Wan: This old guy works on construction sites during the day and sells fried noodles at night. He fell recently, and he's too afraid to even go to the hospital.

Wen Wan: This is the eighth one. We've collected debts over ten times, and we've run into eight people in situations like this.

Wen Wan: Why does suffering always target poor people? The rich are living just fine.

Osborn: Debts need to be repaid. That's how it is. There are a lot of pitiful people in the world. Except for gamblers, almost everyone who is driven to the edge is pitiful.

Osborn: Besides, this guy used borrowed money to buy illegal lottery tickets and lost a lot.

Wen Wan: He probably doesn't know those illegal lotteries are scams played by rich people to take money from the poor.

Osborn: You, knock on the door.

Wen Wan: Li Xinguo, open the door.

Li Xinguo: Who is it?

Li Xinguo: You... Who are you? Hey, don't come in...!

Osborn: Hold on. Don't touch him yet.

Wen Wan: Li Xinguo, it's been half a month past the deadline. When are you planning to pay back the money you owe?

Li Xinguo: I... I don't have money right now. Please have mercy. Can you give me a little more time?

Osborn: Do you think we came here to negotiate?

Osborn: You have money to buy illegal lottery tickets, dreaming of pie falling from the sky. You're not afraid of choking on it?

Li Xinguo: I didn’t… And that was only a small amount. And what if I win!

Osborn: Do you know that's a scam?

Li Xinguo: How could it be a scam? I had a customer who made 500,000 from the lottery. He even taught me how to pick the numbers.

Little Girl: Grandpa!

Little Girl: Grandpa, you haven't taken your medicine.

Little Girl: Who are you? Are you doctors?

Li Xinguo: Nannan, why did you come out? Don't be afraid. Grandpa's fine.

Osborn: How old is she?

Li Xinguo: Eight… Eight years old.

Osborn: Get the child out of here first. You don't want her to see this, do you?

Li Xinguo: Sigh... Nannan, be good. Grandpa has something to talk about with these two big brothers. Go play in the yard for a bit, don't go too far.

Little Girl: Okay, I'll be good. Bye, mister.

Osborn: Now, where's the money?

Li Xinguo: I... I really can't. Nannan's medical bills are a bottomless pit. I'm old, no construction site will hire me anymore. I can only do odd jobs.

Li Xinguo: As you can see, everything in this house that could be sold is gone. All that's left is my old life.

We're not running a charity!

Li Xinguo: You're different from the others who came before... Can't you understand my family's hardship? I'll pay it all back eventually.

Osborn: You're mistaken. I'll be even harsher than them.

Osborn: This house is still worth something.

Li Xinguo: No! This house isn't worth much. If I sell it, I don't care about sleeping on the streets, but what about my Nannan? She's only eight, and she's sick...

Li Xinguo: Please, give me some more time! Please, good people! After her surgery, I'll give you my life!

Li Xinguo: You can take my organs and sell them! I know a kidney can sell for 700,000!

Osborn: Your life isn't worth much. A poor person's life is worth the least, don't you know that?

Osborn: Wen Wan, guard the door.

Wen Wan: Got it! Osborn, do you need any help?

Osborn: No. He's just an old man. It'll be quick.

Li Xinguo: Please, please don't hit me! Don't hit me! I really don't know what to do!

Osborn: Take this money.

Li Xinguo: You...?

Osborn: Go to the hospital. See if the kid needs surgery. If she does, do it as soon as possible.

Osborn: If I find out you've used this money to buy lottery tickets, consider it payment for your life.

Osborn: Understand?

Li Xinguo: Yes, yes! I won't waste a single penny of this money! Nannan and I will repay you in our next lives!

Osborn: Don't even think about running away and dodging the debt. You know the consequences.

Dog: Woof woof!

Little Girl: Haha, good doggie, don't lick my face!

Osborn: Stay away. My dog bites.

Little Girl: But, but he didn't bite me.

Osborn: Hold out your hand.

Little Girl: Ooh... What's this?

Osborn: Candy. Throw it away if you don't want it.

Osborn: Go back inside. Your grandpa is waiting for you.

Little Girl: Thank you, mister.

Osborn: Coming? We should go back.

Wen Wan: Right, Osborn!

Dog: Woof!

-

5 Years Ago. Midsummer.

After reaching adulthood, Osborn took on the profession of a bounty hunter.

Although this gray area operated outside the bounds of established order, and he faced numerous life-threatening situations, he established his own set of rules, ensuring that at least the money he earned was clean.

Certain past emotions had long since ceased to surface. His violent tendencies seemed to have significantly lessened as his life gradually moved onto a more stable track.

During this time, he received an acceptance letter from the Maritime Academy.

Ye Chuan was overjoyed for a long time.

The Maritime Academy employed a semi-military style of teaching and management. To accommodate Ye Chuan, and considering his need to practice racing, Osborn arranged to be a day student.

On the first day of military training, during roll call, the instructor shouted Osborn's name through a megaphone for a long time without any response. Eventually, they discovered that his military training uniform had not been collected, and he hadn't shown up.

Thus, Osborn's name became well-known among all the struggling, newly arrived trainees.

However, he remained unaware of this until his homeroom teacher, who had been unable to reach him, located the racetrack by using the information on file.

-

Pu Ning: Osborn, someone is looking for you!

Osborn's car had just stopped when he heard Pu Ning's boisterous voice. Pu Ning winked and nudged his head, signaling him to look behind him.

Standing there was a stern, old-fashioned middle-aged man with a ramrod-straight posture, exuding the cold, rigid air of a military man.

Man: You must be Osborn. I'm your college homeroom teacher, my name is Wu.

Osborn: Oh, hello, Mr. Wu. What's the matter?

Osborn took off his helmet, thinking it strange: Why would college require homeroom teachers to make house calls?

Mr. Wu: Because we couldn't reach you by phone, the school was worried something had happened. That's why I came to check.

Mr. Wu: The school started organizing military training for new students yesterday. Were you notified?

Osborn: Probably. I'll apply for an exemption.

Mr. Wu: May I ask why?

Osborn: I don't have time, and I don't like that kind of formalistic stuff.

In the academy, he’d been forced to participate in that kind of barbaric and useless training multiple times—Osborn curled the corner of his mouth in impatience, looking at the man before him.

But, contrary to his expectations, the man didn't seem angry or critical; he even smiled gently.

Mr. Wu: I can allow you to skip military training, but you have to participate in tomorrow's cross-country race and get first place for our class.

Mr. Wu: If you can't, I'll deduct your academic credits according to school regulations.

Osborn: Just a cross-country race?

Mr. Wu: Yes, tomorrow at five in the morning, meet at the school's main track and field.

He looked at Osborn calmly, seeming sure he wouldn’t refuse. Osborn tapped his helmet with his finger, weighed his options, and nodded in agreement.

Osborn: Alright, I'll be there tomorrow.

Osborn: I still need to practice, so I won't see you out.

After saying that, he put his helmet back on. Before climbing into the driver's seat, he heard the man behind him compliment him.

Mr. Wu: You drive very well.

The answer he received was the roar of the engine, the speeding car leaving a heat wave in its wake.

At five o'clock the next morning, as dawn was just breaking, the Maritime Academy's parade ground was already filled with organized formations.

Osborn silently strapped on his weighted vest and fell in at the back of his class's line. Some people curiously glanced at him, while others attempted to strike up a conversation.

Osborn ignored everyone, putting on his headphones to block out all approaches.

A 60-kilometer weighted march was nothing to a real military unit, but it was a daunting number for newly enrolled students.

This cross-country race was organized by class, and no one was allowed to fall behind. By the halfway point, most people were exhausted, reaching their breaking point.

The first person in the line who couldn't keep going finally appeared. His legs buckled, and he was about to collapse backward when Osborn grabbed his backpack strap and pulled him up.

Classmate: Th-thank you.

To the other person's surprise, Osborn took half of his weighted vest and added it to his own shoulders.

Osborn: What are you looking at? Keep moving.

He gradually moved to the front of the line, silently leading everyone. His steps grew heavier, but were exceptionally firm.

In the end, due to too many deducted points, he still only managed to get second place and reluctantly took the military training uniform from his homeroom teacher.

Homeroom Teacher: Osborn had some family matters to attend to these past few days, which is why he didn't participate. He'll be training with you from now on.

Murmurs arose from the students below, and several who had lagged behind during the cross-country race blushed and apologized to him.

Classmate: Sorry, Osborn, we held you back earlier. Otherwise, we definitely could have gotten first place.

Osborn: It's fine. It was just a race.

Osborn's attitude was aloof, but it couldn't stop curious classmates from coming up to talk to him, either with enthusiasm or friendliness, which he found somewhat overwhelming.

The college life he had thought he would simply endure seemed to start changing from that moment on.

After military training, Osborn still made time to attend classes when he had them, practiced with the racing team the rest of the time, and went home to take care of Ye Chuan in the evenings.

-

One day, Osborn made a slight error while practicing with the racing team.

His right wrist had been injured a few days prior during a mission, and the pain was magnified while driving, affecting his control.

The wheels of his car swerved at a turn, and if he hadn't corrected it in time, the car would have crashed head-on into the wall.

The wheels left deep skid marks on the ground. Osborn rubbed his throbbing wrist, a hint of anxiety surfacing.

He explained the situation to the coach and was about to leave when he noticed a few familiar faces peeking furtively through the entrance.

Classmate A: I told you, Osborn is the genius racer!

Classmate B: No wonder he rarely comes to class. If we get close to him, can we come watch the races next time?

They didn't realize they had been spotted until Osborn approached. They awkwardly scratched their heads and then began praising Osborn's driving skills.

Osborn: Non-staff members aren't allowed on the track.

Osborn frowned, wanting to scold them, but the excited and admiring looks of his classmates made him hold back.

Osborn: Keep it a secret, got it?

Classmate A: We will, we will! I'm Chen Nuo, can we get your contact info, oh great one?

Classmate B: I'm Li Yu!

The boys immediately took out their phones and exchanged contact information with Osborn.

Gradually, Osborn realized college wasn't as dull and boring as he'd thought. Without realizing it, he had even made a few friends.

Some were there because they admired him as a racer, while others came to challenge him and were subdued by him.

When race season came around, Osborn would temporarily put his schoolwork aside and focus entirely on racing.

The thrill of the racetrack not only made him feel free, but also earned him maximum leniency from the school's leadership.

-

When Osborn got home after a race, he heard Ye Chuan talking to someone. He stepped into the courtyard and saw Li Yu holding a thick folder.

Li Yu: Osborn, Old Wu asked me to bring you some stuff!

He handed the folder to Osborn, who squeezed it and roughly guessed what it was.

Osborn: You didn't have to bring it all the way here. I could have picked it up.

Li Yu: Heh heh, I had some free time anyway. Oh, and don't forget the exams start next week.

Li Yu: Also, good luck with the race! I'm off!

Ye Chuan: Going already? Why not stay for dinner? I just bought a fish.

Li Yu: No, no, we have a study session tonight, I need to get back to school!

He waved his hand and dashed out the door.

Osborn: Thanks.

Ye Chuan, watching the faint smile on Osborn's face, looked relieved.

Ye Chuan: You rascal, saying you didn't want to go to school, but you seem pretty happy about it.

Osborn: You make it sound like I'm a kid in kindergarten who doesn't want to go to school.

Osborn opened the folder and found, as expected, photocopies of the exam key points for each subject, making him lightly click his tongue.

Ye Chuan: I've noticed you've really changed a lot since starting college. You're not as solitary as you used to be. Look, you even have classmates coming to see you...

What he really wanted to say was, "You're finally willing to tell classmates where you live, instead of never inviting anyone home like you used to." Seeing the satisfied look on Ye Chuan's face, Osborn gave a rare response.

Osborn: College's alright, I guess. It's not bad.

Ye Chuan: Since you're getting used to it, why not live in the dorms next semester? That way, you can experience the full college life.

Osborn: Nah, what kind of experience is it, crammed in with a bunch of people? This is fine.

Seeing his firm stance, Ye Chuan didn't push it and switched to another topic.

Ye Chuan: How's the racing team going? Have the races been going well these past few days?

Osborn: It's going great. I can buy you a condo downtown anytime.

Ye Chuan smiled, the lingering worry in the wrinkles around his eyes softening, as if he were young again.

Ye Chuan: Ah, life is really getting better.

Ye Chuan: Things are great as they are. Don't push yourself too hard, and don't enter races that are too dangerous!

Osborn: I know, just lay off the nagging.

-

College life had become much more interesting. Occasionally, when Osborn had time at school, he would be dragged to play basketball against other classes as a "secret weapon."

His excellent physical fitness and strong reaction skills made him unstoppable on the court, occasionally reminding him of the times Ye Chuan would drag him to dominate the neighborhood basketball courts.

Osborn nimbly dodged a few defenders, leaped high, and dunked the ball, turning to high-five his teammates who ran up to him.

Osborn: I should head back now.

Chen Nuo: Come on, it's still early! Let's go grab some barbecue!

-

The snack street outside the school was a melting pot of food from all over, attracting many students.

Chen Nuo: It's the weekend tomorrow, the school won't care! Come on, let's drink till we drop!

After the clink of beer bottles, the cold beer washed away the heat from the previous exercise.

Chen Nuo: Osborn, I really admire you. You seem to be good at everything!

Li Yu: Except for exams. He always barely passes, like he can automatically avoid the right answers. Old Wu thinks he's doing it on purpose.

Osborn: I'm not aiming for a scholarship. Let someone else have it.

Sitting at the food stall, the summer breeze felt warm and intoxicating, and the relaxed laughter around him made Osborn feel completely at ease.

The bubbles in the beer bottles rose and burst, making tiny popping sounds. The enthusiastic calls of street vendors mixed in, blending with the fragrance of food carried on the warm breeze.

Under the orange glow of the streetlights, everything seemed so lively, joyful, and full of vibrant life.

On the way back, a few people had gotten drunk and were loudly singing on the empty nighttime sidewalk, their tune completely off-key.

Chen Nuo: Osborn! Drink!

Chen Nuo held up a can of cola and clinked it against Osborn's phone, took a swig, and then complained that the drink tasted wrong.

"Buzz"—Osborn looked down and saw a text message he had just received.

Ye Chuan (SMS): What time are you coming home today? I'm waiting to play a round of the newest Minesweeper with you.

Osborn chuckled, pressing a few buttons on his phone to reply.

At that moment, he suddenly had a feeling that he was living his life in this world earnestly.

He no longer felt like a passerby or someone who always stood on the opposite side of everything. Osborn's name seemed to have a weight of its own.

He was being called by people with anticipation, praise, enthusiasm... with all sorts of different emotions.

In these calls, an Osborn utterly different from his former self was emerging into the world.

Chen Nuo made a shooting gesture and tossed the empty cola can into the trash, putting his arm around Osborn's shoulders and saying loudly.

Chen Nuo: I never thought I'd have such a brilliant racer as a classmate!

Chen Nuo: Osborn, you can't forget about us in the future... I'm going to ask for your autograph!

Osborn listened, thought for a few seconds, and suddenly felt like confiding in them.

Osborn: Maybe I won't be racing anymore in the future.

Chen Nuo: What, you're not racing? Why?!

Everyone seemed surprised, asking him in unison. But Osborn, under their gaze, was calm.

Osborn: No one races forever. There's always retirement.

He said it casually, as if he wasn't the internationally renowned and promising genius racer, but just an ordinary enthusiast.

Osborn: I never planned to race for that long anyway. I just like the feeling of driving, but that doesn't mean I'll be a racer forever.

Osborn: More than leaving the track, I dislike being bound by one thing.

Osborn: When racing becomes a constraint, I'll naturally leave.

Osborn: There are so many interesting things in life I haven't experienced yet.

Li Yu: What do you plan to do in the future?

Osborn: Haven't thought about it yet.

Osborn grabbed a leaf that was blown off by the wind and tossed it back into the breeze.

Osborn: It probably won't be one fixed thing. Like sailing at sea, you can't see the destination, but you keep moving forward.

Osborn: You can try everything along the way.

Li Yu: I really envy you, having the means to decide your own future.

Li Yu: Me, I studied this major because of my parents' expectations. I actually wanted to go to music school.

Li Yu: But my dad... Well, you can always chase your dreams again. Some things, once lost, never come back.

Li Yu stopped talking, looking ahead with a somewhat lost expression, as if he were also drunk.

-

When Osborn got home, Ye Chuan was still awake. Judging by the game time in the corner of the TV screen, he must have been stuck on a level for a long time.

Ye Chuan: You went out to play with your friends from school? Come on, you take this level.

Osborn took the game controller and deftly maneuvered the character on the screen, jumping, dodging attacks, and moving forward.

As he played, he asked Ye Chuan.

Osborn: Have you ever had anything you wanted to do?

Ye Chuan: Things I wanted to do? There were so many.

As if a dam had broken, Ye Chuan started rambling about his dreams, big and small, from childhood.

Ye Chuan: When I was a kid, I wanted to be a soldier, but I failed the vision test in the physical exam.

Ye Chuan: When I grew up, I didn't have much of an education, so I went to work at a fiber factory. I wanted to learn a trade and open my own shop, but I was laid off during the big wave of downsizing.

Ye Chuan: I noticed the breakfast shop at the entrance of the neighborhood is really popular, and I kind of want to open one myself.

Osborn made the character double jump over blocks, picked up a few gold coins, and replied casually.

Osborn: A breakfast shop requires you to get up and prepare at three or four in the morning. Your body can't handle that.

Ye Chuan: Then I'll open a mahjong parlor! Open at noon after I sleep in!

Osborn: You'd have to ban smoking, or you'd give in to your nicotine cravings.

Ye Chuan glared and slapped Osborn's thigh.

Ye Chuan: You're even more long-winded than me!

Osborn's hand shook from the slap, and the character on the screen fell off a cliff, displaying "GAME OVER."

Osborn: Tsk, if you want to open it, then try it.

Ye Chuan: Huh? Are you serious?

Osborn quickly found a location, completed the procedures, and when Ke Yang and Pu Ning had time, they would come over to help. With everyone's assistance, the mahjong parlor opened its doors in no time.

The shop wasn't large, with a dozen machines arranged in a simply whitewashed room. To alleviate Ye Chuan's workload, Osborn hired additional help.

Ke Yang, standing on a chair, hung the price list on the wall, adjusting its position according to Osborn's instructions.

Ke Yang: Uncle Ye, why are our prices set so low?

Ye Chuan: We can't do things that take advantage of people. If we earn a little less, so be it. The people living around here are all ordinary folks!

On opening day, both the guild and the racing team sent flower baskets, lining nearly half the street, creating a festive and lively atmosphere.

Initially, business was decent, with many people coming in to play. While the revenue was considerable, the profit after expenses was not very high.

Ye Chuan: Why does it feel like we haven't made much money?

Ye Chuan stared at the messy ledgers, feeling both a headache and bewilderment.

Osborn helped him go over the numbers and found that the parlor's operating costs weren't low: machine investment, utilities, labor, and Ye Chuan frequently giving discounts to neighbors.

Ye Chuan: I didn't expect to work so hard for months and still lose money!

Seeing that the mahjong parlor was unsustainable, Ye Chuan had a new idea.

Ye Chuan: How about opening a beverage shop? I see those are very popular with young people.

Osborn remained noncommittal. He transferred ownership of the mahjong parlor to someone else and helped Ye Chuan find a new storefront.

A month later, the bubble tea shop opened, but the location wasn't great, far from the commercial district, and it quickly became unprofitable, closing again after a few months.

After repeating this several times, even Ye Chuan stopped thinking about new business ventures.

Ke Yang: Osborn, I don't think Uncle Ye is cut out for business. Are you planning to keep doing this?

Osborn: I don't mind the losses. It's not a big deal.

-

Eventually, even Merodach couldn't stand it anymore and called Osborn in for a private meeting.

Merodach: I have a few shops you can practice running.

Merodach waved his hand, and someone immediately placed several shop contracts in front of him.

Osborn glanced at them and saw that they were all front locations for the guild, normal businesses on the surface, but they could also be used for client meetings or hideouts.

Osborn: Why are you giving me these?

Merodach: Word of your little endeavors has reached me. You're making me lose face.

Merodach impatiently tapped the table, his eyes full of disdain for Osborn's money-losing ventures.

Merodach: Profit sharing as usual, 80/20. Pick one and take it.

Osborn: If you're willing to give it, I have no objections.

Osborn: This one, then.

Osborn chose the bar; the simple reason was that Ye Chuan wouldn't come to such a place.

The previous ventures had taken their toll on Ye Chuan; his condition was showing some signs of relapse. Osborn decided to have him stay home and rest, go for walks, and play chess.

Merodach: This one suits you well.

The bar reopened after a few days of minor adjustments. The bar had a stable customer base, and Osborn spent his free time there.

Having worked in nightclubs before, he was well-versed in this kind of business and handled difficult drunk patrons with ease.

Initially, some people tried to cause trouble, seeing that there was a new owner. But after Osborn effortlessly took them down one by one, no one dared to cause trouble anymore.

However, even with the small number of customers, the bar's existing staff was struggling to keep up.

Pu Ning: I'm exhausted! I told you, you need to hire some more people. We're swamped in here.

Osborn, looking at the staff shortage list, had an idea.

Osborn: No rush to hire from outside. I'll find a few people.

That evening, Osborn found Li Xinguo at the hospital, taking care of his granddaughter. The little girl's surgery had gone smoothly, and she was about to be discharged.

Li Xinguo worked at the bar doing odd jobs in the back, with flexible hours that allowed him to take his granddaughter for follow-up appointments.

Occasionally, he would bring his granddaughter, letting her watch cartoons on the side. The little girl was a bit afraid of Osborn, but always obediently called him "Osborn-gege."

Osborn: You can head out first. I'll finish up the rest.

Osborn completed the remaining tasks and went back to the front. It was almost closing time, and only a few people remained in the bar.

Osborn noticed a young man in the corner, passed out drunk on the table, and went over to tap the table.

Osborn: Hey, wake up, we're closing.

The young man struggled to sit up, blinking his bleary eyes at Osborn for a long moment before suddenly shouting.

Youth: You're... Osborn! I recognize you!

The young man was gaunt, his eyes bloodshot, with a jagged scar running down his arm.

Osborn vaguely dredged up a familiar figure from his memory, a classmate from the Yuda Academy. What was his name—?

He was about Osborn's age, but looked much more defeated than Osborn remembered. His faded, worn clothing suggested he had not been doing well in recent years.

Osborn: I didn't know you could drink this much.

The young man stiffened and gave a bitter smile.

Youth: My family kicked me out.

Youth: I haven't been doing well mentally since I got out of that place. I can't concentrate on studying, and I can't find a job.

Youth: Who would accept someone with a tainted past...

Youth: How about you? You look like you're doing pretty well.

Osborn didn't answer the question, but sized him up.

Osborn: Do you want to work here?

Youth: What?

Osborn, too lazy to explain further, grabbed his collar, dragged him to the door, and called him a cab.

Osborn: We're hiring here. Clean yourself up and come for an interview tomorrow.

After that, the bar gained several new employees who looked like they were not to be trifled with.

There was the seemingly frail young man with a horrifying tattoo revealed when he rolled up his sleeves, and a burly man with a scar over his left eye...

They had all made mistakes in their youth and faced social stigma, struggling to fit into normal society. Osborn gave them a chance.

Occasionally, people felt indignant on Osborn's behalf. He was a promising racer with a college education, yet he was bound by the bounty hunter guild.

Everyone yearned for the bright side of life, placing their hopes on Osborn.

But Osborn didn't care. Being in the mud didn't necessarily mean getting dirty. The depth of life was not only determined by fleeting moments of color.

Now, he not only went to school, competed in races, and worked as a hunter, but he also managed a bar, and Osborn found life interesting.

The days that had once been filled with irreconcilable conflict, like an endless dark tunnel, were finally leading to the light again.

-

4 Years Ago. Early Winter.

Everyone has a monster living inside them.

When I worked at the nightclub, I once encountered a customer who, even when drunk, didn't cause trouble. He just sat in the corner, repeating the same phrase over and over: "Everyone has a monster living inside them."

Weird, right? Not at all like the kind of things people say when they're drunk. But back then, I was focused on making money and didn't pay much attention. Besides, having worked in that kind of place, I'd seen all sorts, nothing surprised me.

He usually left a few minutes before closing, leaving money under his glass. This happened week after week. He seemed very quiet and out of place, which made me somewhat curious and sympathetic.

One day, I was the last to leave. As I locked up and was about to go home, I saw him huddled under the eaves, drenched in rain.

I remember it was very cold that day, more like sleet than rain, so I hesitated and asked if he wanted to borrow my umbrella, he could return it tomorrow.

He turned around, his face looking utterly defeated. His face was nothing like I imagined. I guessed he was in his early twenties, but he looked much older. He called me "boss," put on a smile, and asked if I needed a ride. He happened to be a taxi driver.

As it turned out, it got even colder later, and snow drifted in through the car window that wouldn't close, soon coating my face and clothes. He was very apologetic, cursing the malfunctioning window and offering me plastic bags, saying they'd help if I put them over the window.

I didn't take them, just told him to drive faster. When we arrived, he asked for thirty, saying the meter was originally thirty-two. I guess he thought I would try to haggle, but I gave him thirty-two directly.

He looked at me incredulously. The quietness he had in the bar returned. He hesitated, seemed like he wanted to refuse, but in the end, he embarrassedly accepted. I didn't say anything more and turned to go home.

Before that, I was debating whether or not to tell him I knew he was taking the long way, but in the end, I chose to say nothing. I think I understood where his world-weariness came from.

Later, I heard from the head waiter that he had gone to jail for fraud and had used all the family's valuables to pay back the debt. His parents had gotten sick from the stress and passed away within a few months. He was driving a taxi aimlessly.

Not an uncommon life. I never saw him again, but later I heard he had started scamming people again.

This world has so many things that can bring out the devil in people. Before they see its power, people always think they won't change.

This unreasonable confidence wraps around people like an invisible umbilical cord, and no one can break free.

I forgot about this incident until I stood on the ship's railing, when that long-forgotten phrase suddenly popped into my head.

That was my first time at sea with my classmates after entering the Maritime Academy. I wasn't prepared at all, as if it was destined, I got on the ship without thinking.

I had left many things behind, with only wind and sunshine ahead of me. And the boundless blue sky.

I think that's the purest color in the world. You know, that was when my perception of the world completely changed.

It wasn't just watching TV or hearing someone say it, but experiencing it with my eyes and body. I realized there was beauty beyond the filth, and I was moved.

However, that vast scene abruptly ended when the sea surged. The lifeboat hadn't arrived, and the ship was already being pulled into the whirlpool.

My classmates had all jumped off, urging me to do the same. The waves were getting bigger, and I realized I would die if I didn't jump.

But for a moment, I really thought about giving up. I thought, let it end here. For me, life had never been about survival, but about punishment.

Until the seawater submerged me, those deliberately forgotten memories surged back.

Every time my hair was pulled until my scalp hurt by the "teacher," I had to take a deep breath to save enough oxygen. I knew what was about to happen: my mouth, nose, and eyes were sealed against the relentless water pressure.

I would struggle to release quick bubbles like a fish until the oxygen in my chest was exhausted. Water would enter my body with each weakening breath, burning my nostrils and throat, as if every second was on the verge of drowning, yet I couldn't even consciously choose to die.

I survived again, luckily. The bright lights of the infirmary welcomed me, not cold water, but concerned greetings. And Ye Chuan's worried eyes.

He didn't believe me when I said I was fine, and kept asking me questions on the way home until I had to change the subject to divert his attention.

The monster inside me had awakened, but Ye Chuan didn't need to know, and no one else did either. Because I would deal with it. No one could destroy what I had, not even myself.

When I got home, I brought in a washbasin, filled it with water, took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and prepared to plunge my head into the water—for a second, I even felt the physical pain.

I suddenly opened my eyes, staring at my reflection on the water's surface. His eyes were full of hatred.

It's okay, I can do it. But again and again, I couldn't face the cold water. Ye Chuan was always watching me from a short distance away, his worried eyes reminding me of spring nine years ago.

As I took another breath, the washbasin was snatched away, and Ye Chuan angrily emptied the water. I hadn't seen him so angry for a long time, so heartbroken.

But, I've been a gambler for eighteen years, there's no reason to stop here. I'll win, you have to believe me.

I found a new tool. The smooth, mirror-like water reflected the images on the screen. Furious roars, scarlet blood, and dismembered limbs after a fight flew across the phone screen.

I felt a sharp pain in my eyes, my stomach churned, and my cold limbs and the blood in my whole body began to boil angrily. The long-lost memories of that "academy" were injected into my veins again.

Not enough, not enough, even if my head was splitting and my heart was about to explode, I had to stare at all the pain, adjusting my restless breathing bit by bit. No one was pulling my hair anymore, I deliberately buried my head in the cold water.

After countless moments of dizziness, I was finally able to sink calmly to the bottom, letting the water cover my hair, my heart rate as steady as if nothing had happened.

I won. So what if the situation was terrible? I still managed to kill the monster inside me. Nothing could bind me anymore, nothing.

-

Why does greater madness lead to deeper regret?

Upon graduation, Li Yu declared his intention to embark on a voyage along an uncharted course, a route where legend held that one could find the end of the rainbow. The end of the rainbow... I recalled seeing it last in a children’s cartoon book.

His aspiration for romance resonated strongly, and his proposition received unanimous support. We immediately set sail on our most familiar yacht.

Over the four years at sea, I witnessed nearly every visage of the ocean: boundless blue skies on clear days, vast swaths of dark clouds blotting the sky when it was overcast, and even the sudden onslaught of storms no longer filled me with the terror it once had.

Yet, a storm arrived, its towering waves an overwhelming force. Instinctively, I lowered the sails. As the tempest became unavoidable, their hopeful eyes turned to me. I clutched the mast, waving my arm emphatically behind me, urging them to follow my direction, to confront the waves head-on. I knew I had to guide us to safety.

In the midst of the tempest, I felt as if I had become one with the ship. Despite our desperate struggle to survive, the capricious sea might still prevail. I couldn’t help but wonder, what if this was our end?

Then, I was suddenly reminded of the supposed day of the world’s end. It seemed everyone had lost their senses, engaging in all the forbidden acts, the things we would regret never having done. But why does greater madness lead to deeper regret? Li Yu asked me this question.

The relentless rain lashed against us, and I watched as the bow of the ship cleaved a white path through the waves, our yacht moving like a swift arrow. As the end grew ever clearer, long-forgotten memories surfaced.

The smiles of our teacher and Ye Chuan as we departed, the bright sunshine over the sea after a storm, flying fish leaping from the water, an uninhabited island in the Pacific...

Humans, in essence, desire a life of interest, and the world’s intention is that one must personally navigate life’s ocean, where storms are inevitable. But if the journey is sufficiently magnificent, then even a devastating conclusion becomes less of a regret.

We finally emerged from the storm clouds, collapsing onto the deck in exhaustion. Someone lamented the missed opportunity to see a rainbow, but Li Yu countered that after such a tempest, a rainbow seemed trivial. They began preparing for our return.

I raised the sails once more. Seagulls glided past, and a distant echo carried over the sea. In my mind’s eye, I could almost see a rainbow arching across the horizon.

I hesitated, then announced my intention to continue the voyage. Abandoning it midway was not my style. Though we might encounter more storms, perhaps I truly could find the end of the rainbow.

However, the journey was not as idyllic as imagined. The sea offered only unchanging vistas. Then, a distant shape appeared at the edge of my vision. At first, I dismissed it as a hallucination, but the dark spot grew closer, revealing an elderly man waving enthusiastically.

Perhaps it was the rarity of encountering a fellow traveler on the vast sea that prompted him to chat. Hearing of my quest to find the end of the rainbow, he, despite never having seen it himself, readily agreed to join me.

He shared his maritime experiences, and I learned of his terminal illness. I inquired why he still ventured forth, though I knew the answer. Were I in his position, I would have made the same choice.

He explained, “I’ve grown accustomed to this perpetual voyage. Stasis is fleeting, but the road is eternal. Just as your love for sailing compels you to discover what lies beyond the sea, rather than idly wondering, it is better to set out and explore.”

He smiled, increasing our speed. In the midst of our playful race, we found ourselves in completely unfamiliar waters. Looking up, I suddenly saw a rainbow.

Truthfully, I was momentarily disappointed. It was no different from any rainbow appearing after rain, beautiful yet ordinary. The end of the rainbow was merely the end of the rainbow, the romance residing solely in my imagination.

Still, I gazed at it for a long time, realizing that even disappointment was not so terrible. The world was indifferent to my feelings, and even if I abandoned my journey, it would not try to entice me with what I desired.

With this realization, my resentment towards disappointment dissipated. I discovered that I possessed something that transcended it: fellow adventurers who shared my risks, and a kindred spirit who understood my unspoken feelings.

I felt as though the experiences that had shaped me over the years had become faded markers along my course. I had navigated through storms of gossip and whispers, and wherever I looked, light filled my eyes.

When my body finally succumbs, I will remember this moment.

-

PHONE CALL

Osborn: Can you hear me?

You: I can, but it's a bit choppy...

Osborn: Is it? Give me ten seconds.

Osborn: How about now? Can you hear me?

You: Yes! So, your signal's a bit poor over there?

Osborn: Yeah, I've been in the mountains these past few days, signal's not great. This rooftop is alright, though.

You: Rooftop? And it's been bad for days? Wait, but your calls the other day were crystal clear!

Osborn: Oh, the day before? I was at the foot of Lumen Mountain then.

Osborn: I know that area pretty well. There are a few spots on the hillside with good signal, so I went there when I had some free time at night.

You: Wow, Lumen Mountain is a wilderness! You went up there at night? You're not afraid of running into wild animals?

Osborn: Don't worry, even if I did, they wouldn't dare mess with me.

You: Then... what about yesterday?

Osborn: Yesterday, after I finished a guild mission, I stayed in a local tribe's village.

Osborn: The northeast corner of the village has a plaza. There aren't any tall buildings, but I found it was the closest spot to the nearby cell tower.

Osborn: So, yeah, it was passable. I drove my off-road vehicle there and stood on the roof.

You: That sounds... okay, I guess. But why did you hang up so abruptly yesterday? I was worried sick.

Osborn: About that... I found out this morning that the plaza is actually a sacred site for the tribe's rituals.

Osborn: I was talking to you, and halfway through, they came to chase me away. Axes, torches, the whole shebang. Quite a spectacle.

You: Osborn!

Osborn: I'm here, I haven't cut out, have I?

You: No, you haven't... Ugh, that's not the point! Stop calling me from such dangerous places!

Osborn: I thought we had a deal before I left, some little goofball and I promised to hear each other's voices every day. I can't break that promise.

You: But I didn't know the conditions where you were going were so harsh! You could have just sent me a text...

Osborn: No way. I want to hear your voice, too. You can't take that away from me.

You: I'm serious. You can call anytime, but your safety is what matters most.

Osborn: For me, talking to you takes top priority. And as for safety, you need to trust in Boss Xiao's abilities.

You: ...Seriously, it's like I can never win an argument with you.

Osborn: There are plenty of things you can win against me in, just let me have this one.

Osborn: Speaking of which, your voice sounds a little muffled today.

You: Well... I'm calling you from the bathroom, so I'm trying to keep my voice down.

Osborn: Looks like your choice of location is just as questionable as mine.

You: It's mostly because I sneaked out of a meeting to take your call—

Osborn: Looks like I'm a bad influence on you.

Osborn: You used to be so serious in meetings, hardly even looked at your phone.

You: My top priority is the same as yours, isn't it?

Osborn: Of course. I kinda get what you were feeling now.

Osborn: How about this: you focus on work, I'll focus on my mission, and when we meet tomorrow, we'll focus on nothing but each other.

You: Okay, it's a deal. See you tomorrow!

Osborn: Yeah, see you tomorrow.

-

TEXT MESSAGES

Osborn: Are you free this weekend? Pu Ning somehow got two tickets to a craft fair, wanna go? You: Of course! Do I need to prepare anything if we go? Osborn: You'll need to prepare payment for my "chauffeur fee" when I pick you up. Osborn: Just kidding, you don't need to bring anything. The fair has a super-light clay DIY activity, and they'll provide all the materials. You: Perfect! I've been thinking your car is a little bare, and I've wanted to decorate it. Let's make an ornament together! Osborn: Sounds good. It feels quite full when you're there, but it definitely needs an ornament when you're not. Osborn: If I make any beginner mistakes during our collaboration, please don't laugh at me, great designer. You: Don't worry, Boss Xiao, I've got this! Osborn (Voice Message): So reliable. In that case, to make sure you're not overwhelmed, Osborn (Voice Message): I'll take on the extra responsibility of bringing you tea and water and keeping you entertained, so you can enjoy your crafting even more. How does that sound?

-

TIMELINE POST

Osborn: A certain slowpoke said that my car playlist is full of her favorite songs.

You: Not just my favorites, but every single song is one I shared on my social media!

Osborn's Reply: The songs you share are quite suitable for driving. Do you have any more exclusive recommendations?

.

.

.

.

.

Chapter 18-01

If you’d like to support my translations, feel free to leave me a tip here or buy me a coffee through the "Leave a Tip" button on my navigation bar!

[ssruis]

I will say that the benefit of my tsukasa card hoard is that my bonus for his chapter will be like… 540% minimum. Which sounds like a lot but tsukasa fans are fucking insane and I still think I’ll have to grind for anything under 1000th place. Maybe I *should* mr2 his new year lim.

[every-sanji]

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 13: February 2024 - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, Me trying to write therapy sessions.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Daniel Ricciardo, Carlos Sainz, Lewis Hamilton)

Lando: ok wait, are we sending flowers??

Oscar: flowers seem good

Daniel: FLOWERS YES but like what KIND of flowers

Lando: nothing too funeral Lando: nothing too romantic Lando: nothing too "you almost died but like in a chill way"

Lewis: you guys are the worst crisis team I’ve ever seen

Oscar: YOU’RE IN THIS TOO LEWIS

Lewis: i’m saying it with love.

Daniel: ok no roses…roses feel wrong

Carlos: no lilies either, too funeral

Lando: sunflowers??

Oscar: too happy Oscar: feels like "yay you survived!" party energy

Daniel: small soft bouquet?

Lewis: yeah Lewis: something like daisies Lewis: baby’s breath Lewis: stuff that feels gentle

Oscar: Lewis Hamilton out here secretly a florist

Lando: I KNEW IT

Lewis: I just have better taste than you idiots.

Carlos: confirmed.

Daniel: ok so like gentle happy survival flowers

Oscar: can we also send cookies?

Lando: yesssssssss

Lewis: i’m ordering them now Lewis: no glitter. Lewis: no weird colors. Lewis: keep it simple.

Daniel: who’s writing the card???

Lando: "Dear Belle: Sorry the world is trash. Love, some idiots who are rooting for you."

Oscar: perfect.

Carlos: send it.

***

Text Messages: Daniel Ricciardo & Max Verstappen

Daniel: Hey mate. Daniel:  Just heard from Lewis what happened last night. Daniel:  Wanted to check — is Belle okay?

Max: Yeah. Mild concussion. Some bruises. They kept her overnight for observation. She’s home now. Resting.

Daniel: Fuck, man. Daniel:  I’m glad she’s alright. Daniel:  That must’ve been scary as hell.

Max: It was.

Daniel: If you need anything. Daniel:  Or if she needs anything. Daniel:  You know — groceries, errands, new car — whatever. Daniel:  We’re all around.

Max: Appreciate it. Thanks, mate.

Daniel: Seriously, anything. Daniel:  Give her a hug from all of us, yeah? We’ll send flowers. Oscar insisted on Cookies too. 

Max: I’ll tell her. She’ll appreciate it.

Daniel: Good. Tell her we’re all thinking about her. ***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Arthur: Hey, can you grab croissants on your way over?

Charles: And coffee. Please.

Lorenzo: Maman needs flowers for her lunch today.

Pascale: Isabelle, mon ange, if you have time, could you pick up some things from the market?

Isabelle: Yeah, no. Can’t. I was in a car accident last night.

Arthur: ???

Charles: WHAT.

Lorenzo: What do you mean you were in a car accident???

Arthur: This better not be a joke.

Isabelle: I’m fine. A drunk driver ran a red light and hit me. I spent the night in the hospital for observation, but I’m okay.

Pascale: WHY AM I ONLY HEARING ABOUT THIS NOW?

Arthur: Yeah, kinda rude to just drop that on us.

Isabelle: EXCUSE ME???

Charles: Were you driving too fast?

Isabelle: NO.

Arthur: Were you on your phone?

Isabelle: IT WASN’T MY FAULT.

Lorenzo: But are you sure you weren’t distracted?

Isabelle: I swear to God.

Charles: Okay, okay. Do you need anything?

Isabelle: Just rest.

Arthur: Sooo… no croissants?

Isabelle: ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW.

Arthur: Just asking.

Pascale: Isabelle, you should have told me immediately.

Isabelle: It was the middle of the night!

Lorenzo: You still could have texted.

Charles: Next time, at least let us know sooner.

Isabelle: Next time??? Do you think I PLAN to get hit by a car???

Arthur: …so that’s a no on the croissants?

***

Isabelle was curled up on their couch, a blanket over her lap, her hair still a little messy from sleep and bruises peeking out from under the neckline of his hoodie. She was nursing a cup of tea when Max came in from the kitchen with her breakfast.

“Here,” he said softly, setting the tray in front of her. “Eat something.”

She smiled up at him, touched. “Thank you.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, but as he sat next to her, she noticed his eyes drift toward her phone, still open to the Leclerc family group chat.

Max squinted.

“What’s that?” he asked, his tone already shifting.

Isabelle blinked. “Oh. Just my brothers being… them.”

Max, already suspicious, plucked the phone gently from her lap before she could stop him.

Scrolled. Read.

And then he went absolutely still.

When she finally looked at him, his entire body was tight with anger. Not explosive. Not loud.

Cold.  Sharp.  Deadly.

“They’re asking about croissants?” Max said, voice low and dangerous. “After you spent the night in the hospital?”

Isabelle opened her mouth. Closed it. Shrugged helplessly.

Max stood up abruptly, pacing a few steps across the living room like he needed to physically shake off the fury vibrating through him.

“They’re angry at you?” Max said incredulously. “For not calling them? After you got fucking hit by a drunk driver?”

Isabelle flinched. Not because he was yelling — he wasn’t.  Max’s voice had dropped into that awful, simmering tone he only used when he was one second from completely losing it.

“They’re blaming you?” he said, his voice rising just slightly, like he couldn't believe the words as they left his mouth. "Like you did something wrong?"

"It’s not that bad," Isabelle said automatically.

Max spun to face her. His expression was something brutal and raw.  "Don't," he snapped. "Don't defend them."

Isabelle curled tighter into herself, clutching the tea like it was a shield.

"They don’t mean it like that," she said weakly.

Max crossed the room in three strides, crouching in front of her again, his hands gentle even when his voice wasn’t.

"Belle," he said, fierce and low. "You could have died. You could have been killed. And their first reaction was to demand coffee and flowers and fucking croissants? To scold you like a child?"

Isabelle looked down, her throat burning.

Max caught her chin lightly, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"You are not their errand girl," he said, every word knife-edged. "You are not an afterthought. You are not disposable."

Tears slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them.

Max’s face softened instantly.

He pulled her into his arms, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe — but she didn't want to breathe anywhere else anyway.

Max let out a breath through his nose, still fuming. “Next time something happens, you tell me before you tell them. Actually—just always tell me first.”

“I did.”

That made him pause.

She looked up at him, soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You were the first and only person I called.”

The fight in Max deflated just a little. His jaw relaxed, and his shoulders slumped as he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’ll never make you explain why your pain is valid.”

Isabelle pressed a kiss to his jaw, and despite the aches and bruises, she felt lighter somehow. Safer. Seen.

Max kissed the top of her head again, his voice low against her hair.

***

Text Messages: Sebastian Vettel & Max Verstappen

Sebastian: Hey, Max. I heard about what happened in Monaco. Isabelle okay?

Max: ... How do you—

Sebastian: Lewis.

Max: Of course.

Sebastian: He didn’t say much. Just that it was bad. And that you were with her. I figured I should check in.

Max: She’s alright. Concussion. Bruises. Scared the hell out of me, but she’s recovering. Resting at home now.

Sebastian: Good. I’m glad she’s safe. And I’m glad she has you.

Max: Thanks. Really.

Sebastian: Brave of you, keeping it from Charles. Man’s got a temper.

Max: So do I.

Sebastian: 😅 Fair enough. Sebastian:  But seriously — that’s not an easy line to walk. Sebastian:  Keeping something that important private.

Max: It’s not about him. It’s about her. She’s not ready for them to know. I’ll wait until she is. Whatever it takes.

Sebastian: Good. You’re doing the right thing. Sebastian:  (And honestly... I don’t think Charles deserves to know until she’s ready to make him see her properly.)

Max: Agreed.

Sebastian: If you need anything — if she does — let me know. Tell her I’m thinking of her.

Max: I will. She’ll appreciate that. She always liked you, you know.

Sebastian: I like her, too. Always thought she was the strongest Leclerc. Even if no one noticed.

Max: I noticed.

Sebastian: I know. That’s why she’s with you.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: Hey. Wanted you to hear it from me. Belle was in a car accident last night. Drunk Driver T-boned her. 

Emilie: WHAT. Emilie: WHAT DO YOU MEAN. Emilie: IS SHE OKAY???

Max: She’s okay. Bruised, mild concussion. No serious injuries. She’s home now. Resting.

Emilie: Max. You can’t just DROP that on me. I nearly had a heart attack.

Max: Sorry. Didn’t want you finding out through someone else.

Emilie: Thank you for telling me. Is she... really okay? I mean, really?

Max: She’s shaken. But the Volvo did it’s job. It could be so much worse.  

Emilie: Good. Emilie:  Protect her, Max. Or I’ll break your kneecaps. (With love.)

Max: Would expect nothing less from you.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW.

Isabelle: Hi??

Emilie: DON'T "hi" me. Emilie: I just found out you were in a CAR CRASH??? Emilie: A drunk driver hit you?? Emilie: AND YOU DIDN'T TELL ME???

Isabelle: I was going to... Isabelle: I just didn’t want to worry you. I’m okay. Isabelle: Bruises, concussion. That’s it. I promise.

Emilie: Isabelle. Emilie: You’re literally my favorite human being on this planet. Emilie: You do not get to almost die and then not tell me.

Isabelle: 🥺

Isabelle: I’m sorry. Isabelle: I really am. Isabelle: It was just a lot last night. And Max was already there and—

Emilie: WAIT. Emilie: Max was there?? Emilie: You called him first???

Isabelle: ... Yeah.

Emilie: 😭😭😭😭 Emilie: Okay. Fine. Emilie: At least SOMEONE was looking after you. Emilie: (Still a little bit furious tho.)

Isabelle: I deserve that. I’m sorry.

Emilie: You are not allowed to apologize for getting hit by a drunk driver you absolute gremlin. Emilie: I’m just glad you’re okay. Emilie: (And also kinda glad Max is apparently ready to physically fight Monaco if needed.)

Isabelle: He’s very serious about it 😅

Emilie: Good. Emilie: You deserve people who take your safety personally. Emilie: And you deserve better than people who think you should apologize for surviving.

Isabelle: 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 Love you.

Emilie: Love you more, Belle. Emilie: See you soon. Emilie: (Also, Max better share the couch or I will fight him.)

Isabelle: 😂 I’ll warn him.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Hey. Need to tell you something.

Victoria: Everything okay??

Max: Yeah. Now it is. Max: Belle was in a car accident. Drunk driver hit her.

Victoria: WHAT. Is she okay????

Max: Yeah. Concussion. Some bruises. She’s home now. Safe.

Victoria: Oh my god. Max. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?

Max: Took a few years off my life. But yeah. Better now.

Victoria: I can’t even imagine. Seeing something like that happen to someone you love... Victoria: I remember when you crashed in Silverstone…For a moment it just…that feeling. That helplessness.  Like the world could just... rip the person you love away from you at any second. I know what that feels like.

Max: Yeah. Exactly that. One second everything’s normal. Max: Next second you’re standing in a hospital room wondering how you’re supposed to keep breathing if they don’t.

Max: Feels like everything inside me cracked open at once. Max: I’m never letting anything happen to her again. Max: I don’t care what I have to do.

Victoria: You can’t protect her from everything, Maxie. I wish we could. But you’re doing the most important thing already. You’re there. You love her. You make her feel safe. That’s more than enough.

Max: Sometimes it doesn’t feel like enough.

Victoria: It always feels like that when you really love someone. It’s the cost. But it’s worth it.

Victoria: She’s lucky to have you. And you’re lucky to have her.

Max: I know.

Victoria: Give her a hug from me. And Max?

Max: Yeah?

Victoria: Give yourself a little grace too. You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to love her that much.

Max: Thanks, Vic.

Victoria: Always.

***

The apartment was dim and warm, the only light coming from the small lamp in the corner. One cat was sprawled across Max’s legs, purring softly; the other had wedged itself stubbornly against the arm of the couch.

It was quiet, comfortable — but Max barely noticed.

He was too busy keeping an eye on the hallway, listening for any sound of her.

Isabelle finally padded into the living room, wearing one of his hoodies and soft pajama shorts, her hair damp from a shower. She carried a mug of chamomile tea between her hands like it was a lifeline.

Max’s chest tightened when he saw the bruises — angry marks along her collarbone, a purple smear near her temple just so peeking out from underneath the bandage that covered her stitches — but she looked a little better.

Softer around the edges.

Steadier.

She settled in beside him without hesitation, leaning lightly into his side.

“Hey,” she said, voice gentle and tired but still teasing, still her. “What are we doing for Valentine’s Day tonight?”

Max blinked down at her like she had asked him if he wanted to fight a bull barehanded.

He set the remote down and turned fully toward her.

“Nothing,” he said firmly. “You’re resting.”

Belle blinked, surprised. “Nothing?”

“You got out of the hospital this morning, Schatje,” Max said, brushing his knuckles carefully along her jaw. “You’re bruised, concussed, exhausted. You’re not putting on a dress or pretending you have the energy for anything.”

She smiled sheepishly. “I wasn’t thinking restaurant. I was thinking… I don’t know. Candlelight? Dessert? A dumb rom-com?”

Max’s heart softened instantly.

“That’s different,” he murmured. “That I can work with.”

For a moment, there was a lull — the safe kind — until Belle sighed quietly and looked down at her tea.

“I’m sorry I ruined it,” she said.

Max froze.

“What?” he asked, sharper than he meant to.

“Valentine’s,” she said, voice even quieter now. “We were supposed to have a real night. You always say you don’t care about this stuff, but you still try. And instead, I ended up in a hospital bed, and you had to spend the night watching me sleep in an awful chair.”

Max blinked at her.

Once.

Twice.

Then, without a word, he took the mug gently from her hands and set it on the table.

“Belle,” he said, low and serious, “you are absolutely insane.”

She frowned. “That’s not—”

Max cupped her face in both hands, his touch achingly tender, like he thought she might break if he wasn’t careful.

He looked at her like she had just split the world open and made everything new again.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said, voice rough with the force of it. “You scared the hell out of me. That’s all. The only thing — the only thing — I cared about yesterday was that you were still breathing.”

Belle blinked, stunned.

Max leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against hers.

“You’re here,” he whispered. “You’re breathing. You’re safe. That’s all I want.”

Belle closed her eyes tightly, a tear slipping free before she could stop it.

“I just wanted it to be special,” she mumbled.

Max pulled back just enough to see her face, his thumbs brushing lightly along her jaw.

“It is special,” he said, fierce and quiet. “You’re here. You’re with me. There’s nothing more special than that.”

He exhaled hard, trying to keep himself steady, but the fear — the pictures his mind supplied, of her bleeding and dazed in that broken car — hadn’t really left him.

“You could have died, Belle,” he said, voice shaking despite himself. “And if you think I give a fuck about Valentine’s Day after that—”

He broke off, swallowing hard.

“You’re sitting here apologizing because I didn’t get to give you overpriced flowers and a chocolate box?” Max shook his head, breathing out a shaky laugh that was half disbelief, half heartbreak.

Belle let out a breathy laugh too, her voice cracking.

“Well, when you say it like that, I sound ridiculous.”

“You are ridiculous,” Max said fondly, his voice dropping to something unbearably soft as he kissed her forehead.

“You’re my Valentine every goddamn day, Belle. You don’t have to do anything except be here.”

And as he tucked her into his side, wrapping an arm around her, Max made himself a quiet, blistering promise:

Whatever it takes — he would make sure she always had a safe place to land.

***

Alexandra Saint Mleux had always loved Valentine’s Day.

Not for the grand gestures, not for the over-the-top declarations, but for the little things.

 The small, specific ways Charles made her feel seen every year.

Last year, it had been a bracelet with a tiny charm that matched a doodle she'd made in a notebook once.

It was never about the price or the spectacle.

It was the way Charles remembered the quiet parts of her — the parts no one else seemed to notice.

Which was why she knew, before he even handed her the gift this year, that something was... off.

The box was beautiful — simple, elegant, wrapped in gold paper.  But when she opened it, it was a generic necklace. Pretty, but impersonal.

Something anyone could have picked out of a catalog.

Charles was smiling at her expectantly, the way he always did, waiting for her reaction.

And she smiled back — because she loved him, because she didn't want to ruin it — but a small, quiet ache bloomed in her chest.

It wasn't about the necklace.

It was about the feeling that something had slipped, unnoticed, between them.

They went out for dinner after — a cozy little restaurant tucked away from the paparazzi, candles flickering between them — but even there, Charles seemed... distracted.

 Tense in a way she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

It wasn’t until dessert, when she asked casually about his family, that she got a piece of the puzzle.

"Isabelle was in a car accident," Charles said offhandedly, swirling the last of his espresso.

Alexandra's heart stuttered. "Oh my God — is she okay?"

He shrugged, too casual. "It was just a little fender bender. Nothing serious. She’s fine."

Alexandra frowned slightly. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Charles said, waving it off. "She said she was fine."

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t offer any more.

And Alexandra — who had seen the way Isabelle seemed to fold herself smaller whenever the family swirled too loudly around her — felt that same ache twist sharper.

Something told her Belle wouldn’t have made a fuss even if she wasn’t fine.

Something told her that Charles hadn’t really looked.

She said nothing, just smiled and let Charles change the subject back to racing, back to schedules, back to anything but the sister who maybe, just maybe, needed him to see her.

Alexandra tucked the necklace back into its box when she got home that night.

 It was beautiful.

 It just wasn’t quite hers.

***

The apartment smelled like coffee and something sweet.

Max had gotten up early — not because he was particularly good at mornings, or baking — but because Belle deserved something warm and comforting.

He’d managed toast, burnt only slightly, and found the last few frozen chocolate croissants buried at the back of the freezer.

Small things.

Safe things.

Belle was curled up on the couch in one of his old hoodies, knees tucked beneath her, Lilly on her lap, while Jimmy was laying on her legs and Sassy sat next to her like this was all beneath her, but was slowly inching closer, jealous to at she wasn’t getting any attention.

She looked small.

Tired.

Healing.

Max was wiping his hands on a dish towel when a knock came at the door.

He frowned, crossing the apartment in a few quick strides.

When he opened it, a delivery man stood there — arms full.

Two enormous bouquets, one a soft explosion of yellow and white, the other a careful arrangement of pink and cream roses, and a box tied up with a silky ribbon.

Max blinked.

Took the flowers and box with a muttered thanks.

Kicked the door shut behind him.

Belle looked up immediately, eyebrows lifting when she saw what he was carrying.

“What’s all that?” she asked, sitting up straighter.

Max set everything carefully down on the coffee table, tugging the little notes free from between the stems.

He read the first card — his mouth curving into a small, real smile, the kind he barely remembered how to make before her.

“This one’s from my family,” he said, tossing the card onto the table for her to see. “Flowers from my mom. Chocolate from Victoria.”

Belle’s mouth fell open slightly. “They didn’t have to—”

Max shrugged. “They wanted to.”

He kissed the top of her head before reaching for the second card, tucked between the wild, chaotic second bouquet and the neatly wrapped box underneath.

He read it, and let out a soft huff of laughter.

“And,” he added, setting the card down, “these are from the idiots.”

Belle blinked. “The idiots?”

Max leaned back against the couch, stretching his legs out lazily. “Lando, Oscar, Lewis, Carlos, Daniel. Group effort. They sent you flowers and a box of cookies.”

Belle stared at him, completely thrown.

“They said,” Max quoted dryly, “and I’m reading here, ‘Dear Belle: Sorry the world is trash. Love, some idiots who are rooting for you.’”

Belle let out a small, incredulous laugh — the first real one he’d heard from her since the hospital— and covered her face with her hands.

Max just watched her, something warm and achingly fond spreading through his chest.

When she lowered her hands, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes suspiciously bright.

“They’re ridiculous,” she whispered.

“They are,” Max agreed. “But they mean it.”

He shifted closer, resting his hand lightly against her thigh.

“Victoria sends her love, by the way,” he added. “Said next time you’re in the Netherlands, you’re not allowed to leave without a girls’ day.”

Belle laughed again — a softer, breathier sound this time — and toyed absently with the edge of her sleeve.

There was a pause.

A shift.

And then, almost too quietly to hear, she said:

“Your family’s starting to feel like mine too.”

Max stilled completely.

He turned, reaching for her hand instinctively, finding her fingers and curling his own around them.

Belle looked up at him, vulnerable in a way she almost never let herself be — open and a little raw, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say it out loud.

Max melted.

Utterly.

He cupped her face gently in both hands and kissed her — slow, deliberate, reverent — like he had all the time in the world just to love her properly.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was rough with emotion.

“They already think of you that way,” he whispered against her forehead. “You’re one of us, Belle. You always will be.”

She blinked fast, trying and failing to fight the tears burning her eyes.

Max just pulled her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight.

Not too tight.

Just enough.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Victoria Verstappen

Isabelle: Hi Victoria, Thank you so much for the flowers and chocolates. It really meant a lot to me. You didn’t have to do all that.

Victoria: First of all: YES I DID. Second: you’re welcome. Third: you’re stuck with us now. No returns. No exchanges. No refunds. Family policy. Love you.

Isabelle: 😭 I love you too.

Victoria: Tell Max if he doesn’t keep spoiling you, I’ll show up and do it myself. (And make it VERY public and VERY embarrassing.)

Isabelle: 😂 I’ll warn him.

Victoria: Good girl. Rest up. Heal. And when you’re ready, come visit — Lio made you a "Get Well" card and it’s mostly just glitter but the intention was pure.

Isabelle: I can’t wait to see it. Thank you, Vic. Really. For everything.

Victoria: Always, Belle. Always.

***

Text Messages: Sebastian Vettel & Kimi Räikkönen

Sebastian: You’re not going to believe this. (Or maybe you will. You’re hard to surprise.)

Kimi: Busy. Make it fast.

Sebastian: Max Verstappen is dating Isabelle Leclerc.

Kimi:  Huh. 

Sebastian: That’s it? Huh??? I just dropped a nuclear paddock secret on you!

Kimi: Not my business. If they’re happy, who cares.

Sebastian: I mean. True. But still.

Kimi: Good for them. Hope she can handle him. Not many can.

Sebastian: I think she’s the only one who can.

Kimi: Makes sense. Quiet ones are dangerous. Good match.

Sebastian: Also apparently no one in her family knows yet. Including Charles.

Kimi: Charles will cry about it. Not my problem.

Sebastian: 😂

Kimi: Tell Max if he breaks her heart I’ll run him over with a snowmobile.

Sebastian: Will pass along the message.

Kimi: Good. Busy now. Kids want ice cream. Tell Max congratulations.

Sebastian: Will do. (Enjoy the ice cream.)

Kimi: Always.

***

Max hated this.

He wasn’t even trying to pretend otherwise.

He stood by the door, suitcase packed, keys and phone in one hand, looking like someone had asked him to do the impossible instead of board a plane for pre-season testing.

Belle watched him from the couch, a blanket wrapped around her, her bruises faded now but still faintly visible under the soft lamplight.

"You have to go," she said gently, reading his mind like she always did.

Max grimaced, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I don’t like leaving you."

"You’re not leaving me," she corrected immediately, voice calm, steady.  "You’re going to work. You’re doing what you love."

Max ran a hand through his hair, visibly struggling.

"You just—" he started, then stopped.  "You just got hurt, Belle. I should be here. I should be with you."

"You are with me," she said, rising slowly from the couch and padding over to him.

She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her.

"Every time you call, every time you text, every time you think about me — you’re here," she said softly. "I’m not alone."

Max closed his eyes, leaning into her touch like he physically couldn’t help it.

"And you’ll be home before you know it," she whispered, brushing her thumbs over his cheekbones. "Then you can hover and fuss and drive me crazy again."

A reluctant, broken laugh escaped him.

"I don’t want to leave you," he said again, more quietly now.

Belle smiled, tears prickling her own eyes — because even now, even with the whole world pulling him in a thousand directions, he was still here with her first.

"You’re not leaving me," she said again. "You’re just chasing your dreams. And I’ll be right here when you get back."

Max bent his head, resting his forehead against hers.

"You’re my dream too," he whispered.

Her breath hitched.

"And you’re mine," she whispered back.

They stayed there for a long moment — just breathing together — until finally, finally, Max exhaled.

He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, like he needed to memorize her, and she kissed him back just as fiercely.

When he finally pulled away, it was with visible effort.

"Promise me you’ll rest," he said, brushing his knuckles down her cheek.

"I promise," she said. "And you — promise me you’ll drive safe. Listen to GP. Don’t try to out-stubborn the car."

Max huffed a quiet laugh. "Bossy."

"Someone has to be," she teased, smiling.

He kissed her forehead one last time, squeezed her hand, and finally — reluctantly — turned to leave.

Belle watched him go, feeling the ache of missing him before he’d even stepped outside the door.

But it was okay.

Because he would always come home to her.

And she would always, always be waiting.

***

Text Messages: Lewis Hamilton & Max Verstappen

Lewis: Mate.

Lewis: Did you just drop off a bag of stuff at my motorhome?

Max: Yeah.

Max: Belle made something for Roscoe.

Lewis: I just opened it.

Lewis: A handwritten note. And homemade vegan dog treats???

Max: She insisted.

Max: Wanted to thank you properly.

Max: Even though she’s supposed to be resting.

Lewis: I don’t even know what to say. The note made me emotional and Roscoe is probably going to try and mug me for the biscuits.

Max: Good. He deserves them.

Lewis: Tell her thank you.

Lewis: Seriously.

Lewis: She didn’t have to do anything.

Lewis: I was just in the right place at the right time.

Max: You stayed.

Max: It matters to her.

Max: It matters to me too.

Lewis: You’ve got a good one there, Max.

Lewis: Also, if Roscoe explodes with happiness, I’m sending you the vet bill.

Max: He’ll be fine. Belle double-checked the recipe three times.

***

GP had known Max Verstappen for a long time.

Long enough to recognize when something wasn’t sitting right under the surface — even when Max didn’t say a word about it.

He noticed it that morning, before Max even climbed into the car.  The slight tightness around his mouth.  The way his hands flexed once, sharply, before putting on his gloves.  The way his answers in the pre-session briefing were short, mechanical. Efficient, but colder than usual.

GP filed it away. Max would tell him when he was ready.

And he did — just after the second run of the day, in the shade behind the Red Bull garage, water bottle in one hand, telemetry printout in the other.

“She was in a crash,” Max said, his voice flat enough that if GP hadn’t been paying attention, he might have missed it.

GP frowned, stepping closer. “Who?”

Max didn’t look up.  “Belle.”

The name hit harder than GP expected.

“What happened?” he asked, more sharply now.

Max’s jaw tightened. “Drunk driver ran a red. T-boned her car. Hit the passenger side, just behind the front wheel. Sent her spinning into a light post.”

 Quiet. Clipped.  Words that barely scratched the surface of the horror GP could hear pulsing beneath them.

GP stared. “Christ. Is she—?”

“She’s alright,” Max said. “Bruised. Concussion. Hospital kept her overnight.” He paused. “But it could’ve been a lot worse.”

GP’s stomach twisted sickly.  He couldn’t — wouldn’t — let himself imagine Max getting that phone call in the middle of the night. Wouldn’t let himself imagine what it must’ve felt like to walk into a hospital room and see Belle curled up in a stark white bed.

And then Max said, in that same low, steady voice that somehow carried more weight than shouting ever could:

“The Volvo you helped me pick out for her? It saved her life.”

GP went still.

The memory flickered: Max months ago, texting him…asking for his opinion. 

Just buy her a Volvo. Safe. Reliable. Built to last. Also one of the best crash-tested brands in the world. You did say you were thinking about kids, right?

And now — thank god — Belle was still breathing because of it.

GP swallowed thickly, feeling a knot loosen somewhere deep in his chest.

“Thank fuck,” he said hoarsely.

Max gave a short nod.  No dramatics. No sentimentality.

But GP could feel the magnitude of it radiating off him like heat off the tarmac.

This — this — was the side of Max Verstappen few people ever saw.  The side that loved without conditions.  That protected without compromise.

“Thank you,” Max said quietly. 

No dramatics. No fuss.  Just that heavy, quiet sincerity Max reserved for the rarest moments.

GP reached out and clapped a hand to his shoulder — a solid, grounding gesture — knowing Max didn’t need anything else from him right now.

"I’d do it again tomorrow," GP said.

Max nodded again, and GP watched him turn back toward the data screens, pulling his headset on, ready to work like nothing had happened.

But GP knew better.

Max had always raced like he had something to prove.  Now, this season, he was racing with something to protect.

And GP would make damn sure everything — the car, the strategy, the team — was ready for that fight.

Then there was no margin for error anymore.

Not even a sliver.

He pulled his headset back over his ears and keyed into the comms with a calmness he didn’t entirely feel.

“Let’s run another systems check before lunch,” he said smoothly.  “And someone triple-check the safety settings while you’re at it.”

The comm crackled to life with quick affirmatives.

***

Text Messages: Gianpiero Lambiase & Eloisa Lambiase

GP: We’re getting you a new car.

Eloisa: ???

Eloisa: Good morning to you too?

Eloisa: What’s wrong with my car?

GP: Not safe enough.

Eloisa: You’re the one who picked it out, love.

GP: Doesn’t matter.

GP: We’re upgrading.

Eloisa: Did something happen?

GP: Yeah.

GP: Belle — Max’s Belle — she was in a crash last week.

GP: Drunk driver ran a light.

Eloisa: Oh my god.

Eloisa: Is she okay???

GP: Shaken. Concussed. But alive.

GP: Because she was driving the Volvo Max bought her.

GP: The one I told him to get.

Eloisa: Oh.

GP: Yeah. That’s why we’re getting you a better car.

Eloisa: Gianni…

GP: No arguments.

GP: Please.

Eloisa: …okay.

Eloisa: But only if I get to pick the color this time.

GP: Deal.

GP: Something with five stars on every crash test rating.

GP: I’m sending you options this afternoon.

Eloisa:  (And coffee. You owe me coffee for giving me a heart attack.)

GP: Already on it.

GP: Triple order.

GP: Love you.

Eloisa: Love you too, you giant overprotective marshmallow

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Max: We need to get you a new car.

Isabelle: Max, I’m fine.

Isabelle: The Volvo did its job.

Max: Exactly. Which is why we’re getting another one.

Isabelle: You’re serious?

Max: Volvo customer for life now. I’m about to put their logo on my helmet at this point.

Isabelle: You’re ridiculous.

Max: Not taking chances, Schatje.

Max: Same model or you want to pick something else?

Isabelle: …I did love that car.

Max: Same brand, non-negotiable. Colour’s up to you. Same as before or something different?

Isabelle: Honestly? I liked the old one. That dark green felt like me.

Max: Then we’ll stick with it. Dark green it is.

Isabelle: You don’t have to do all this, Max.

Max: I do. I’m not letting you drive anything that isn’t built like a tank.

Isabelle: You’re going to spoil me until I forget how to function on my own.

Max: That’s the plan.

Isabelle: You’re impossible.

Max: You love me.

Isabelle: Very much.

Max: Fortunately, it’s mutual.

Isabelle: Fine. Dark green Volvo. But I’m picking the air freshener this time.

Max: Deal. As long as it’s not something that smells like cupcakes.

Isabelle: No promises. And it was strawberry. 

Isabelle: Consider it payback for forcing me into an indestructible Swedish fortress.

Max: Best decision I ever made. Second only to falling in love with you.

Isabelle: You’re dangerous when you’re sweet.

Max: Only for you.

***

Alexandra wandered the halls, pretending to admire a modern art installation while covertly people-watching — one of her favorite pastimes when the pace of life let her slip out of the Ferrari bubble for a few hours.

She was standing near a collection of minimalist sculptures when she caught snippets of a conversation between two women nearby, both well-dressed, deep in quiet, intense discussion.

"I still can't believe it," one woman murmured, her voice low but urgent. "She could have been killed. Did you see the photos? That car was destroyed."

Her friend nodded, wide-eyed.  "Near the tunnel, right? Total mess. And poor Isabelle  — I mean, she's so sweet. She did that whole project for our office last year."

Alexandra’s heart stopped.

She took a tiny step closer, pretending to examine the sculpture in front of her.

"Isabelle Leclerc," the first woman said again, confirming what Alexandra already knew. "Such a shame. She's so talented. And to walk away from something like that — it’s a miracle, really. They said the drunk driver didn’t even hit the brakes."

Alexandra felt her stomach churn.

Destroyed.  Miracle.  No brakes.

That didn’t sound like a fender bender.

That didn’t sound like "nothing."

Another man chimed in, sounding grim. "I heard the paramedics said it was a miracle she didn’t have internal injuries. They were worried about a collapsed lung at first."

Alexandra blinked hard, the art blurring in front of her.

Collapsed lung.

Not a fender bender.

Not nothing serious.

She pressed her lips together, hands curling slightly at her sides.

The women moved on, voices fading into the low hum of the gallery, but Alexandra stayed frozen in place for a long moment.

When Charles had told her about the accident, he’d been so casual. So dismissive.

Alexandra swallowed hard against the knot forming in her throat.

Isabelle hadn't been fine.

Isabelle had survived something horrific.

And Charles — either through ignorance or unwillingness — had looked the other way.

Again.

Alexandra didn’t know what bothered her more: the fact that Charles hadn't seen it, or the gnawing fear that maybe he did — and just didn’t know what to do with the parts of his sister that didn’t fit into the neat, tidy picture of the world he needed to believe in.

She glanced down at her phone, thumb hovering over Isabelle name in her contacts.

For a moment, she debated it — reaching out, saying something, offering something.

But what could she offer that wouldn't sound hollow?

Her family saw her as nothing more than background noise and Alexandra loathed to admit that she was guilty of the same on more than a few occasions. 

It was just…so easy not to think about Isabelle. Which sounded horrible, the longer she examined that thought. 

Isabelle was so happy in the background, so sweet and kind in a way that never seemed to want any kind of attention for it. 

 So easy to overlook. 

***

Text Messages: Alexandra Saint Mleux & Charlotte Di Pietro

Alexandra: Hey, random question. Did you know how bad Isabelle’s car accident actually was?

Charlotte: ?? I thought it was minor? That’s what Lorenzo said when I asked.

Alexandra: It wasn’t. I overheard people talking at the gallery tonight. Paramedics thought she might have had a collapsed lung. Car was totaled. Impact was bad — drunk driver didn’t even brake.

Charlotte: No one told me any of that. Lorenzo made it sound like a dented door and a headache.

Alexandra: Yeah. Charles too. He brushed it off like it was nothing.

Charlotte: …They’re acting like it’s an inconvenience.

Alexandra: Exactly. It’s been sitting wrong with me all night. Like there’s something broken there that no one’s talking about.

Charlotte: Maybe. But I do know they love her.

Alexandra: I don’t doubt that. But love isn’t the same as seeing someone. I’m not sure they know how to see her properly.

Alexandra: I am not sure we know how to see her properly. None of us thought to invite her to lunch…you know, when we ran into her. 

Charlotte: You are right…They aren’t the only ones guilty of forgetting her…

Charlotte: Speaking of forgetting. 

Charlotte: Guess who forgot about Valentine’s Day until the morning off. 

Alexandra: Oh? (Spill.)

Charlotte: Valentine’s Day. Lorenzo didn’t plan anything. Literally nothing.

He said, "Well, it didn’t feel like a big deal this year."

Charlotte: Later he grumbled that "normally Belle helps" and "everything feels off without her."

Alexandra: Wait, what?

Charlotte: Yeah. Apparently Belle used to remind them, plan ideas, even organize half the stuff so they wouldn’t forget.

Alexandra: …Oh my god. Alexandra: That tracks. Alexandra: You know, her friend once joked that Isabelle was the one who bought all my birthday presents from Charles.

Charlotte: Wait, seriously??

Alexandra: Apparently. Alexandra: I didn’t take it seriously at the time — Alexandra: Thought it was just teasing. Alexandra: But now… Maybe it was true.

Charlotte: She shouldn’t have to carry everyone. Charlotte: It’s not fair.

Alexandra: No, it’s not. Maybe it’s a good thing they’re feeling the consequences now.

Charlotte: Let them sit in it. They need to learn.

Alexandra: Agreed.

Charlotte: (Also. Are you ready for Arthur's dramatic downfall?)

Alexandra: LOL. The girlfriend disaster?

Charlotte: The girlfriend disaster. At this point, I’m tempted to bet how long until he posts a sad song on Instagram.

Alexandra: 100 euros says it’s before Thursday. Bonus points if he posts cryptic black-and-white stories too. With quotes he definitely doesn’t understand.

Charlotte: You’re on.

Alexandra: God help us all.

***

The Bahrain paddock buzzed under the heavy sun — mechanics shouting, tires rolling, the faint scent of burning rubber hanging in the air.

Charles leaned against the barrier separating the hospitality areas, sipping from a bottle of water as he chatted with Pierre, both of them still in their race suits, unzipped halfway down against the heat.

Pierre had just casually asked, somewhere between a joke and genuine concern, "Hey, by the way — your sister’s alright, yeah? Heard she had some kind of accident?"

Charles waved it off immediately, flashing a small, tight smile.  "Ah, yes. Isabelle is fine. Just a little fender bender."

Pierre nodded, a little relieved but still wary. "Good. Glad she’s okay. Monaco drivers, man."

Charles laughed lightly. "Exactly. Probably more dangerous in the city than on track."

But before he could say anything else, a voice cut through the air, calm and deliberate.

"It wasn’t a fender bender, Charles."

Charles blinked, turning instinctively toward the sound.

Lewis Hamilton stood a few feet away, gloves dangling loosely from his fingers, expression unreadable.

Charles frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

Lewis shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his chest. "I was there."

The words dropped like stones into Charles’ stomach.

"I saw the crash," Lewis continued, voice low and even. "Drunk driver ran a red light. Slammed into her side full speed. Spun her into a pole. The car was totaled."

Charles opened his mouth — but no words came out.

Lewis wasn’t finished. "Isabelle was trapped in the car. Shocky. Barely able to talk. I called the ambulance. Stayed with her until they got there."

Charles’ heart kicked hard against his ribs, cold and sickening.

He tried — for a second — to picture Isabelle in that moment.

 Tried to imagine her small body pinned in a wrecked car, blood trickling down her forehead, gasping for breath.

It made something twist inside him — sharp and ugly and guilty.

"She’s lucky she survived," Lewis said quietly. "Don’t call it a fender bender."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Lewis gave him one last look — not angry, not cruel — just disappointed.  And then he turned, walking away toward the Mercedes garage without another word.

Charles stood frozen in place.

Pierre cleared his throat awkwardly after a beat. "Uh," he said lightly, "maybe you should... check on her properly. Yeah?"

Charles didn’t answer.

He just stood there, staring after Lewis, feeling — for the first time in a long time — the uncomfortable, foreign sensation of having missed something important.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Daniel Ricciardo, Carlos Sainz and Lewis Hamilton)

Lewis: Guys. GUYS.

Oscar: uh oh

Lando: what happened now

Lewis: Charles just called Isabelle’s crash a "fender bender." fender bender. LIKE. MINOR. INSIGNIFICANT.

Daniel: ...oh no.

Lewis: IT WAS BAD. Lewis: Bad enough that the car was crushed against a streetlamp. Lewis: Bad enough that she couldn’t even get the door open. Lewis: Bad enough that she was shivering and barely breathing and covered in cuts and glass.

Lando: Lewis is going full caps lock. This is bad.

Oscar: It’s worse than bad. He’s spiraling.

Lewis: I WATCHED HER BLEEDING IN A BROKEN CAR. Lewis: I HELD HER HAND UNTIL THE PARAMEDICS GOT THERE. Lewis: AND CHARLES IS OUT HERE LIKE "lol oopsie minor incident"????

Daniel: Breathe mate Breathe

Carlos: Yeah, deep breaths. We need you alive.

Lewis: HE CALLED IT A FENDER BENDER. I AM GOING TO LAUNCH HIM INTO THE SUN

Oscar: Not before Max does.

Lando: Max is gonna find out eventually and we will ALL need to evacuate Monaco

Lewis: I literally saw it. Lewis: I thought she was dead for a second. Lewis: And Charles didn’t even know how bad it was. Lewis: Didn’t even ask. Lewis: Didn’t even CARE.

Daniel: You okay mate?? Do you need snacks?? Or wine??

Carlos: Or a punching bag???

Oscar: Or a very large blunt object???

Lewis: I need Charles to grow a brain cell.

Carlos: Welcome to the nightmare brother.

Daniel: We have t-shirts.

Lando: and wine Lando: lots of wine

Oscar: and emergency stress snacks

Lewis: I’m bringing tequila next meeting. Lewis: We’re gonna need it.

***

Leclerc Siblings Group Chat

 (Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, and Lorenzo)

Charles: Isabelle. Why didn’t you tell me the accident was that serious??

Isabelle: Because you didn’t ask.

Arthur: Wait what? Serious?? I thought it was a little crash?

Charles: It wasn’t. Lewis told me today during testing. He was THERE. He said the car was totaled. You got spun into a post. You were trapped in the car, Isabelle.

Lorenzo: What do you mean, trapped?!

Isabelle: I didn’t want to worry anyone. I’m fine now.

Charles: You said you were fine. You made it sound like you got a scratch and drove home.

Lorenzo: That’s not the point.

Charles:  You lied to us.

Isabelle: I didn’t lie. I said I had a concussion and bruises. And spent the night in the hospital. Which was all true. I said I was okay. Because I am.

Lorenzo: Isabelle, why didn’t you say anything?

Isabelle: Because I knew this would happen.

Isabelle:  Exactly this.

Isabelle:  You’d all get angry or guilt-trip me or turn it into something about you.

Charles: Of course we’re angry!

Arthur:  You scared us, Isabelle.

Lorenzo:  Do you think Maman could handle hearing you almost died?

Lorenzo: We are not going to tell her.

Lorenzo:  I’m serious.

Lorenzo:  It would crush her.

Lorenzo:  Better she thinks it was nothing.

Isabelle: So let me get this straight.

Isabelle:  You’re mad at me for not telling you…

Isabelle:  And now you’re also deciding for me that Maman shouldn’t know?

Isabelle:  Because you think she can’t handle it?

Lorenzo: Exactly.

Isabelle: Okay. Noted.

***

Raymond Vermeulen prided himself on knowing everything about Max Verstappen’s career — both on and off the track.

It wasn’t arrogance. It was necessity.

You didn’t manage Max Verstappen successfully by being two steps behind. 

You stayed ahead. You anticipated. You knew.

Which was why, when Jos Verstappen of all people leaned over during a quiet moment at a post-testing dinner and casually said: "Max is serious about a girl,"

—Raymond almost dropped his fork.

He blinked, slowly, suspiciously.

Jos didn’t do casual. Jos didn’t mention Max’s girlfriends unless it was a complaint. Normally, the subject was treated like some embarrassing injury you didn’t talk about in polite company.

Raymond cleared his throat, playing it cool. "Oh? New?"

Jos grunted. "No. Been a while."

Raymond narrowed his eyes. "And you’re... okay with this?"

Jos shrugged. Shrugged.

Like Max Verstappen — his pride, his legacy, his entire life project — dating someone was just fine and normal.

Raymond was officially in uncharted waters.

"Who is she?" he asked carefully.

Jos reached for his beer, nonchalant. "Isabelle Leclerc."

Raymond froze mid-sip of his wine.

Isabelle. Leclerc.

As in Charles Leclerc’s little sister.

As in Ferrari’s golden boy’s little sister.

As in political nightmare fuel if the media ever got hold of it.

"You're telling me Max is dating Charles Leclerc’s sister," Raymond said slowly, like he was trying to defuse a bomb.

Jos grunted again. "Mmh."

"And you’re fine with this?" Raymond pressed.

Jos actually — God help him — almost smiled. "She's good for him."

Raymond sat back in his chair, stunned.

Not just because Max was apparently neck-deep in a secret, long-term relationship.

 Not just because it was Isabelle bloody Leclerc.

 But because Jos — notoriously impossible to please, allergic to softness — actually liked her.

Jos approved.

Raymond processed that for a long moment.

The earth hadn’t split open. The sky wasn’t falling.

Miracles did happen, apparently.

"Well," he said finally, recovering some professionalism. "That’s... good."

Jos nodded, unbothered. "She makes him happy."

Raymond exhaled slowly. If Jos was using words like happy, it was serious. Monumentally serious.

And suddenly, Raymond understood something deeper:

This wasn’t a passing thing.

This wasn’t a fling.

This was real.

Max had gone and fallen in love — quietly, stubbornly, like he did everything else — and somehow, without anyone noticing, built himself a life outside the machine of Formula One.

Raymond reached for his phone under the table.

Because if the media ever got a sniff of this, he was going to need a very detailed contingency plan.

And maybe a drink.

Or several.

***

The office was quiet.

Soft light filtered through gauzy curtains.

A pot of chamomile tea sat untouched on the side table.

Isabelle sat curled into the corner of the couch, sleeves of her sweater pulled over her hands, staring at the stitches in the rug instead of at Simone.

Simone waited.

She always waited.

Finally, Isabelle exhaled a shaky breath.

"It’s so stupid," she said quietly. "I shouldn’t be this upset. I didn’t even get badly hurt."

Simone didn’t flinch at the deflection.

She just tilted her head slightly.

"You’re allowed to be upset, Isabelle. Something frightening happened to you."

Isabelle bit her lip, fingers tightening in her sleeves.

"I didn’t even want to tell them," she said. "My family, I mean. I knew how it would go. And it did."

Simone’s voice stayed soft. "Tell me what happened."

Isabelle shrugged stiffly. "I mentioned it. Just… dropped it into the family group chat. Like ripping off a band-aid. Thought maybe they’d be a little worried, and then we’d move on… " she admitted softly. 

Simone waited again.

Isabelle’s mouth twisted bitterly.  "Arthur and Charles kept asking if I was distracted or speeding—like it was somehow my fault."

Simone’s brows furrowed slightly.

“And then a few days later, Charles found out that it wasn’t just a little fender bender. And suddenly they were angry with me. Because I didn’t tell them how bad it was. But I did. I told them that I was…I told them I had a concussion and bruises…And then Lorenzo," Isabelle continued, voice tightening, "he said—he said he wasn’t going to tell Maman. Because it would 'crush' her."

She laughed, a thin, broken sound.

"Apparently, I’m a bigger problem for them if I exist hurt than if I just… pretend everything’s fine."

Simone stayed silent, letting the words hang in the air between them.

Isabelle blinked hard, willing herself not to cry.

"It’s always been like that since Papa died," she said eventually, quieter now. "Maman either sticks her head into the sand—pretends bad things aren’t happening—or she panics. Makes everything about her fear."

Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, and she pulled her knees tighter to her chest.

"So I learned to make myself smaller. Easier. Less trouble."  She smiled bitterly. "Invisible, sometimes. That’s the safest way to survive it."

Simone leaned forward slightly, her voice still low, but firm now.

"Isabelle, what happened to you wasn't your fault. Not the accident. Not your family's reaction."

Isabelle closed her eyes.

"It feels like it is," she whispered.

"It isn’t," Simone said. "You are allowed to take up space. You are allowed to be hurt. You are allowed to need help, without carrying their feelings on your back."

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Daniel Ricciardo, Carlos Sainz Jr. and Lewis Hamilton)

Lando: okay Lando: hear me out

Oscar: this is already a bad start

Lewis: absolutely not

Daniel: proceed Daniel: i love bad ideas

Lando: what if Lando: instead of everyone panicking about charles finding out Lando: we just... Lando: tell him softly???

Carlos: what the fuck does "softly" mean

Lando: like, we ease him into it Lando: drop hints Lando: plant the idea Lando: subtle Lando: caring

Oscar: you're insane.

Lewis: he'll kill us all.

Daniel: ok but i kinda wanna see where he's going with this

Carlos: no Carlos: lando’s plans never end well

Lando: NO LISTEN Lando: like maybe Lando: i casually say Lando: "hey charles did you know belle’s been hanging out with max lately" Lando: and when he starts freaking out Lando: we just Lando: soothe him Lando: with like Lando: positive reinforcement.

Oscar: you think he's a puppy???

Lewis: lando. Lewis:  this is the worst plan anyone’s ever had.

Carlos: you’re going to get us murdered.

Daniel: actually i’m free next thursday if we wanna die then.

Oscar: i vote no. Oscar: hard no. Oscar: hardest no of my life.

Carlos: softly = we still die  Carlos: but maybe slower and more painful

Lando: NO NO Lando: like Lando: we sit him down Lando: give him snacks Lando: maybe a hug Lando: and then just... you know... gently mention that max is in love with his sister

Oscar: lando.  be serious.

Lando: I am serious

Lewis: this is the worst idea i've heard in a long time

Daniel: give him snacks???  what is he, a wild animal???

Oscar: you’re going to get us killed.

Lewis: softly telling charles is still telling charles.  he’s gonna go full Leclerc rage no matter what.

Daniel: AND THEN MAX IS GOING TO KILL US

Lando: ok but hear me out again Lando: what if we tell him Lando: and then IMMEDIATELY leave the country

Oscar: i'm already packing my bags

Carlos: dibs on Spain

Lewis: i'm going to pretend i don't know any of you

Daniel: same

Daniel: i’ll be in australia by the time charles processes step one.

[salem-s]

FINAL ── PLAYING THE PART UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS language, flufffffffff, angst if you squint, smmmmmuuuutt (unprotected...everything so don't take after them please). 18+ mdni.

WORD COUNT 13k. legit do not say anything. this was originally 4k words but i obviously couldn't let that happen for the last chapter. so.

SONG OF THE CHAPTER the only exception by paramore

Rafe swears he hears pounding on his door.

He takes an ear bud out, trying to discern if the noise was real or a part of the song he’s currently listening to. After a moment’s silence, he moves to put the bud back in but one, two beats later, the knocks sound again, confirming someone is at his door so late into the night.

Irritation bubbles in his chest.

Rafe’s been at these stupid memorization cards for what feels like hours, getting nowhere close to being ready for his eight a.m. exam. His mind has – obviously – been elsewhere for the betterment of a week, and he'd be lying if he said the attempt in drowning himself in work has properly distracted him from the events of last week.

Spoiler alert: it hasn't, and it's only getting worse.

Especially now, as the handwriting on the paper started giving him a headache hours ago, so he begrudgingly put on his glasses that he refuses to let see the light of day. The specks, unfortunately, do assist in not making the letters blur together, especially when he’s so tired that his gaze falls in and out of focus.

However, he hates them so goddamn much that it only worsens his already sour mood.

But now they aren’t the only annoyance of his night.

The fact that someone is ferociously pounding on his door only augments his headache, his frustration, and his precariously bubbling temper. He glances at the time, nearing two in the morning, angry that someone has the audacity to not only interrupt his studying, but probably everyone’s sleep on his floor, careless to rhyme or reason or simple ethics. 

He wastes no time standing so quick his chair nearly falls over, stomping over, a long list of curses and horrific things to say are on the tip of his tongue, ready to viscerally berate this person until next Tuesday.

Rafe whips the door open. “The fuck is the–”

His words die in his throat when he sees you.

The air is momentarily knocked from his lungs.

Your hair and makeup are done, as if you've just come from somewhere, adorned in one of his favorite tank tops on you and jeans that hug you too tight to be anything holy. You peer up at him with wide eyes at his harsh words, hugging your basically bare frame in a feeble attempt to warm yourself from wherever you just came from.

God, you look beautiful.

He knows he’s supposed to be mad at you and giving you space and all that, but all of that fades in an instant when he notices your arms coated in goosebumps and your teeth slightly chattering.

Something ugly brews in his chest, discomforted by the thought of you bracing the cold all by yourself. Where is your jacket?

“Jesus, you’re freezing,” he grumbles, ushering you into his room without a second thought.

In an attempt to regain his cool, he frowns to keep up with his indifferent demeanor since he's supposed to be cordial and all, even though the mere thought of attempting small talk with you settles a kettlebell in the pit of his stomach. His heart aches looking at you, because you're simply a walking reminder of how he fucked it all up, said the wrong things and came on too strong with poor timing, a reminder of what he could've had if he was a little more patient, more calculated, less stupid in his endeavors.

Because the past week has been absolute torture for him.

He learned very quickly that almost everything around him reminds him of you: books with an aged spine and annotations adorning the wrinkled pages, simple parts of nature that resemble the color of your eyes, strangers hugging, the mere smell of eucalyptus, everything all at once. The day he got back, he went to the liquor store with Elliot in an attempt to distract himself, but it proved fruitless when he found himself wandering idly in the wine aisle, frozen in place when he found the same bottle that you snagged two of after that grueling dinner with your family.

From that point on, Rafe really only stayed in his room unless it was absolutely necessary to leave.

But it seems as though even the confinements of his room don't provide the solace he's been desperately seeking, as the knowledge of how your room shares a wall with his has been plaguing his conscience. There have been countless times where he's debated saying fuck it, knocking on your door, and begging on his knees to have you in his life again, but he knows he can't do that.

He needs to let you come to him, to not bombard you as he has before. That was what scared you off, his forwardness, so he's vowed to keep cool, keep a distance, and keep quiet as much as he can to give you the space you need.

So, he knows he needs to remain stoic, indifferent, guarded.

Reminding himself of this, Rafe hands you a hoodie off the back of his chair. “Did you lose your key again?”

The sound of his voice is so nice to hear, so refreshing, and you nearly sigh as you hug the hoodie close to your body before pulling it over your head, relishing in the way it smells like him, in its warmth as if he was just wearing it moments ago. Pathetically, you nearly sigh at how it feels adorning your body.

“I left my purse at Elliot’s,” you whisper, hugging your body. “Since when have you had glasses?”

Rafe freezes, forgetting he had them on. 

Ignoring his pink cheeks and ignoring your question, he moves on, putting his guard back up.

Quickly.

“What are you doing here?” His tone is harsh, so he reels it in. “Uh, it’s late. I have an exam.”

You frown at the considerable distance he’s put between you, but part of you really can't blame him since you were the one who orchestrated the falling out.

“I won’t…I won’t take too long. I just need to know if…” You trail off.

How on earth are you going to go about this? Especially when his stare is so piercing, as if he's looking right through your body and into your soul, brows pinched in what you assume is irritation at your stammering.

“Know what?” he drawls out.

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, gaping to try and find the words. You shiver as you recover from the chilly walk, but also at his stare that you can’t quite make out the meaning behind. Is he mad? Irritated? Relieved to see you? You hate how you can’t tell.

But you take a deep breath.

You know how he feels about you, you know all of it, despite this front he’s wearing right now. If Elliot can confirm it, it must be true. 

And as if you needed the extra push, your gaze drifts slightly beyond him, fixated on his desk and noticing the sprawl of papers, his computer open to an online textbook, and notecards that have almost perfect handwriting etched onto them. What gets you, though, are the five almost professional looking photo prints laid out side by side across the top of his desk.

All of you.

You in the distance teetering your balance on a particularly precarious rock in your private cove. You walking up the dirt path to your nonna's cottage with the mountains behind you. You holding a hand up in an attempt to block the lens as your body adorns a hideous dress you only showed him for shits and giggles. You leaning forward to do your mascara in a tiny mirror hanging on the wall, wearing the perfect beaded dress. And, finally, you sitting alone in the garden chair in your nonna's yard, the moonlight hue behind you as you read your book, unknowing to his presence from the kitchen.

Just above his desk, just hovering over the photos, is his ceramic fish hanging on the wall, one of his only pieces of decor in his entire room.

Rafe follows your gaze with confusion, and his posture stiffens when he realizes what you're looking at, what you discovered. Instantly, he frowns as he side steps just enough to block your view of the photos, of the fish. But the damage has already been done, and your breath hitches as you immediately get the confirmation you need to open your heart up.

All of a sudden, you're blurting it out. 

“Elliot told me what you said to him.” The lack of clarification has Rafe raising a brow, to which you add, “About what happened with Yara.”

Rafe’s breath hitches. 

“Is it true?” Your voice is so small that it doesn’t sound like you. 

“Which part?”

“All of it.” You take a cautious step closer, the tequila running through your bloodstream giving you the confidence. 

Rafe doesn’t answer, instead he cocks his head to the side and lets his eyes trail down your body in calculation, gears working overtime in his head as he soaks in your words, the sliver of desperation coating your tone, the way you're playing with the hem of his hoodie, your brows etched in slight worry as you anticipate his response.

Then, it clicks with him, eyes slightly widening at the realization. The reasoning behind your acute coldness towards him wasn’t out of unrequited feelings, but rather the latter.

You cared too much, felt too much. 

The thought gives him whiplash. You must've seen him and Yara in that godforsaken closet and gotten the complete wrong impression on the matter. His heart fucking lurches at your wordless confession, and no wonder you were so apprehensive about his words, about his intentions, and pushed him away at every single opportunity that presented itself because of a stupid miscommunication, because of her stupid actions.

“Is that why you were upset?” He takes it further and steps closer. “At your nonna’s, you said you were upset about something that made you tell your mom about us. You saw us? In the closet?”

Suddenly, he’s standing right in front of you. 

“Is that why?”

You can’t speak, not while he’s practically caging you in, standing so broad and tall in front of you that it renders you speechless. He faintly smells of shampoo, an intoxicating scent, and you can almost see yourself in the reflection of his thinly wired glasses, only shielding his bright blue eyes through shiny glass. His hoodie swallows you whole, and you're grateful for the extra layer that feels like it’s warding off the vulnerability you're reeking of.

All you can manage is a small nod. 

Rafe clenches his jaw, and a part of you fears you've said the wrong thing. 

But then his eyes immediately soften as he brings a hand up to hover over your jaw, almost in muscle memory, as if he's been paining him to not do so, to not touch you.

For fuck's sake, he almost looks relieved.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You nearly snort at the simplicity. For a number of reasons, really, but the biggest one comes first.

“I was embarrassed. I thought you didn’t mean what you said in the ballroom.”

Your voice is so quiet that you almost think he doesn’t hear it, especially when he gives no reaction for a few seconds.

Then his palm is pressing harder, fully allowing himself to touch you. And, god, you can't help but lean into the embrace with a long sigh through your nose, not breaking eye contact with him as his thumb ghosts over your bottom lip, over the wound that’s practically all healed with little to no remnants of the disaster that occurred in that bathroom all that time ago. 

A flicker of pain etches over his face at the reminder of the cut, of what your own mother did, but then his eyes trail back up to meet yours, now glossing with certainty.

“Nothing happened with Yara,” he reassures firmly. 

You nod, sure of yourself now. “I know.”

“All I could think about was you.”

You can’t breathe. 

Cautiously, Rafe leans down to test the waters, and once you make no move to pull away from his touch, he indulges in his endeavors to brush his lips against your cheek, pressing a chaste kiss there.

“About your pretty smile.” He pulls back to move to your other cheek. “Your pretty laugh.” To your forehead. “About how being with someone else made me sick.”

The air escapes your lungs. 

“I meant what I said.” Rafe pulls back so he can meet your eye, a flicker of worry glossing over his pretty eyes, but nonetheless filled with determination. “Every word.”

You can’t help your second nature and let a sliver of panic let up. 

“I thought you didn’t want to date in college.”

The excuse is meek, you know that, he knows that. It’s a last ditch effort for him to truly understand what he’s getting himself into. 

But he's serious. Not a fraction of uncertainty glosses over his pretty features, or give you any shroud of doubt that he didn't mean what he said on that ballroom floor. With the firmness of his palm against your burning skin, the narrowed yet softness gaze in his blue eyes, and the way his other fingers on his other hand twitch in your direction tell you all that you need to know: that he's fucking missed you as much as you've missed him.

And – normally – that thought would scare you and send you running for the hills with a heartbeat too erratic and a mind too gone, but now it only solidifies you, grounds you, keeps you tethered to the boy standing in front of you. He's handing you a proverbial knife and hoping you don't stab him with it, and you have once before, but now you don't dream of letting it happen again.

“I didn’t,” he confirms cautiously. “Not until you showed me what it could be like.”

If it’s possible, you lean further into his touch, frowning in your overwhelming blossom of emotions. The thought of being wanted by someone settles a foreign feeling in your gut, wavering between pride and uncertainty. 

“I want you, too,” you whisper, nearly sighing at how he visibly relaxes at your words, but your voice remains shy. “But I’m scared.”

Rafe pinches his brows in the slightest at your tone. “Of what, baby?”

The words die in your throat.

The list is endless, really, piling with a million excuses that only grow by the second. Where can you begin? How the idea of someone wanting more than just your body is evidently unheard of? How the concept of more implies putting up with the ugly parts of life, the parts you push deep down and never let see the light of day?

Your hands find his unoccupied one, holding onto your lifeline as if it'll fucking kill you if you let go. 

“I don’t know how to be more than just…a body.”

That makes him frown. Immediately. 

Despite it, you continue.

"All my life, I've just been..." You try and find the right words, avoiding his eyes and looking down at your connected hands instead at the weight of your upcoming words. "I've never been wanted, or yearned for, or anyone's first choice. It's really hard for me to believe that someone...that you...would want me..."

Rafe reels.

Have you really thought this entire time that he’s only here for the sex? That that’s all you're good for? All you're worthy of being loved for? 

How can you not see how much more you are? How much you mean to him? Don't you know that you occupy his mind at every waking moment? That you're the first thing he thinks of when he wakes up in the morning to the last thing he sees at night, and how he shuts his eyes when he’s alone and pretends you're right there beside him, holding his hand or scratching his back or playing with his hair.

Don't you know how much he loves you?

“Sweet girl,” Rafe murmurs gently before leaning forward, wrapping you in a bone crushing hug that makes you oof against his chest, getting pulled taut against him. “How can you say that? How can you even think–? When I can’t even–” He grips you tighter. “Fuck.”

Your confusion is through the roof at his desperation. “Rafe, are you–”

“Do you even know how much you mean to me?”

That silences you. 

“I’ve never felt like this about anyone,” he says in a wrangled breath. “Ever. I don’t know how to trust people. I don’t like to and I don’t know how. But with you, it’s never felt easier.”

A large hand comes to cradle the back of your head, and your heart lurches when you can feel a slight tremble. 

Especially when he murmurs your name so quietly, so ardently, that you can't help but just listen.

“You’re so much more than a body.” Rafe’s voice is quiet yet firm and it makes you fumble at the sincerity. “You’re smart. You remember things better than anyone I’ve ever met. You wouldn’t admit it, but you’re actually sweet. You take care of things and people you deeply appreciate. I’ve never seen someone so delicately handle a ceramic fish before.”

You shakily chuckle against his chest. 

“And the thought of not being around you anymore really scared me. And even if you...didn't feel the same," he says low, "I wouldn't have minded, as long as I could be in the same room or exist in the same friend group, it wouldn't...matter. As long as I could still see you.” 

Rafe finally relents on his grip, pulling back a fraction and taking his hand to gently grip your chin, forcing you to look up at him and face the ferocity of his words, as if they didn't just fucking crush you in a way you've never felt before. 

“I liked being with you.” His stare is piercing. “Existing together. Doing all of it.”

You hum. On instinct, you reach up to brush some hair out of his eyes.

Rafe’s heart pounds. “Tell me,” he says, voice dripping in desperation. “Tell me it was real to you.”

You nod instantly. “It was real. All of it.”

He sucks in a breath at the verity, and goes to say something else but you don't let him, instead pulling him down to kiss him. 

And, god, it’s exhilarating. 

All of your fears, all of your doubts, all of your uncertainties that plagues yours and his heart, mind, soul all fly out of the window. You can finally lean into one another without the steel weights cursing your shoulders or the cage locking in your hearts. The kiss is a wordless promise, an oath, a safety net. 

His hands are everywhere instantly: arms, waist, face. Not an inch goes unnoticed as he finally, finally can touch you again, feel you again, hear you again. Your hands trail up to the nape of his neck, holding yourself here in his arms as if to remind yourself this is real and happening. He’s here, right here, and he’s not going anywhere, nor is he letting you go anywhere. 

As much as it scares you, the tension in your shoulders slowly release. 

You slowly back him up until his knees hit his desk chair, Rafe taking the hint and sitting down and wasting no time to pull you into his lap. It's muscle memory at this point, molding yourself onto his body. You both sigh at the sensation of the familiarity.

Straddling him, you place your hands on his shoulders, smoothing out the wrinkles in his t-shirt as his hands trail up and down your side, settling under your – his – hoodie and skimpy tank top to feel the ridges of your ribcage, a connection he's been yearning to make ever since his hands left your body last. His palms are hot against your icy skin, sending a plethora of goosebumps up your spine.

Rafe simply stares at you, watching you admire the planes and grooves of his shoulder muscles, his biceps, anything you can get your hands on to make up for lost time spent pining in silence.

When you finally meet his eye, you shyly smile when you notice him already shamelessly looking right back at you. 

One of your hands cradles his jaw, fingers gently skimming over the lenses of his glasses. “I like these.”

Rafe groans, rolling his eyes and darting his gaze away. “I hate them.” 

“Why?” You nudge his cheek to force him to look at you. “I think they make you look handsome.”

“They make me look stupid.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “There’s no need to be embarrassed about it. They're glasses."

"Still stupid."

"You should wear them more often,” you demand lightly.

Rafe frowns. “No.”

“Well, don’t they help you see?”

“Obviously, but–”

You smile, and he’s having trouble focusing. “Then case closed.”

His lips twitch. “Sweet girl,” Rafe warns.

There’s no backbone to it. 

“Don’t sweet girl me,” you warn right back at him. Then, quieter, “Why didn’t you bring them?”

Instead he cocks his head to the side with a teasing smile.

“Are you really that interested in my optical choices or is this your sweet little way of getting in my pants?”

You snort. “We both know I don’t have to be sweet to get into your pants.”

Rafe laughs boyishly and you love the sound. But he’s still avoiding your question. 

“Answer.”

“Bossy.”

“Rafe.”

“Okay,” he huffs playfully, “I didn't really have to bring them. I only need them when I’m reading or writing a lot. My eyes get tired.”

You pout endearingly. “That’s, like, the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard–”

“Fuck off.”

“No.” You lean forward and press a slow chaste kiss on his lips. 

Of course, he can’t even fathom pulling away and mmrphs low into your mouth, leaning up to chase your lips again for another kiss when you lean back. You hum at his neediness, but giving in anyway and slightly parting your lips to give him all the access he wants.

Rafe wastes no time in doing so, a hand coming up to cradle the side of your neck to guide your movements as he lazily makes out with you as if he has all the time in the world to do so. The warmth of his mouth, his body, his palm nearly make you melt in your very spot, a wave of relief washing over you.

You decide that you love this spot right here on his lap. Your favorite seat. Your throne. 

When you happily hum again, Rafe kisses you harder, squeezes a little harder. 

“God,” he mumbles against your lips, “I can’t believe you’re mine.”

The possessiveness makes your stomach pool with pride. All his. All yours. No one else's but each other's.

You can’t help but tease him. “I don’t remember you asking me officially.”

“You’re still mine.”

And Rafe kisses you again. Harder. A mark of his words. 

“Say it,” he demands quietly against your lips. 

And you just fucking beam. “I’m yours.” Your fingers splay through his hair. “All yours, Rafey.”

Scoffing, he turns his head away as you chuckle at his reddening cheeks, peppering kisses on his cheek, jaw, lips, anywhere available for you to coat in markings of you, you, you.

“Stop calling me that,” Rafe murmurs, but loses all the edge in his tone because the feeling of you pressing your lips all over him sends his mind for a loop.

You simply hum. “No. You have so many names for me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but you like those.” 

“Who says I do?”

“Be so fucking for real.”

The laugh that escapes your mouth is loud and boisterous, probably waking up someone on your floor. But Rafe can care less because the sound is music to his ears, despite you jesting at his expense. Shit, you can make fun of him all you want if this is how you're gonna react, smiling and sitting pretty in his lap whilst drowning in his clothes, kissing him like he hung the stars himself. 

You playfully slap his shoulder. “Whatever. But I’m still going to call you–”

“No.”

“Yes. When you’re least expecting it.”

Rafe hums low, a warning.

Shrugging, you suppress a smile. “What? I gotta keep you on your toes somehow.”

“Shut up.” Then, softer. “C’mere.”

You laugh incredulously. “I’m already here.”

You nearly have the gall to laugh again when he ever-so-slightly pouts, but it all dies in your throat when he’s tugging you impossibly closer, resting your face in the crook of his neck as his hands splay wide and broad on your back. It takes you one, two seconds to register his actions, and you find yourself melting at the notion of Rafe Cameron hugging you.

It feels so achingly familiar that you can’t help but sigh in contentment, letting your eyes shut for a few moments as you feel his chest heave in and out with his low syncopated breaths. 

Your heart lurches at the action, pressing yourself impossibly tight against him in fear he's going to disappear if you inch back even in the slightest. He takes a particularly deep breath, one of relief almost, your chests brushing together even closer than before. It makes you hum, pressing another kiss to the soft skin on his neck.

You speak before you register it. "Thank you."

His hands gently rub up and down your back. "For what, baby?"

"For..." You swallow the lump in your throat. "For not running."

Your words make him frown, and he eases you back so he can look you in the eye, confusion glosses over his features as one of his hands reaches up to cradle your face, forcing you to look at him when you turn your head away in embarrassment.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says firmly. "Gonna take a cavalry to get rid of me."

A smile twitches at the end of your lips.

His gaze flickers down to your mouth, letting it linger there for a moment before moving back up to meet your eyes, but before he can do anything else, you're already leaning in and severing the distance.

Rafe's large hand holds you in place, reciprocating your kiss with more fervor than before that makes his breath hitch. Your hips barely – just barely – move in tandem with his that has his hand gripping your waist, stopping your moments immediately.

You lean back at his sudden apprehension, almost shy. "What?"

"Don't- Don't do that," he answers meekly.

Of course, you've never been one to listen.

You roll your hips again.

His other hand leaves your face to grab your waist, both of his palms and all of his fingers digging deep into your flesh to cease your movements. His face is uncharacteristically scrunched in pain at the reluctancy of initiating what he's been dreaming about since the last time you had him.

You notice immediately. "What's wrong?"

Rafe's eyes dart between yours, sucking in a breath as he looks at you. "I don't want to hurt you again."

The words confuse you. Tilting your head to the side, you try and rack your brain on where this sudden approach is coming from, where the sudden apprehension stems from. The expression on his face tells you that he's holding back, he's pained, haunted by something you can't conjecture.

"You haven't hurt me," you tell him earnestly, a little confused, but one-hundred percent honest.

He furrows his brows. "...The day of the wedding?"

What?

You only look at him in befuddlement, mind trailing off when you replay the course of events of the day in your head. The only thing that would pertain to his words was when he fucked you deep and rough that morning because you asked him to. It had felt good. Too good. It was when you realized you were in too deep and it scared the shit out of you.

"Rafe," you say slowly, "what are you talking about?"

He looks pained even repeating it. "You cried. After we..." He shakes the thought away. "There were teardrops on your pillow."

The confession makes your heart skip.

That's why he was so weird with you for the entire day? Why he kept himself at an arm's length and could barely look you in the eye when you lounged together on the beach? Because he thought he'd hurt you? Made you cry? When you were upset for the complete opposite reason?

You frown at his anecdote, hurt that he's had to carry this miscommunicated guilt with him for a week, unknowing to the real reason, and under the complete wrong impression of your feelings.

Before you know it, your hands are reaching up to cradle each side of his face tenderly.

"That wasn't because of you," you whisper ardently, almost pained that he's been thinking that the whole time. "Not at all."

But Rafe doesn't seem to believe that. "I was too hard."

"No," you say immediately, shaking your head to emphasize your point. "No, you were too gentle."

That makes him furrow his brows.

At his silence, you continue with a deep breath.

"I thought that if I asked for it rough, it would let me get over my feelings for you, to remind me that it had to just be sex." Your voice is impossibly quiet yet firm. "But you didn't treat me like another fuck, you made sure I had what I needed, said all of these beautiful things, treated me impossibly gentle afterward."

The pad of your thumb brushes over his cheekbone.

"I cried because I was scared," you admit gently. "Not of you. Never of you. But of my feelings. You didn't make it easy for me to try and stop liking you."

A smile twitches at the end of his lips.

"So," he says quietly after a moment, "I didn't hurt you?"

You shake your head earnestly to confirm. "No. I'm sorry that I let you believe that you did."

His eyes blink, soaking in the weight of your words with a slow nod, the gears in his head turning as he gradually lets himself understand that it wasn't his hands that orchestrated your tears. He didn't hurt you. You are fine.

"You're okay," Rafe drawls out cautiously. "Right?"

Your nod is immediate. "Yes. Always with you."

That seems to make the tension in his shoulders release bit by bit, relaxing under your touch and allowing himself to believe you, believe that it wasn't what he thought it was, believe that he didn't hurt you.

"Okay?" You ask gently, confirming that he understands what you're saying.

Now he does, nodding against your touch and letting his hands experimentally skim your waist, easing up on his grip, and letting them venture over the smoothness of your skin. He waits a beat for you to pull back, to tell him to stop, but you don't.

Instead, you press yourself down onto him, making his breath catch.

It's out of clarity, certainty, especially when you lean forward and press a chaste kiss on his lips, a confirmation of your truth. He leans up to chase your mouth, and he's successful when you close the distance, allowing his tongue access to your mouth as teeth clashes against teeth, a wave of passion emerging like a tidal wave at the notion that he didn't hurt you. He didn't hurt you. He didn't hurt you.

"Fuck," Rafe mutters against your lips when you roll your hips once more. "You're going to fucking kill me. I swear."

Experimentally, he grips your waist and moves you back and forth against his already hardening dick, and when you don't pull back or voice your discomfort, he allows himself a deep exhale, allows himself to soak into the moment, allows himself to enjoy the feel of you, you, you.

"I missed you," you nearly whisper before you can stop it, the vulnerability feeling foreign on your tongue. "Missed this."

Rafe groans against your lips. "Me too, baby." He kisses you again as you moan quietly into his mouth as he continues guiding your movements against him. "Let me show you, mhm?"

Anticipation pools in your stomach, blossoming in your gut and sending warmth down to where your body touches his.

You're barely nodding before his hands venture down to your ass, holding you taut against him as he stands, your grip tightening around his neck like a koala and wrapping your legs around his middle. In seconds, your back hits the mattress, his knee is slotting between your thighs, and his lips are on yours again.

It's so familiar, so achingly familiar that you cannot believe you went so long without it, without him.

You arch into his chest, bodies molding together as puzzle pieces connect. A hand flies to his hair, tugging the strands gently that makes him omit a low groan into your mouth, one hand shamelessly groping one of your breasts under his hoodie and the other bracing himself over your body, barely hovering.

Rafe pulls back just slightly, a flicker of irritation coating his pretty face as he leans up to take his glasses off, ones that have slid down the bridge of his nose just enough to annoy him.

But you react before you realize it.

"Wait," you say, leaning up a tad for emphasis, a hand coming up to cradle his face and gingerly skim the metal as he freezes. "Keep them on."

A teasing smile twitches at his lips. "Seriously?"

You sheepishly nod, biting your lip.

Rafe stares at you for a moment, amused gaze darting between your eyes at the request.

"Please?" You add sweetly.

The scoff that leaves his mouth makes you suppress a grin, knowing how that one word makes him feel and using it to your advantage. He shakes his head in disbelief at you, but his faux irritation proves to be fruitless as a smirk can't help but grow on his lips.

"Can't say no to that, hm, sweet girl?" He murmurs, half in playfulness and the other half in adoration.

You shake your head slowly at him, your grin fading into something shy, as if asking for what you want proved to be difficult.

But he wouldn't dream of denying you that. Ever. Especially when you asked so nicely, so sweetly, just for him. Who is he to say no? Hell, you could've asked him for a car in that same tone and he wouldn't hesitate to ask what color, make, and model.

So Rafe indulges your request, pushing the glasses up further on the bridge of his nose and leaning down to connect your lips for the umpteenth time, nearly grinning when you let out a satisfied mmrph at him letting you get what you want. His hands are everywhere they can reach, groping and mapping out the curves of your body and nearly moaning at the softness of your skin.

"Can't believe you're mine," he murmurs against your lips, sending a shockwave down your spine as his thumb brushes over your nipple. "All mine."

"Yours," you whisper sultry, needy, desperately, nearly bucking up into him.

Rafe's eyes roll back at the sound of it, pushing the hem of your – his – hoodie to reveal your chest, and you sit up to aide him in taking it off. The act is deliberately thorough, as his calloused palms smooth over your skin, gingerly pushing it up over your head. Your tank top is next. Then, your bra. Then your jeans. Before you know it, you're almost completely nude, simply left in your light blue underwear and exposed in the cool air of his room.

All he can do is stare at your bareness, letting out an appreciative hum as one hand grabs a breast, his cool ring ghosting over your nipple that causes you to sigh deeply, eyes raking from your stomach, to your chest, and eventually back up to your face, where you peer up at him in anticipation. His hand gropes you meaningfully, as if he's studying the feel of the swell in his palm, relishing in your warmth.

"You're so beautiful," Rafe admires gently, almost to himself, before leaning down and taking the other breast in his mouth.

The words make your heart skip a beat, but you shove down the feeling as you arch into his mouth that licks and bites and sucks against the soft skin, a hand in his hair to keep yourself grounded, keep yourself tethered to him. No inch of your chest goes unnoticed, untouched, ignored.

Rafe is thorough in his appreciation, and as lovely as it is, you're growing impatient with need as you writhe underneath him.

"Want you," you whine under your breath, not like he can hear you anyway as it comes out as an incoherent babble, but figuring it's better than saying his name over and over like a mantra, but it proves fruitless when he albeit hums. "Rafe?"

"Yes, baby?" He asks lazily in between kisses as if he has all the time in the world.

"I want... I..."

He etches lower and lower on your body until his mouth is ghosting over your clothed cunt, a low hum emitted from his mouth as he presses a kiss against the wet patch on your underwear, greedily inhaling and exhaling hot breath that makes you squirm. By the looks of it, he's pleased at the sight of you eager for him, ready for him, squirming for him.

Instead of responding, he licks and sucks against the cotton of your panties, against the spot he knows makes you crumble all the same. You moan raggedly, almost embarrassed at the volume given the fact that you've just started, given that he's doing this over your clothes.

"Words," Rafe mumbles teasingly, the baritone of his voice vibrating your core with such fervor that it makes your back arch and your fingers grip a little harder in his hair. "What d'ya want, hm?"

"You," you manage to say, breathless and writhing. "Need you."

His nimble fingers hook under the waistband of your panties, sliding them down achingly slow until they're fully off, discarded somewhere carelessly as he resumes his position between your legs, taking in the sight of you: so pretty looking down at him, cunt glistening with need, face flush with anticipation.

One of your legs hooks over his shoulder as his mouth ghosts over your core.

"You have me," is all he says before closing the distance.

You moan at the contact, as his tongue plunges deep where you need him and his nose brushes against your clit. The taste of you has him groaning into your heat, the rumble causing your eyes to roll back at the sensation. The sound is obscene, especially when he eats like a starved man, like he's been depraved of his favorite meal, like he's ravenous.

"Taste so good, princess," he practically moans into your heat.

It's almost unbearable. You've been so worked up this past week at the thought of him, the thought of never being able to make things right, the thought of losing something you can't help but love. The wave of relief that washes over you only augments your pleasure, because your worries dissipate and you allow yourself to enjoy this, enjoy him, enjoy what he can give you.

One of his hands venture up your body to grab a breast, as if he can't allow his hands to be unoccupied, to not feel and dote on you with every fiber of his being. The added pleasure makes your eyes roll back involuntarily.

"Oh my god, Rafe," you whisper so quietly that it's barely audible.

Your other hand covers his, gripping the back of his hand and squeezing tight to wordlessly reciprocate your want, your need, your appreciation.

His other hand comes to aide his mouth, maneuvering his body so he can both use his fingers as they glide in with ease, and his tongue that can't bear to separate just yet. It makes you whine so beautifully that his hips stutter forward against the mattress, groaning low into your cunt at the sudden sensation.

As Rafe sucks and laps and fingers you so brazenly, you let out a ragged breath at the plethora of pleasantries, suddenly hit with how nice everything feels, how the combination of his mouth, plunging fingers, and the hand fondling your breast start the familiar coil bubbling in your core.

"Fuck," you curse at the intensity, and how quickly it builds. "Please, I-I-"

Your hips writhe under his touch as you let out a particularly broken whine, chest heaving as you get closer and closer to your release.

"I know, baby," he murmurs low, almost strained.

Gasping, you momentarily lose breath at the speed of it, gripping his hand that's on your breast tighter, affirming how quickly you're approaching your high with your body language, one that he seems to understand quite well, something he's come to know better than a lot of other things in life. He's well versed in your tendencies, a pride he wears with his chest.

"Rafe," you whine as your orgasm comes closer, and closer, and closer. "I'm-"

You don't finish the sentence, and you don't even hear if he responds, because your orgasm hits you so quickly, so blindly, that your back arches off the mattress, a tidal wave of ecstasy flooding your veins and searing hot in your core. Your heartbeat is up to your ears, and he could be saying the secrets to the universe and you'd simply have no idea. It's pulsating, inebriating, because you don't hide behind a curtain of shame of how much you need him, not anymore, and that makes the release tenfold.

Despite your writhing hips, Rafe is able to lap up every drop, groaning deep into your cunt at the taste of you, of how nice you feel against his fingers, against his tongue, how pretty you sound as you let him hear you louder than ever.

Lazily, he licks and sucks you through the aftershock, nearly grinning at how your thighs tremble against his head and your ragged breaths ease from the intensity. Your thumb rubs absentminded circles on his hand, a gesture so fucking sweet that he reciprocates by placing a chaste kiss against your cunt, eyeing it for a moment as a brief goodbye before he sighs a hot breath against it.

"You did so well, sweet girl," he praises, trailing kisses up your body while turning his palm in your hand to gingerly lace his fingers through yours, squeezing once, twice, three times until his mouth is against your neck, sucking that sweet spot that makes you shiver.

You practically shake underneath him, still attempting to return to planet earth.

Rafe's nose nudges your jaw. "You okay?"

You exhale a noise that you think is affirmation, but frankly you're still trying to screw your head on straight after hearing your heartbeat in your ears, shuddering under his grounding touch that sends electricity through your already amplified veins.

"Yes," you start breathlessly, "I-I've just been– my brain– I couldn't... I need to..."

Rafe's face is suddenly inches from yours, practically beaming down at your incoherent babbling with a knowing glance, one that affirms just how nice he fucks you (your words, not his, as you've so graciously told him once). It's proving true now, as he takes in the sight of your gazed expression and bleary eyes, chest swelling with pride.

Watching you attempt to figure out your words all breathless and pouty, he can't help but let his gloating simmer into something more affectionate, something softer that he seems to only reserve for you. It's fascinating to see you like this, completely unguarded and fucked out and beautiful, nonetheless.

"Couldn't what?" He eggs on, heart blooming at the state of you.

"It doesn't matter," you mutter absentmindedly as you slip your hand out of his to paw at his chest, still recovering from the dizziness of your brain, movements sluggish as you reach down for the tent in his sweatpants while your eyesight slowly returns to normal. "C'mere, I–"

"Easy," he drawls out amusingly, taking the trembling hand that reaches for his dick and lacing his fingers through yours instead. "You're shaking."

You blink through your frustration, your vision returning (almost). "I'm not– I– You're being withholding."

His grin is impossibly wide. "I'm sorry, sweet girl." He doesn't sound apologetic in the slightest. "I'll give you another, just catch your breath, yeah?"

Your struggle is obvious, and your desperation even more, because you've missed him so fucking bad and all you want to do is feel him irrevocably, completely, ardently. The realization is pathetic, you know, but you figure that you're past the point of being shy, especially with him, who has seen you at your all.

You frown, spluttering, utterly flustered at his nonchalance, especially when his unoccupied hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, running the pad of his thumb on the corner of your mouth. "Wh– No, I don't want another, I want–"

"You don't want another?"

Groaning, you flush under his piercing stare. "No, I– Ugh, Rafe. I want you."

"Me?" Rafe repeats in faux surprise, brows raised playfully. "Could've just asked."

You roll your eyes so hard it only makes you a little more dizzy, trying really hard to appear angry but it goes nowhere when a hint of a smile ghosts your lips. And it only grows when he leans in, placing a long, chaste kiss on you, and you melt into it when you taste yourself, lungs wound tight. You figure you can breathe later.

He notices immediately, pulling back with a boyish chuckle that makes your chest feel funny. "Sorry. Couldn't help it."

"Do it again," you mumble shyly, eyelids heavy with desire. "Please."

And he does. Immediately.

You albeit whine into his mouth as he reciprocates the noise at the sound of it, squeezing your hand once more and the gesture nearly kills you as you practically pout into his mouth at the sweetness of it. With your mind airy and lungs breathless, all you can think about is Rafe, Rafe, Rafe, how he kisses you, how he touches you, how his voice sounds reverberated against your body.

It's incriminatingly intoxicating to be surrounded by him in all of your senses: his hand laced in your own, his breathy whimpers against your lips when your hand trails to the hem of his shirt to brush against his bare abdomen, teasing the waistline of his sweats. You're caught in a whirlwind of him, drowning in his scent and caged in by his arms.

You realize quickly, as you've noted before, that Rafe Cameron should come with a warning.

He pulls back, and you're about to protest until you see he's moving to take his shirt off in one swift motion, sick of the cotton barrier between your chests. As he begins to take his sweats and boxers off, you sit up, idly waiting for him as you tuck your legs underneath you. The sight of his cock hard and aching, dripping pre-cum off the tip, has you shamelessly staring, as you let out a small breath you didn't realize you were holding.

Rafe notices your change in position, patiently waiting all pretty and breathless and brazenly looking at his dick, and he can't help but tilt his head and stare at you with an amused gleam in his eye.

When he makes no effort to move, your eyes travel back up to meet his to see that they're already staring at you, a piercing gaze that has you biting your lip at the notion of being caught.

"What?" He asks teasingly, searching your face for any indicator of what you want.

But you're apparently good with your words now, or at least better than before.

"Wanna ride you."

The sentence makes Rafe scoffs in disbelief, shaking his head at you as he runs a hand through his hair, practically in awe of you, of your words, of how good you're being for him tonight, how you're starting to ask for things. It makes his chest swell with pride, proud that you feel comfortable enough around him to start voicing your needs, your wants, things that he'll give to you in less than a heartbeat.

Nonetheless, once he's learned how to use his brain again, he leans forward, turning his body so he's sitting up against the headboard and extending an arm for you almost immediately.

Which you graciously take, gripping his forearm as you crawl onto his lap, sucking in a breath when his dick is the only thing in between your two stomachs. You can't help but stare down at it, bringing a hand to grip his length like you've been dreaming about for days, letting out a deep sigh that makes your hot breath fan over his tip.

Rafe lets out a low moan, gripping your hips impossibly tight as he watches you spread the pre-cum off his tip with your thumb, spreading it down his length and jerking him off at a painfully slow pace that nearly has his hips bucking at the sensation of it. The sight of your hand wrapped around him nearly makes his brain shut off, dumbifying him to the point where all he can do is pathetically whine as you hold his dignity in the palm of your hand.

A particular tight squeeze makes him tense underneath you, eyes screwing shut for a moment to compose himself as one of his hands leaves your hips to wrap around your wrist, stopping your movements altogether.

Your head whips up, pouting. "What?"

Rafe just shakes his head, almost pained as he can't even get the words out.

But you understand him, and you pout. "But I want to."

"Sweet girl."

You hum, looking back down as you feel his hand push your wrist down, down, down until, with some adjusting, his cock is sliding in between your folds.

The sensation makes you both moan shamelessly, your lashes fluttering as your eyes roll shut. Your stomach pools in warmth for the anticipation, especially when your hips rock back and forth against him to coat his cock with the remnants of your previous orgasm, mixing it with the pre-cum that you graciously spread on him. The feeling, almost on command, makes him practically shudder underneath you.

Rafe whines out a curse, and if you weren't so light-headed you'd think he's begging. "Feel so nice already, making me go crazy."

Frankly, the stubborn part of you wants to elongate this as much as possible, but as you feel your prior orgasm practically dripping onto his length, it's clear that you're in no position to withhold him from experiencing the same euphoria. All you want to do is give back what he did for you, how he made you feel, to wordlessly tell him how much you appreciate him, yearn for him, want him to be taken care of.

With shaky hands, you guide his cock to your entrance, not wasting another second before you're slowly sinking down onto his length.

"Shit," he murmurs shakily against your lips, his grip iron tight on your hips – borderline, your ass – as he feels you lower inch by inch. "Oh my fucking god, holy fuck. Taking me so goddamn well."

It isn't until you feel him fully bottom out when you're letting out a ragged breath, one that you were unaware you were holding at the intensity of the feeling, of the stretch, of how much more you can feel him in this position, his cock hitting places unknown as you still on his lap, soaking in the moment of simply being full of him, relishing in the notion of how nice it is to be in your favorite spot.

Your arms sling around his neck, draped over his shoulders to impossibly taut yourself to his chest as you place a chaste kiss on his lips, one that he can't even reciprocate because he's still sharply breathing, still not over how well you're taking him and how perfect you feel around him. It's, understandably, making his brain all fuzzy, and all he can try and concentrate on is not coming in this given moment.

So, no, he doesn't kiss you back. He can't.

Instead, he shakily exhales against your lips, gently shaking his head when you cheshire-cat grin at him, attempting to roll your hips in retaliation but his grip on your hips is iron. Part of you relishes in the marks you're going to wake up to, imprinted by him, and greedily want to and move again to get him to dig deeper, to be able to feel the reminders of him in the morning.

You try. He holds you still even harder.

"Just- Fuck," Rafe groans. "Gimme a minute, wanna feel you."

You pout, ignoring the way your heart thumps at the simplicity of his words, yet find yourself obeying. Leaning back a fraction, you take a moment to take a selfish peek at him: blue eyes blown black with lust, hair falling onto his forehead in messy waves that you brush back gingerly, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose that you fix silently, lips parted and swollen from all the activity he's been engaging in with them.

He looks unequivocally fucked out. You assume you look equally as such.

Without thinking, your arms retract from their position around his neck, slithering up the sides of his neck and letting your hands cradle each side of his jaw, holding his face in place as your thumbs absentmindedly trace circles, squares, triangles on the soft skin. You simply stare at him, admire him, wait for him to give you the green light to continue moving.

And Rafe doesn't think he's ever been held like this before.

It does something irreversible in his chest, a pang of an unknown emotion jolting through his skin like electricity as he simply sits under your touch, teetering between wanting to explode with admiration and shutting down altogether to sulk in the feeling. He's sure you have no idea what you're doing to him, and whether you mean to or not, he's sure there's nothing better on the planet than this, than the feel of you wrapped around him, holding him, grounding him.

His hands move up and down your spine, tracing vertebrae bone by bone in a delicacy he never knew he possessed. As his heart pounds in his chest, his mind morphs to mush, and the only thing he can conjecture is that he is, irrevocably, yours for the rest of his life. There's frankly no doubt about it, and the thought makes his lashes flutter shut to truly soak in the physicality of it all.

He feels you place a feather-light kiss on his lips, and before you can pull back to continue to give him the moment to gather himself, he's chasing the kiss and closing the distance again.

This time, Rafe's the one moaning into your mouth, especially as you accidentally shift your hips when kissing him back. At the slight movement, his impatience is suddenly through the roof as his hands venture down to your ass, slowly starting to guide your motions up and down, back and forth, taking him in ways that has his eyes rolling back.

Your thighs aide his movements for about a minute, but soon begin to tremble as your bounces get needier, kisses become breathless, sighs turn into whimpers. Calloused palms roam the entirety of your body, groping and rolling the flesh of your ass in tandem with your movements, slithering up your ribcage to squeeze and suck on your bouncing tits, down to where your bodies connect to press a firm thumb on your clit.

That right there makes you whine so gutturally deep where his hips unexpectedly jerk into you, his cock – somehow – burying deeper inside you to a spot unreached before.

Rafe moans your name like a mantra, like it's the only word he knows.

It makes your brain fuzzy, as your neediness takes over and your conscience is on autopilot. You say something, but it comes out like an incoherent babble, something insignificant and probably pertaining to how good he feels, as you continue to shift your hips up and down to take his full length, lift up to where his tip barely pokes out, only to sink back down onto him again. Over, and over, and over.

Your arms sling back over his shoulders, lazily linking behind his neck as one of his hands snakes around your back to pull you impossibly closer while the other works your clit, thumb pressing on it so firmly that you momentarily see stars at the ferocity of it all. Nails scratching the smooth skin of his back, you almost break skin at the attempt to pull him closer, as the need for more, more, more stems from the coil beginning to rumble in your stomach.

"Rafe," you gasp, sucking in a breath as you feel the familiar sensation bubbling. "Feel so full, feels so good."

"You feel like a dream," he mumbles shakily against your lips, hips jerking up into you as you recognize that he must be close. "Never gonna– fuck. Can't believe you were– and I was– oh my god, oh m– You feel so fucking nice– I'm gonna–"

Your chest is light, core on fire. "Something's– I feel– I–"

For a second, your eyes roll back as a searing hot sensation floods your lower half, and you momentarily only see white as you feel your body practically give out and lean forward onto his, gasping into the crevice of his neck as his hips slam into you from underneath. Your nails sink into the skin of his shoulder blades as firmly as you can muster with your little-to-no strength in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. Your whines are loud and straight pornographic at the branding fire feeling in your cunt.

Did you just come?

Given the heat overwhelming your core and the bundle of nerves shooting electricity through your veins, you think you just did. With your heartbeat in your ears, the sound of Rafe's shameless moans feel like they're underwater as you're practically putty in his grasp, both of his arms bear-wrapped around you as he thruuuuusts up into you with such intensity, such fervor, that you think he just came, too.

Spots blur your vision as you moan into the hot skin of his neck as he fucks you through your orgasm, only now feeling the hot spurts of his cum gushing into you with every upwards thrust of his, and you can't deny how fucking good it feels to be full of him – to be really full of him – as the sensation is burning hot and tempestuous and everything you've needed.

Your chest heaves at the intensity, clawing at his upper back for some sort of leverage that you're not sure will do anything to aide your limp body. His hips grind up into your core, and once you gain some sort of semblance back from practically passing out from the orgasm he just gave you, you realize he's been speaking the entire time.

You happen to catch the tail end of his words.

"–ve you, I fucking– I– fuck-" Rafe whines, and the sound vibrates your lips that are pressed against his vocal cord. "It's like you're made for me, feel so fucking nice, so pretty on top of me, I– fuck. How could I– When you–? With the–? Oh my god, oh my fucking god."

All you can respond with is a low moan, overstimulated as you come down from your earth-shattering orgasm as he fucks himself using you through his, his cum leaking out of you and spilling down your thighs and onto his lower stomach. The sight of it makes your breath hitch, breathless at how much you both came at the same time.

His bucking gradually ceases, becoming less and less grandiose and eventually settling in stillness as his chest heaves against yours. You register his hands trailing up and down your back soothingly, lips pressed to your hairline and placing chaste kisses with sweet nothings riddled between them. Your eyes flutter shut, butterfly kissing the skin on his neck that makes goosebumps adorn his arms.

The two of you sit like this for a minute, mentally coming down from the daze your simultaneous orgasms put you through. Once your vision returns to normal (i.e. you're no longer seeing stars every time you open your eyes to try and look at him), you gently press the palm of your hands to his shoulders, pushing yourself up off his chest to sit up and find some semblance of independence.

Your brain is foggy, no doubt, as you hazardously sway as you blink at him, heart racing as you discover he's already looking at you.

"Holy shit," you murmur, dazed and fighting exhaustion.

He exhales shakily. "I know."

You manage a wry smile. "That was-"

"I know," he repeats bashfully, a smile twitching the corner of his mouth.

With a trembling hand, you reach up to push his glasses further up his nose, letting your fingers dwell on the metal sides before bringing it down to cup his jaw. It's as if you're a ghost in your own body, feeling airy and light yet wrecked all the same, shaking as if you've been left in the freezing cold with no amenities, shaking as if he just gave you the best orgasm you've ever had.

Noticing your frailness, you laugh in a self deprecating way. "I think I passed out."

Rafe exhales a shaky chuckle, one of disbelief, as a hand travels up to the side of your neck, keeping your head in place from all the swaying. Though a flicker of concern coats over his eyes at the hazy smile you're flashing him, eyes blinking ferociously as if they're regaining sight.

It makes him frown. "Did you? Are you okay?"

You nod, lazy yet immediate. "Uhm, did you hear me? I think our neighbors are gonna kill us."

A boyish laugh escapes his lips, and he lets himself ease into the fact that you're fine, you're smiling, you're gazing at him like he hung the goddamn stars himself.

His thumb brushes a tear from the corner of your eye, one that you didn't know you had, humming low and sure as his eyes rake over the features of your pretty face. Now, you're left in the stilled silence of your own doing, basking in the aftermath of your actions, of the words that led you to this point. Your heart skips a beat at the vulnerability, knowing it's more than sex, knowing that what you're feeling right now – the gravitational pull towards him – is reciprocated, especially as his gaze softens. It's replaced by something deeper, more raw, cut open for you to do what you please.

The intensity of his stare makes your breath hitch, and, despite literally what just occurred, a wave of shyness overcomes you, averting your gaze down to his chest.

But in your bottom peripheral, you catch a glimpse of the fucking mess.

Your eyes widen, looking down to where your bodies connect. "Oh my god."

His gaze follows lazily, glancing at the sight with nonchalance for his soaked bedsheets, suppressing a shit eating grin as he continues to see small amounts of cum still dripping out of you, as if there's an endless supply of it inside you, continuously adding to the plethora of a mess on his (freshly washed, by the way) bedsheets.

You blink stupidly, attempting to fathom the sheer amount of mere sex all over your lower bodies, all over the sheets, some of it even grazing his abdomen. How did that even get there? How could the two of you produce that much? And – oh, god – is it ever going to come out of his sheets? Fuck, is it leaking through?

But he has no qualm with the matter, and instead beams at the fact.

"That was all you, sweet girl," he teases with a hand skimming the faint bruises starting to form on your hip. "You came so hard. You squir-"

Your hand comes up to cover his mouth.

Your face scrunches up in embarrassment at the word, because you fucking hate the term, and frankly assumed it was a myth for the longest time since you've never done it before, nor have any of your friends. Yet your heart thumps at the possibility that – most of – this mess is from you.

No, it couldn't be. It can't be.

Because if it is, he is never, ever going to let you live it down, and you can count on that for a fact.

Eyeing him quickly and feeling your face flush as he stares right at you, eyes twinkling with amusement, you remove your hand from his mouth and ring your fingers together, looking back down to the sheets with a dismissive scoff.

"I did not," you argue meekly because, frankly, you have no idea if you did or not. You don't even know what that was. "This is all yours."

Rafe's grin is blinding, teasing, fucking proud. "You totally did. Went everywhere, baby."

Face flushing, you groan and throw your hands up to cover your face, hating how hot your skin feels at his laugh and complete nonchalance over the matter.

"Fuck," you murmur as you take in the sight of it. "Are you serious? But I didn't– I don't even– How could I–?"

Instead of answering, he whistles low. "Holy shit, you really did pass out, didn't you?"

You refuse to answer, taking your bottom lip in between your teeth as guilt riddles your chest for ruining his sheets. Expensive ones, at that. You're assuming it has a crazy thread-count imported from god-knows-where, as he's the person to get the best of the best of material things as long as he has the means to obtain them. You've always liked sleeping in his room on the random occurrence it would happen, partly because his bed is always so damn comfortable, the sheets definitely having something to do with it.

"I'll wash them" you offer quietly, slight panic settling in now that you're – somewhat – back to normal and coherent enough to register that this is a problem. "I'll buy you new ones-"

But, of course, Rafe simply shakes his head, pressing his palms against your spine to lure you closer, letting the words die in your throat as he tugs you against his lips. He kisses you slow yet meaningful, a wordless promise that he's not mad about something like this, he's not even concerned, barely letting his beaming smile falter at the thought of having to clean it up. He's only thinking about you, you, you.

"No need," he murmurs against your mouth, still fucking grinning. "I'm framing and putting this shit on my wall."

You groan at his words, cheeks unabashedly hot.

"Gonna time-stamp it and everything," he adds just to be a prick. "Wave it around like a flag, and shit."

You want the ground to swallow you whole. "Stop."

"Wear it like armor."

"You're insufferable."

"And you're hot. I mean it, baby. I'm gonna get you to do that every time."

"Rafe."

"What?" He says incredulously as if it isn't the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to you. "You can't expect me not to go crazy over that, hm?"

You only shake your head at him, but you suppose if the roles were reversed, you'd definitely feel an inclination to drawl out the teasing to a T. After all, riling him up is one of your favorite past-times, as riling you up actually might be his number one.

Eventually, you secede. Especially when he threatens you with another orgasm.

After he cleans you up and delicately dresses you in his own clothes, with wobbly legs you attempt to help him strip the sheets (even though all he told you to do is sit at his desk and look pretty, which you wholeheartedly refused to do) and replace them with his spare set. In an effort to get your shit together, you use the communal restroom to wash up, taking one of his spare toothbrushes – because of course he has one – and using it. He goes into the restroom across the hall, stating he was bored of being alone, to freshen himself up.

When you return to his room with him hot on your tail, you slither back onto the clean sheets and settle under them as if you were made to lay there.

Getting comfortable, you quietly watch him resume his tasks of the night: organizing his notes, taking off his glasses and leaving them askew – to your utter dismay – as his shirt and sweatpants follow, leaving him in boxers, and finally turning off his desk lamp as he navigates through the dark and and climbs into bed beside you. 

It’s muscle memory the way you puzzle-piece your way into each other’s arms. Rafe tugs you impossibly close, placing a chaste kiss on your hairline as your hands splay across his bare chest, nearly sighing in relief at the familiarity. It's unfathomably inviting, it's cloud nine, it's home.

When he starts to lightly rub up and down your back, you sigh again.

“Tired?” Rafe murmurs gently. 

All you do is nod against his neck, placing a ginger kiss on his vocal cord.

He hums at your sweet gesture, nearly melting at the implication. “Okay, sweet girl. Go to sleep. I'll be up early tomorrow but you can sleep in, m'kay?”

Tomorrow. Early morning. Notes. Glasses.

Fuck. Exam.

Your eyes flutter open as you remember his night before you arrived, all the papers scattered on his desk, the reason he was wearing those godforsaken glasses in the first place, the open textbook on his computer, the entire reason he was up so late in the first place.

A kettlebell settles in your gut.

“Wait.” Rafe hums lazily in response. “What about your exam?”

With a chuckle, he nuzzles into your hair, unbothered.

“Baby, if I don’t know it by now, there’s no use.”

Part of you feels guilty. Guilty about plaguing his conscience for the betterment of a week and – no doubt – pulling his focus from his studies and all of the important shit going on in his life. Guilty about arriving at his door in the middle of the night and – again – pulling his concentration from what he needs to pay attention to in order to get the marks he needs to pass.

Guilty about everything you've put him through, him, Rafe, your Rafe, who's been so patient with you in your journey of self discovery or whatever bullshit.

“I can help,” you offer weakly, as he rubs soothing up and down your back. “I’m a good teacher.”

Rafe chuckles quietly and you nearly frown, unsure of his nonchalance. 

“Best teacher I know,” he murmurs. His voice is deep and baritone and it practically lulls you to sleep. 

Your eyes are already closed. “Let me help. Please.”

“Very sweet of you. Go to sleep.”

“‘M really smart. You said so.”

“I did.”

You yawn. “What’s the class?”

Rafe doesn’t answer for a minute, and you soon believe he falls asleep. But then, quietly, “Art history.”

Your heart flutters. “I know about that.”

A warm hand rubs up and down your back. “I’m sure you do, baby.” Then, it cradles the back of your head in brazen laziness. “Sleep.”

His voice emulates a lullaby, low and alluring and smooth. Impossibly, you nuzzle closer to him with a stupid smile on your face. Grinning against his neck, you press the lightest kiss you can muster as your hands gently skim over the hills and divots of his chest, grounding yourself, a reminder that this is real. He’s here, right here, holding you, reciprocating your love, your want, your need. 

“Stop smiling,” he says above you, but his tone is far from authoritative. Instead it’s softer, as if he’s suppressing a smile as well. “I can feel it.”

You squirm when he pinches your side, reciprocating the act and attempting to tickle him, but he doesn’t budge in the slightest.

Suddenly, Rafe grabs your wrists lightning fast and pins them high over your head, the motion forcing you on your back as he hovers over you. Despite the darkness, you can feel his face inches from yours, breath fanning over your lips. 

“I thought you wanted me to go to sleep,” you challenge. 

Rafe snorts. “You’re being a brat.”

Ah, that word. That sort of behavior has gotten you in trouble before, and the thought of annoying him makes you grin even harder. 

“Rafey, that’s hardly nice.”

The guttural groan he lets out makes you laugh quite unattractively, letting out an oof when he collapses against your body and therefore crushing you. Nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck, he shakes his head and mumbles something incoherent against your soft skin that feels like a million pin pricks to each nerve.

His hand leaves your wrists and slowly drags down your arm, settling on the top of your ribcage just under the swell of your breast, lazily rubbing his thumb over the grooves and curves of the bone with little to no shame whatsoever. 

The act gives you goosebumps. “What? Nothing to say?”

“Go to bed.”

You hum, kneading your fingers through his hair and smiling when he lets out a content sigh. “Okay, fine.”

Rafe practically clings to you, breathing in your scent and unabashedly nestling into your embrace. Your fingers through his hair feel so achingly familiar, and he doesn’t realize how much he’s missed it until now. He feels your lips gently press on the crown of his head, his heart skipping a beat as he involuntarily lets out another sigh, a wordless thank you for trusting him, believing in him, and – most importantly – letting yourself have this. Trusting him. Trusting yourself.

Exhaustion seeps through his pores, eyelids heavily shutting as his body seems to sink deeper into the mattress, deeper against your body. Your nails lightly scraping his scalp and back quickly lure him to sleep, so gentle and adorning that he’s so close to–

"Hey."

"Sweet girl, I said go to bed."

You pause for a moment, elongated the silence in the darkness as he can practically hear you thinking. After a second, he frowns as he just now analyzed your tone, which was far from teasing.

He's about to prompt you to continue when you shift slightly above him, and his heart fucking melts when he feels your lips press a kiss against his hairline.

"Those photographs are beautiful."

Despite the complete darkness, and despite the fact that even if the light was on, you wouldn't be able to see his face anyway given his position, his face flushes hot.

Because you weren't really supposed to see those. They'd been the final prints he submitted for his photography class, tasked to photograph the pleasantries of life that may emulate beauty in everyday life. And, to him, he wanted you as his everyday muse since you already occupy almost every waking thought of his.

Rafe sat on the prompt for the entire semester, never once finding a muse meaningful enough to him to make him feel like he could complete the assignment. However, once Lorenza had given him the camera, the task seemed like the easiest thing he's ever done. Plus, you made it pretty simple. You emulated effortless beauty. All day. Everyday.

"I had a pretty model," is all he responds with.

And your thanks is translated enough when you press another kiss to his forehead, ticking his soft skin with your gentle breaths, and all he can think is sweet, sweet, sweet girl. It's concerning, really, how he really only thinks of you. He thinks of you when he wakes up, when he sees something funny, when he's scribbling down notes, when he goes to sleep.

So. Yeah. You are his everyday beauty. By a longshot.

He continues to think of your pretty, of how warm you feel pressed against him, how sweet you smell. He remembers how you looked in the moonlight, the candlelight, under the Sicilian sun with a glisten he could swoon over. It lulls him to sleep. Simply the image of you, you, y–

“Rafe?”

Rafe’s pulled from his slumber, barely lifting a finger and humming in response. He can’t even open his eyes, bloodshot and tired from all the studying. 

“Do you want me to come home with you for Christmas?”

Out of all the things he expected you to say, that has to be the last topic on the list. 

All exhaustion comes to a halt as his eyes blearily blink open, unsure if he’s heard you right, as the question is so out of left field that he doubts you actually said what he thinks you said. Despite his head feeling like a million pounds, he manages to lift it so he’s looking at you in the darkness.

Rafe can just make out the outline of your face. “What?”

He hates how small his voice is. 

But your fingers continue to massage his scalp and he feels you shrug underneath him.

“I dunno, I was thinking I could do for you what you did for me." Your voice is impossibly shy, almost as if you didn't mean to bring it up but now there's no going back. "Provide some moral support, I don’t know. Just a thought.”

Yes, he wants to scream. Of course he wants you to. 

It would make life incredibly easier, not to mention he’d get to spend more time with your undivided attention and shower you in a ridiculous amount of appreciation now that you're officially his. He can show you off to his friends and family and flaunt you around, shamelessly hold you and kiss you and not have to feel the slightest bit guilty about it. 

He'd tell you to bring that beaded dress he bought you, take you out to dinner on the mainland and fuck you for the whole island to hear. There's no doubt he's going to buy you anything under the sun that you express interest in, shower you with the kind of love you've been aching for for so long. He'd have to be assertive, though, because you're exactly the girl his sisters will immediately love, and there's no way he's going to be able to share you.

Rafe needs to relax.

Instead of saying all of that, he takes a deep breath. “You’re not going to Lorenza’s?”

“No,” you respond quietly. “I was supposed to go home so she’s already going on a trip with her girlfriends. But now I'm just...” You take a breath. "No, I'm not."

He frowns at the idea of you spending winter break alone, because there’s absolutely no way you're going to go home and face your family again, and the long haul across the Atlantic feels like a chore after just recovering from doing so. 

“You can say no,” you murmur playfully. “I have a sublet lined up for December, and I’ll come back to the dorm when they open on the new year.”

That makes Rafe scoff. “You’re not doing that.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” he commands. “You’ll spend it with me.”

Suddenly you clear your throat, almost shyly. “I didn’t mean to, like, invite myself. You seriously can say no–”

Rafe is sitting up before he knows it, leaning on an elbow and finding your jaw with his other hand to navigate through the darkness, and kissing you firmly enough to let it do all the talking for him. 

You mmrph in surprise into his mouth, effectively shutting you up and assumingely shutting down any doubts you have about the entire idea. Rafe kisses you certainly yet deliberately slow, as if to reassure you of his answer, that you don't have to stress about being too much, especially around him. In fact, he wants you to be too much, yourself, unapologetically you. He craves it, utterly deprived every second you're acting shy as if he wouldn't give you anything you asked for.

Pulling away, Rafe resumes his previous position and lowers onto your body, his original position. His lips find the soft skin of your neck and place a kiss there, sucking ever so slightly to emphasize his point, to stake his claim, to wash away your doubts. 

“I want you to stay with me,” he murmurs quietly. “Okay?”

You hum shyly. “Okay.”

Rafe runs his hands over your ribcage. “I need you to know something, though."

"Yeah?"

Your tone is so fucking sweet that it makes his upcoming words difficult, understanding you can completely hold your own against a family full of narcissists yet wanting to shield you from it all anyway. He wants to hide you away from it all, but he knows you're tough, you're strong, you're too kind for your own good.

"My dad probably won’t be the friendliest.” Rafe figures that's the nicer term for Ward. "He'll be charming and inviting when you first meet him, but behind closed doors..."

He trails off, not necessarily wanting to get into the specifics of his father's tendencies right now with you, laying pretty beside him and body exhausted with earlier passion. To subject you to this all over again, it makes his chest pull, knowing that his father will probably say or do something to remind you of the obscenities of your own family, to remind you of the darkness that shrouded you a week ago.

Before he can continue, you gently massage his scalp. "I understand. I'll be alright."

It makes him nearly swoon. "You're too sweet for your own good, hm? You can be mean to him if you want."

You laugh and he swears he's never heard a prettier sound.

"I'm not doing that."

"If I asked you nicely?"

Chuckling again, your nails rake down to the nape of his neck and back up to his scalp, making him sigh low into the confinements of your hold. But it's much more than physicality, it's almost a promise, reaffirming your stance and wordlessly convincing him that you have his back. Now and always.

"Still no," you murmur, and by the tone of it he swears you're smiling. "You're the one who said I'm incapable of being evil."

Rafe snorts. "I did."

You hum happily, content with 'winning' the conversation as you continue to massage absentmindedly. "Besides, I’m great with parents.”

This conversation feels all too familiar, full circle, echoing his words that he spoke to you all the time ago when your mother stormed into your dorm room, the catalyst for all of this, the start of the spiral to where you lay now with limbs entangled and hearts out in the open.

Shaking his head slightly and allowing himself to shut his eyes, Rafe murmurs in agreement, almost tauntingly.

“I’m sure you are, sweet girl.” Then, quieter, “Sleep.”

The words are like a command, and despite every effort to not do so, you find yourself babbling something incoherently, words soon dying in your throat as you fall asleep, but not without being lulled by the sound of his syncopated breaths, and that, somehow, his hand has found yours in the darkness, lacing your fingers together and squeezing gentle enough for it to be a long lasting reminder: he's here, and he's not going anywhere.

You let yourself succumb to that. You let yourself deserve it.

© salem-s please do not copy or replicate work without permission. mdni

notes holy shit???????? i have a few (more like a hundred) things to say. legit where do I begin.

thank you for 900 followers FIRST OF ALL i only started posting laaaaaate march (practically april) so this is absolutely incredible, thank you for all the support it's been so overwhelming in the best way. half of the comments genuinely make me lol and the other half make me legit spiral bc huh???? you like my stuff??? anyway.

for those who have sent me inbox messages: I SEE YOU!!! I APPRECIATE YOU!! I HAVE NOT IGNORED YOU!!! i'm gonna try to get around to answering them but trust i see y'all!!!!

on the topic of inbox messages, a few of you have been asking about if i'm open to blurbs, and i 100% am. i cannot guarantee i will be able to answer all of them (i started a full-time job??? crazy) but i would love to try and provide that.

okay i think that's it from me. again. THANK YOU FOR ALL THE SUPPORT i'm legit sad this is ending but, again, im open to blurbs about them so TRUST this def won't be the last time we read about them. GODSPEED!

[honeyhaeya]

(🔐)🖇 ༘ ⋆"How to Date Discreetly"

' ╰┈ "the day that i met you i started dreaming"

' ' 박성훈 x fem!reader

🎧ྀི 'ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Kingston (Faye Webster)

♫⋆₊˚ ﾟ. 'ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ genre / tags: idol!sunghoon x idol!reader, ice prince x reckless rookie, secret & established relationship, enemies to lovers (kinda), fluff, smut (2nd part) – MDNI, angst (minor), a pinch of comedy ੈ✩‧₊˚warnings: NSFW WARNINGS ON CHAPTER 2 (no smut on this part) ! smut, slight jealousy (m), language, detailed explicit scenes, angst (minor), reader on the pill (birth control), mutual hate that’s just actually horny confusion, mild hate (online), – ugh, theyre so in love, its intoxicating ✩‧₊˚ wc: 6472 –1/2 (mini series) ੈ♡ a/n: lol this is peak delusion. dont like, dont read. also, im open for constructive critisism but fact checks or logical expected outcome are out of the picture, come on yall, this is fanfiction. also, wtf. shit, i really made this? hoon is so fucking adorable, argue with me if you disagree :p . uploading part two tomorrow 5pm kst :) part two is up and posted *^★ playlist: kingston (faye webster), lowkey (niki), august (taylor swift), soft spot (keshi), always (daniel caesar), best part (daniel caesar & h.e.r.), almost is never enough (ariana grande & nathan sykes)

dating was never hard for you.

you breezed through high school with a boyfriend for every semester, each one a lesson in love. you weren’t heartless—you did like them. maybe not enough to cry after the breakups, but enough to smile while it lasted.

you were living the easy life. pretty, popular, and always in love with something… or someone.

but all of that changed on a thursday afternoon.

you’d just turned down a free meal from your friends (and it was their treat, ugh) because your sister texted you, “buy the skincare stuff i told you about. only from that store near the station. they run out fast.”

so there you were, dodging pedestrians, phone in hand, a bit annoyed, very hungry.

you sighed, glancing at your screen for the third time—no calls, no new texts.

and then you noticed her.

a woman, maybe mid-thirties, blazer and red lipstick, standing across the sidewalk and watching you.

your brows knit instinctively. weird. you kept walking.

but then she followed.

“excuse me,” she said, heels clicking as she caught up to you.

you turned. “uh… yes?”

she smiled, like she already knew you. “sorry if this is random. i’m a manager at (-) entertainment. and… have you ever thought of becoming an idol?”

you blinked.

“me?”

“you’ve got the face. the vibe. we’re recruiting trainees right now. it’s competitive, but i think you have a real shot.”

you stared. was this real? was she legit?

she pulled out a card, glossy and gold-trimmed. it looked expensive. official.

“call this number,” she said. “auditions are still required, but… i can pull a few strings.”

and just like that, she walked away.

later that night

you sat at the dinner table, card on your lap, phone in your hand, still processing.

“what’s that?” your sister asked, peering over.

“uh… a manager gave it to me,” you muttered. “she wants me to audition. to be a trainee.”

your mom nearly dropped her spoon.

your dad blinked like he misheard.

“a what now?” he asked.

your sister grabbed the card, eyes wide. “no way. (-) entertainment? they’re huge. that’s, like, the company.”

“it’s probably fake,” you said quickly. “i mean, i haven’t even danced in public before.”

your mom smiled gently. “if it’s something you’re curious about… we’ll support you.”

“what if i’m not good enough?”

“then you’ll try. and if it’s not for you, you’ll walk away knowing you tried.”

your sister nudged your arm. “do it, loser. if you debut, i can brag about you.”

you laughed, but your heart was pounding.

a few weeks later, you stood backstage after your audition, heart thumping, palms sweaty.

the evaluator handed your file to someone behind them.

“she’s raw,” the woman murmured. “but i like her. give her the green light.”

that night, you got the call.

you were officially a trainee.

you were late.

again.

you burst into the practice room, sneakers squeaking against the floor, hair sticking to your forehead. seven other trainees glanced up—some sympathetic, some smug. the trainer didn’t even look surprised.

but he did.

sunghoon.

he was leaning against the mirror, arms crossed, black sweatpants, white shirt clinging to him like he’d already been at it for hours. perfect posture. flawless control. and the most judgmental eyes you’ve ever seen.

“this is the third time this week,” he said flatly.

you rolled your eyes, dropping your bag. “thanks for counting, mom.”

a snicker echoed from someone in the back. the trainer sighed.

“five laps. now,” she barked.

you groaned and started running.

sunghoon turned to the trainer. “i don’t know why you waste time on people who can’t take this seriously.”

you stopped mid-lap, heart racing for a new reason.

“excuse me?”

he glanced at you, cool and unbothered. “you heard me.”

“you don’t even know me.”

“i don’t have to. it’s obvious.”

you wanted to throw your shoe at him. or maybe yourself—how dare he look like that while being such an ass?

“you know, not everyone got trained with a silver spoon in their mouth,” you snapped. “some of us have to catch up.”

his jaw clenched. oh. that got to him.

“then maybe catch up quietly.”

later that week

“again!” the vocal coach yelled. “you're off tempo!”

you bit your lip, trying to hide how winded you were. sunghoon stood beside you, breathing steady, voice perfect, hair annoyingly perfect.

when the session ended, you stayed behind, muttering the chorus under your breath, trying to fix it. your body ached, throat dry.

“you’re holding your breath wrong,” he said suddenly.

you jumped. “oh my god—can you not sneak up like that?”

he leaned against the doorframe, arms folded again. why was he always doing that?

“i’m not sneaking. you’re just slow.”

“and you’re just insufferable.”

he walked over, stopped behind you.

“breathe here,” he said, lightly tapping your stomach. “not up here.” he tapped your chest.

you tensed. “if you’re going to insult me again, don’t bother.”

he sighed. not annoyed. tired. softer than you expected.

“look. i don’t think you’re bad. i just think… you’re distracted.”

you turned, suspicious. “and what would you know about me?”

he shrugged. “nothing. yet.”

your heartbeat did the most annoying little skip.

“for next week’s evaluation,” the trainer said, scribbling on the board, “you’ll be performing in pairs.”

groans. whispers. panic.

sunghoon raised his hand, calm as ever. “do we get to choose partners?”

the trainer gave him a tight-lipped smile.

“no.”

and then she said your name.

and then she said his.

dead. silence.

sunghoon’s head snapped toward you. you were already staring, wide-eyed, mouth open like someone just told you santa wasn’t real and sunghoon would be your new stepdad.

“what?” you said.

“no.” he said at the same time.

the trainer arched a brow. “you two clearly have chemistry.”

“hate-mistry,” you muttered.

“professionalism, park,” she said. “and you, too, y/n. if either of you screws this up, you’re both out of the showcase.”

that shut you up real fast.

day one of practicing together

you stood at the center of the room, arms crossed, glaring at him.

he mirrored you, looking about three seconds from snapping.

“you need to follow my lead,” he said.

“and you need to drop your ego.”

“i’ve been training for years.”

“cool, i’ve been dancing since i was five.”

“not the same.”

“let’s find out.”

music blasted through the speaker—some upbeat, sexy number that had no business making this situation worse.

and yet—you kept up. every move. every beat. matching him step for step, hips snapping, body sharp. when you spun and ended up right in front of him, close enough to feel his breath—

he blinked. stunned. just a little.

you smirked.

“not bad,” you said.

his ears went pink.

day three

you both ran the routine again. and again. until sweat dripped from your jaw and your hair clung to your temples.

the trainer clapped slowly from behind.

“didn’t expect that,” she said. “y/n—your control improved. and sunghoon, i’m glad you finally look like you're dancing with someone instead of against them.”

your lips twitched.

he side-eyed you. “don’t let it go to your head.”

you grinned. “you’re just mad i’m good.”

he didn’t respond.

later, as you wiped your face with a towel, he walked over—less guarded. still annoyingly perfect.

“you really haven’t trained before?”

you shook your head. “just picked things up. why?”

he hesitated.

“…you’re a fast learner.”

you looked up, surprised.

“and you don’t hesitate. most new trainees wait for permission to mess up.”

you blinked. “…was that a compliment?”

he smirked, turning away. “no.”

(yes.)

the music cuts. your breath is caught somewhere between your chest and throat. sunghoon’s hand is still on your waist. your head is tilted back, lips just barely parted—and his eyes are on you. unreadable.

nobody moves.

"are they dating or something?" someone whispers too loudly.

"wow?" another trainee mutters.

the trainer exhales like she just witnessed art.

“that…” she starts, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “was beyond what i asked for.”

you try to catch your breath. your body still buzzing from the adrenaline. from the dance. from him.

you don’t look at sunghoon when you mutter, “told you i wasn’t just a pretty face.”

but you feel it—how his grip on you lingers just a beat too long before he lets go.

you’re surrounded before you can even step off the floor. compliments, questions, stares—all of it buzzing in your ears.

“that was insane—”

“i didn’t even know she could dance like that.”

“how did they sync so well?”

“isn’t she new?”

you brush past it. you’re used to attention, sure. but this? this is different. this is real.

you find your way to a bench, just as someone flops down next to you.

“you’re kind of a show-off,” yeonjun says, nudging your arm.

you scoff. “jealous?”

“nah, just impressed. you looked like you were born on stage.”

you grin. “thanks.”

he pauses. “...but dancing that close to sunghoon? bold move.”

you roll your eyes. “wasn’t like i had a choice.”

across the room, sunghoon watches. sighing.

“you good?” jay asks, sipping his water bottle.

sunghoon’s averted. “he’s touching her.”

jay raises an eyebrow, finding you and a man together on a bench. “you mean yeonjun?”

“who else would i mean?”

jay blinks. “you do realize you sound like a jealous boyfriend right now?”

sunghoon scoffs. “i’m not jealous.”

“sure.”

“i’m not,” he repeats, harsher this time.

you pass by just in time to catch that last line.

you freeze. look back. sunghoon doesn’t see you.

but now you’ve seen him. and something about that look on his face—it doesn’t match the version of him you’ve built in your head.

your knee twinges wrong during a routine—small misstep, sharp sting. you hiss, stumble, fall back on the floor.

the door creaks open.

you tense—expecting a trainer or staff. instead, it’s sunghoon. of course it’s sunghoon.

“what the hell are you doing here alone?” he asks, stepping in.

you glare. “i could ask you the same thing.”

he walks over anyway. crouches beside you. “you could’ve gotten seriously hurt.”

“i didn’t,” you mutter, but the way you’re holding your leg says otherwise.

without another word, he grabs the first aid kit from the wall. wraps your knee like he’s done it a hundred times before.

you watch him. confused. curious. quiet.

“…you really care about this, huh?” he says eventually, not looking at you.

“about what?”

“training. performing. dancing.”

you shrug. “is that surprising?”

“a little.”

“why? because i don’t break my back trying to look perfect in front of the trainers?”

“because you make it look easy.”

you pause. “it’s not. i just don’t let anyone see when it’s hard.”

that makes him glance at you. just for a second. then—

“…you’re good, you know.”

you blink. “what?”

“you’re good. at this. i just didn’t want to admit it before.”

you laugh, breathless. “was that… a compliment?”

he stands up, tossing the bandage wrapper in the bin.

“don’t get used to it,” he mutters.

but he doesn’t leave.

and neither do you.

sunghoon was irritated. no—scratch that. he was pissed.

you were laughing at something yeonjun said, all wide-eyed and glossy-lipped, head tilted back like he just told the funniest joke in existence. maybe he did. maybe he didn’t. either way, hoon didn’t like the view from across the room.

he wasn’t sure what ticked him off more—the way your fingers brushed yeonjun’s arm, or the way yeonjun let them.

“you good?” jay asked beside him, noticing the stiff jaw, the tight grip on his water bottle.

“fine.”

a lie.

jay wasn’t stupid.

“you’ve got a weird definition of fine if it includes staring daggers at yeonjun’s face.”

sunghoon didn’t respond. just looked away. jay chuckled.

“she’s cute, huh.”

hoon scoffed. “please. she’s a walking red flag.”

“yeah?”

“yeah. too bold. too flirty. i don’t get how she always gets praise like that.”

jay grinned knowingly. “you mean, praise like she danced better than you yesterday?”

sunghoon gave him a flat look. jay laughed again. “man, just admit it. you like her.”

what he didn’t know was that you were behind the door, holding your breath. oh, you heard that. every word.

so the next day? you stepped on the gas.

“sunghoon,” you greeted, your voice all sugar and sin. “nice to see you glaring at me from across the room again. missed my face that much?”

his eyes narrowed. “you wish.”

“oh, i know you do,” you said with a smirk, stepping just a little too close. “you get jealous so easily. it’s kinda cute.”

“you’re delusional.”

“mm, maybe. but i’m also winning this little game we have.”

“what game?”

“oh, so you do admit we’re playing one.”

he didn’t answer. you leaned in, lips near his ear.

“catch up, sunghoon. or i’ll flirt with someone else again.”

the hallway was dark except for the faint glow bleeding under one door.

you already knew it was him.

you hesitated, then knocked—lightly, like a whisper.

inside, the music wasn’t playing. just silence. and when you opened the door and peeked in, you found him sitting with his back against the mirror, sweat-drenched shirt clinging to his skin, eyes heavy like they hadn’t rested in days.

he looked up. tired. annoyed, maybe.

“what do you want?”

you raised a brow. “aw, you missed me that much?”

he didn’t laugh. just huffed, dropping his head back against the mirror.

you walked in anyway.

“heard your team’s debut’s getting real close,” you said, plopping down next to him on the floor, knees brushing. “congrats.”

he didn’t respond.

you looked at him sideways, voice gentler now. “you okay?”

he nodded, but his fingers were twitchy—fiddling with his rings, bouncing his knee. anxious.

“you don’t look okay.”

he let out a breath. it shook a little.

you leaned forward, peeking at his face. “when was the last time you even slept?”

“don’t remember.”

you reached into your bag and tossed him a mini water bottle. “hydrate, superstar.”

he caught it, glanced at you. “why are you even here?”

you shrugged. “i could say i was worried. or that i heard music earlier and came to see what you were working on.”

you paused. “but honestly? you looked like a kicked puppy lately. i thought i’d put you out of your misery.”

he snorted. actually snorted.

progress.

you beamed. “there it is! that cute little laugh.”

“wasn’t a laugh.”

“was a laugh,” you said firmly. “i have excellent ears. dancer ears. and that? that was a giggle.”

he shook his head, hiding the smile pulling at his lips.

you fell quiet for a bit. then, in a softer voice:

“must be scary. having everything come at you at once. pressure. cameras. fans. and barely anyone who really knows what you’re going through.”

his jaw tensed.

you leaned your head back, mirroring him.

“i think about it sometimes. how that might be me in a year or two. training ‘til i drop. debuting and... still feeling alone.”

you glanced at him. “but hey. at least you’re not alone right now, right?”

sunghoon turned to you.

your face was relaxed. you weren’t being kind out of pity. this wasn’t charity. it was just... you.

for a second, he forgot about everything else.

“you’re really annoying, you know,” he mumbled.

“and yet you look like you’d die without me.”

he looked away, but not before you saw the smile he tried to hide again.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

the hallway was loud again. busy. debut-season chaos in full swing. managers barking schedules, stylists dragging suitcases, trainees practicing lines and formations in every corner.

you stood off to the side, sipping banana milk like you were just background noise.

“look alive, rookie,” someone called, nearly bumping into you.

you gave a lazy salute. “yes sir.”

just another day of not being noticed.

sunghoon passed by with his group—a cluster of stylists, staff, and busy energy. he didn’t look your way.

not that you cared.

but you didn't see the way he glanced back at you.

“people come and go,” you muttered, raising your banana milk like a toast. “that’s showbiz, baby.”

and then you tripped on a suitcase a stylist must've left there, you didn't see or too distracted to notice.

the banana milk went flying. your knees nearly kissed the floor. and when you looked up—sunghoon was right there.

of course he was.

he blinked down at you, eyebrows raised, and said nothing.

you, sprawled like a tragic mop, just smiled. “hi.”

he blinked, eyebrows raised. “you good?”

you held up the now half-empty drink. “well, the banana milk isn't.”

he bit back a smile. “that’s your third time tripping in front of me this month.”

you raised a brow. “you count my embarrassments now?”

“it's starting to feel intentional.”

you got up, brushing yourself off. “please, if i were trying to get your attention, i’d go bigger. maybe a cartwheel. or a dramatic monologue.”

“the floor dive was convincing.”

you smiled. “i like to keep it original.” then, a little quieter, “you’ve been busy lately.”

his smile faltered just slightly.

you waved it off. “no, seriously. you’ve got fans and press and a glam team. i’ve got... banana milk.”

“sounds like a solid support system.”

you laughed, but your smile faded when he glanced down the hall. his team was already moving.

“you should go,” you said. “hair and makeup’s waiting.”

he hesitated. “you sure?”

you nodded. “go be famous.”

he looked at you like he wanted to say more. but then he just nodded, and walked away.

you watched him leave. then looked down at your shoe.

still sticky.

“tragic,” you whispered.

a few days later

the vending machine blinked angrily at the girl in front of it.

the girl—probably thirteen, maybe fourteen—had her tiny fists clenched and was glaring up at the machine like it had insulted her ancestors.

you crouched beside her, trying not to laugh. “did the evil robot eat your money again?”

“yes!” she huffed. “i pressed the peach drink but it gave me black coffee! that’s not even close!”

you gasped, clutching your chest. “that’s betrayal. you’ve just been betrayed.”

“i don’t even like coffee! It tastes like burnt sadness!”

you dramatically nodded. “we must avenge you.”

she grinned. “you think I can sue?”

“only if you’ve got a lawyer. or at least a really angry eonni (older sister) .”

she tilted her head. “you’ll do.”

at that moment, you kicked the machine gently (totally just a little tap, you’re not trying to go viral for violence). and... silence. the drink didn't fall. awkward.

the little girl snorted, holding her laugh with all her might.

you smiled, laughing under your breath and kicking the vending machine again, a little love tap and—miraculously—the peach drink clunked down into the bin.

both of you screamed.

“victory!!” “you’re a vending machine master!”

you laughed. “told you i can save you.”

a low chuckle behind you made you freeze.

you turned, slow-motion style, to see sunghoon standing there with a water bottle. heeseung stood beside him, sweaty from practice and grinning.

heeseung gave a thumbs-up. “iconic vending machine diplomacy.”

sunghoon raised an eyebrow. “burnt sadness, huh?”

you stood up straight. “i—she didn’t mean—”

“she meant it,” the girl said proudly, sipping her drink. “she says it tastes like regret in a cup.”

you stared at her, betrayed. “you were supposed to have my back.”

sunghoon laughed. like, really laughed. the kind that made your stomach twist a little.

“didn’t know you were mentoring now.”

you shrugged. “somebody’s gotta fight for the little ones. didn't know you were keeping tabs on me now.”

heeseung grabbed his drink, still chuckling. “i’m hanging out here more often.”

sunghoon lingered, eyes still on you. “you’re good with kids.”

you blinked. “oh.”

he smiled, soft and small, before heading off. “try not to start a vending machine riot next time.”

you stood there, stuck.

the girl tugged your sleeve. “...you like him, huh?”

you looked down at her. “no idea what you’re talking about.”

she narrowed her eyes. “peach tea never lies.”

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

“i feel like i keep seeing her everywhere lately,” sunghoon said later, on their way back to the practice room.

heeseung gave him a look. “more like you keep noticing her.”

sunghoon didn’t answer right away. just stared ahead, thoughtful.

heeseung nudged him. “you’re smiling, dude.”

sunghoon wiped the smile off his face immediately. “no, i’m not.”

“you’re so obvious.”

he didn’t say anything for a while.

but later, he’d find himself glancing down hallways a little more. wondering if banana milk girl would be there.

just... wondering.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

you hadn’t cried in weeks. not since training got serious.

but tonight? the moment the studio door clicked shut behind you, the tears came.

your hands were sore. your voice was gone. and no matter how hard you trained, you still felt behind—like everyone else had a head start and you were just catching up, slipping on a treadmill that wouldn't stop.

the mirror felt cruel. it always did when you weren’t at your best.

and then—

a knock. soft, careful.

you wiped your face fast, spinning around like nothing happened. “practice room’s full. try the one on the second floor.”

“already did.”

your breath hitched.

sunghoon stood in the doorway, hoodie pulled over his head, cap low. casual. unbothered. he should be prepping for stage performances, meetings, shoots—life after debut.

but he was here.

you blinked. “aren’t you like, super busy?”

he shrugged, stepping in. “don’t tell my manager.”

you let out a small laugh. it cracked.

he sat beside you like he belonged there. like no time had passed.

“you’ve been avoiding me,” he said softly.

“i’ve been busy.”

“so have i.”

you didn’t say anything.

he nudged you. “talk to me.”

you bit your cheek. “what’s there to talk about?”

he looked at you, really looked at you.

“you’re scared.”

you looked away. “i’m not.”

“you are.” he reached out, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. his fingers lingered just a second longer. “i was too.”

you met his eyes. they weren’t teasing or smug. just... warm.

“hoon, i’m the last trainee to enter and they expect me to keep up with girls who’ve been doing this for years. i feel like i’m constantly proving that i deserve to be here.”

“you don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“except everyone.”

he took your hand—held it. his thumb brushed yours like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

“you think i didn’t feel the same before i debuted?” he asked, voice hushed. “you think i don’t still feel like that sometimes? like i’m faking it, or like i’m not enough?”

you stared at him.

“you’re more than enough,” he said. “you were the only one who saw me before all this. let me be that for you now.”

and just like that, the tears were back. but you didn’t hide this time.

you leaned into him. he let you. his arms came around you like a shield, like home, like this was always meant to happen.

“this doesn’t mean i’m falling for you or anything,” you mumbled into his chest.

he smiled against your hair. “sure. and i’m not hopelessly in love with you either.” it was a lie.

ONE MONTH LATER

your body ached. your shirt clung to your back. the playlist on the studio speakers had looped for the third time now, but you weren’t done yet. not even close.

you wiped sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand, hair tied up haphazardly like your last brain cell had done it for you. two turns, down, pop—reset. again.

then the studio door opened.

you blinked, already preparing to snap at whoever thought now was a great time to interrupt—only to freeze.

sunghoon.

cap on. mask half-down. that dumb post-debut glow still clinging to him like glitter. he looked like a k-drama lead showing up in your lowest moment with no right to be that good-looking.

you squinted. “are you... lost?”

he didn’t smile.

he stepped in, quiet. closed the door behind him. took a breath.

“go on,” you said, gesturing vaguely at your unfinished choreo. “you came to judge my pirouettes or what?”

he scratched the back of his neck. “actually…”

pause.

“i wanted to ask you something.”

you raised a brow, waiting. arms crossed. heart racing.

“do you...” he hesitated, then stepped closer. “wanna go out with me?”

you blinked.

was he out of his damn mind?

you looked down at yourself. hair in chaos. sweat-drenched shirt. left sock halfway sliding off. “like... right now?”

he laughed softly, but there was a nervous tremble to it. “no. i mean... soon. when you’re free. like, a real date. just us.”

you stared at him. the air felt too quiet.

he looked serious. almost nervous. not like the usual sarcastic, biting sunghoon who annoyed you daily—this was the one who held your hand when no one else was looking. the one who showed up when you were breaking.

you let out a long sigh, walking past him to grab your water bottle. you took a sip. gave him a look.

“sunghoon,” you said flatly, “you realize i’m one month away from possibly debuting through a televised hunger game for trainees, right?”

he gave you a sheepish smile. “yeah.”

“and you’re busy being an idol or whatever.”

“also yeah.”

you raised an eyebrow. “then why now?”

he didn’t flinch. “because I like you.”

…

you stared at him. like, really stared. and god—he was really standing there. asking you out while you looked like a dehydrated noodle. and it should’ve been dumb. it should’ve been ill-timed.

but he meant it. that was the stupid part.

you sighed again, dramatic. wiped your face.

then, you looked up at him with a small smirk.

“fine,” you said, shrugging. “one date.”

his eyes lit up.

“but if it sucks, I’m ghosting you.”

“deal.”

you narrowed your eyes. “and you’re paying.”

“always.”

“and no kissing—unless I say so.”

he grinned. “so you will say so.”

“shut up,” you muttered, tossing your towel at him—and missing.

ONE WEEK LATER

first secret date

you almost laughed when you saw him.

cap pulled down low. hoodie up. mask on. sunglasses too. like he was about to rob the convenience store instead of take you on a date.

he looked left, then right. then spotted you.

and you—well.

you were in simple jeans, a tucked white tee, lowkey makeup, and your hair done just enough to look effortlessly good. no flash. no glam. just enough to look soft and gorgeously dangerous.

sunghoon blinked under his cap. “wow.”

you tilted your head. “wow?”

“i thought we said casual.”

you smirked. “i am casual.”

he blinked again. “casual doesn’t usually knock the air outta someone’s lungs.”

you bit your lip to hide the smile. “then breathe better.”

he laughed under his mask, tugging it down slightly as you both started walking. he had chosen a small side street near the han river, early evening, sun soft in the sky. not too crowded. not too exposed.

it wasn’t fancy. no candlelit tables. no bouquets. just two kids sneaking time together between a debut and a dream.

and somehow, it was perfect.

“are you really allowed out?” you asked, nudging him. “i don’t wanna be the reason you get exiled from your group.”

he scoffed. “i’ve snuck out for worse.”

you squinted. “like what?”

“like ramen.”

you cackled. “you’re risking your career for cup noodles?”

“if they’re spicy enough, yeah.”

you rolled your eyes, but your hand brushed against his as you walked. he noticed. he didn’t say anything—but he didn’t move it away either.

you felt the heat rise to your cheeks.

later, on a park bench near the river

you sat next to him, knees barely touching. the sun had dipped lower now, painting the water gold.

he was quiet.

so were you.

until—

“you know,” he said, “i wasn’t sure this would work.”

you looked at him.

“i’m busy. you’re about to be busier. and all the pressure—fans, survival shows, cameras…” he exhaled. “we’re barely even normal people anymore.”

you nodded slowly, biting your lip. “so… why’d you ask me out then?”

he looked at you.

“because even when I’m not sure about anything else… I’m sure about you.”

you blinked.

okay. rude.

he was not allowed to drop lines like that while you were emotionally vulnerable, sweaty from practice last night, and wearing your second best sneakers.

you tried to play it off, heart punching your ribs. “you’ve been practicing that in the mirror, huh?”

he grinned. “nah. you’re just that inspiring.”

you stared at him, lips twitching.

then, casually, you reached over and hooked your pinky with his.

that was it.

that was all.

he squeezed gently.

after the date — back at the dorms

you got a text. just as you slipped into the trainee dorm’s hallway.

sunghoon: home safe? you: just got in. you? sunghoon: still outside. walking around like a loser who just got his crush to say yes you: you are a loser. but like. a cute one i guess sunghoon: say that again i’ll screenshot it you: goodnight, hoonie sunghoon: night, pretty girl.

you stared at the screen, face flushed.

then threw your pillow at the bed and let out a scream into your blanket.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

you barely made it through the last eight-count. your legs were jelly, your ponytail was falling apart, and your throat was screaming for water—but more than anything, your brain was fried. you didn’t even notice someone step into the practice room until you heard a low, familiar voice.

“psst. trainee of the year.”

you turned, and there he was.

sunghoon.

with a hoodie pulled up and a mischievous glint in his eye… holding a snack-sized bag of chips and a chocolate bar like they were illegal contraband.

you blinked. “hoon—what are you doing here?!”

he smirked. “looking out for someone who forgot how to rest.”

“i’m on a diet,” you whispered, eyeing the chocolate like it was your long-lost lover.

he stepped closer. “then pretend i didn’t bring snacks. just come with me for five minutes.”

you followed him to the vending machine hallway—dead center between the boys’ and girls’ dorm floors. no cctv. no trainers.

just buzzing machines, flickering fluorescent light, and the sound of your heart thudding louder than it should.

he leaned against the wall, opening the chocolate and breaking off a square.

you stared at it.

“i said i’m on a diet.”

“i said i don’t care.” he offered it again.

you took it. obviously.

a beat of silence passed. then another. you sighed.

“i’ve never dated someone in secret before,” you mumbled, fingers fiddling with the wrapper. “do you think it’ll work out?”

sunghoon didn’t hesitate.

“I’m actually an expert in secrets…” he said, tone suddenly lower, softer.

he leaned in, closing the already-small space between you.

“...especially dating.”

your breath hitched.

he was close—too close—his scent all cozy detergent and warm skin, his lips ghosting a little too close to your cheek.

“i’ll teach you how.”

you were in the middle of laughing—like, full-on cracking up with the other trainees in the dance room. someone made a joke about one of the trainers being secretly in love with their reflection, and you had tears in your eyes.

you didn’t even realize your phone buzzed until you were finally alone, tying your hair up again, everyone else already off to shower or sleep.

sunghoon: u free? sunghoon: dance room. come before i fall asleep on the floor.

you stared. then blinked. then immediately bolted.

the second you opened the door to his group’s practice room, you saw him sitting there on the floor, back against the mirror, head tilted up like he’d been waiting hours.

he looked up.

“hey.”

just that one word and you were melting. it’s been weeks. actual weeks. and yet, there he was—same hoodie, same tired smile, same boy who made you forget how to breathe.

you walked in slowly. “so you miss me, huh?”

he scoffed, but the smile said it all.

“i’m not gonna lie. i might’ve forgotten what you looked like.”

“rude.”

“well, i remember now.” his eyes swept over you.

you rolled your eyes, trying not to combust.

you sat next to him, shoulders barely touching, and it was quiet for a second. not awkward. just… warm.

“you’ve been working hard,” you said quietly.

“you too,” he murmured. “i see it in the practice logs.”

you raised a brow. “you stalk me?”

he smirked. “maybe.”

he stood up a little while later, stretched, then turned to you again.

“come here.”

“why?”

“just—” he waved you over.

you got up, brushing imaginary dust off your sweatpants. “if you prank me, i swear—”

“i’m not. just come.”

he walked backward, tugging you gently by the wrist until you both slipped behind the tall mirror divider that split the practice room—probably put there for storage or stage simulation. barely any light. no one would check there.

you opened your mouth to ask what is this, but he was already leaning in.

and then—

footsteps.

two voices. familiar.

heeseung. jake.

you froze. sunghoon cursed under his breath, then pulled you closer—closer—until your back hit the mirror and his body shielded you completely.

your heart did a full somersault.

“shhh,” he whispered, breath fanning across your ear. “they’re just grabbing their stuff.”

heeseung’s voice echoed faintly. “you think sunghoon left already?”

“probably. dude’s always staying too long.”

you held your breath, heartbeat racing. he was so close. his hands rested on either side of your head, and he kept glancing down at you like he might actually—

once the door shut and the voices faded, silence fell.

you stared at him.

he stared right back.

then he grinned.

“i wasn’t gonna kiss you, you know.”

“…right.”

“…but now i kind of want to.”

you raised a brow. “you sure about that? we haven’t even had a second date.”

“so?” he whispered, leaning in again. “we’re behind a mirror. does it count?”

you were this close to shoving him playfully, but your breath hitched when he tilted his head just enough.

his lips brushed yours.

soft. tentative.

dangerous.

but then you kissed him back.

just once. quick. stupid. electric.

you pulled away with a shaky breath. “you’re so annoying.”

“you like it.”

“i hate it.”

he grinned. “i’ll teach you how.”

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

the call started with you lying flat on your bed, hair down, face fresh from a shower, hoodie oversized and barely clinging to one shoulder.

“you look tired,” you mumbled, frowning into the screen.

sunghoon was on his dorm bed too, hair pushed back with a headband, cheeks still flushed from rehearsal. “you look pretty.”

you blinked. “that’s not the point—”

“but it’s true,” he said, smiling. “also. i am tired. i miss you.”

you flopped your head dramatically against your pillow. “ugh, i miss you too. stupid idol schedules.”

he laughed. then sighed. then just stared at you for a second longer than necessary.

the silence was comfortable. until your phone buzzed.

you glanced at the notification. trainee gc.

someone: you looked cool in practice today someone else: your form’s improved a lot lately and then: wanna hangout sometime? just chill, talk about training n stuff?

sunghoon raised a brow. “who’s that?”

you snorted, a little too amused. “hm? just the group chat.”

“your phone’s lighting up a lot,” he said, too casually.

you tilted your screen to the side, showing the flood of not-so-subtle messages.

sunghoon squinted. “that guy. the one who complimented your jumps last time. he’s the one who sent the hangout thing, right?”

you blinked slowly. “hoon. are you jealous?”

“no,” he lied, immediately, like a liar.

“you so are.”

“i’m not,” he repeated, suddenly invested in adjusting the blanket on his lap.

you smirked. “you’re sulking.”

he didn’t respond.

“hoon~”

“i’m just saying,” he said, voice all pouty now, “he doesn’t even stretch properly before practice. what does he know.”

you wheezed.

“oh my god.”

“i’m just—i’m just watching out for you, okay?” he said, flustered, biting his lip. “i don’t like how they act around you.”

you rolled onto your back, giggling into your sleeve.

“you’re adorable.”

“no, i’m serious,” he grumbled. “i can’t even talk to you in public, but they’re out here throwing compliments like confetti.”

you peeked at the screen again. his lips were pursed. eyes narrowed. sulk level: maximum.

you reached out like you could actually pinch his cheek through the screen.

“you know you’re the only one i want to hear compliments from, right?”

his gaze softened.

“...really?”

“really,” you said, smiling. “but also, you’re kinda hot when you’re jealous. not gonna lie.”

he hid his face in his hoodie.

“stop.”

“never.”

you grinned.

“hoooon,” you whined through the screen, “can’t you just teleport here? like now? please? i’ll pay.”

he snorted. “what with? ramen and protein bars?”

“yes.”

he smiled, soft and lazy, eyes crinkling. “i wish i could.”

“me too.”

your voice had dropped, just a little. tired. yearning. and his fingers twitched like he wished he could reach through the screen and pull you into his chest.

but then—

“hyung! dinner’s ready!”

jungwon’s voice, right outside his door.

sunghoon groaned, rolling onto his side with a quiet, “just five more minutes!”

“are you still on call with y/n?” jungwon asked, then cracked the door open like he already knew the answer.

sunghoon quickly angled the phone to his chest, like a whole dad caught texting his crush in middle school.

but jungwon just leaned in and waved toward the screen. “hi, y/n!”

“oh my god,” you said, hiding your face with a hand, laughing. “hi wonnie.”

then sunoo appeared in the hallway too, leaning over jungwon’s shoulder. “tell her i say hi too!”

“i did already!” jungwon argued.

niki popped in last, chewing on something. “you’re not slick, hyung. we all know you’ve been heart-eyes emoji for like, three months now.”

sunghoon nearly died on the spot.

“get out,” he hissed.

“we’re going,” sunoo grinned. “but don’t kiss through the screen or anything. the wi-fi’s lagging.”

and they vanished.

you wheezed. “your roommates are literally chaos.”

“they’re menaces.”

“but cute menaces.”

“fine,” he mumbled, trying not to smile again. “but i’m the cutest, right?”

“you’re the cutest and the hottest.”

“and you’re the reason my heart’s doing cardio without moving.”

you blinked. “that was so cheesy.”

“i know,” he grinned.

a few nights later – secret car hangout edition

he picked you up in a manager’s car, hoodie low, cap on, mask covering most of his face. when you slid into the front seat, your eyes met and for a second neither of you said anything.

then you both burst into giggles like schoolkids sneaking out past curfew.

“you’re insane,” you whispered, shutting the door.

“you’re prettier in person,” he whispered back.

“you’re biased.”

“i’m in love.”

you froze. blinked. stared at him.

he blinked back, wide-eyed. “i mean—i—i said that out loud, didn’t i.”

you bit your lip, suddenly warm.

“yeah,” you said. “but… same.”

his hand reached for yours between the seats. fingers laced. thumbs brushing.

you two just sat there for a while. soft music playing. headlights passing. the world rushing around you, but in here, time stilled.

“you’re leaving again tomorrow?” you asked.

he nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. “fanmeet. then music show. then filming.”

“you’re everywhere.”

“except here,” he murmured. “with you.”

your heart tugged.

“then make the most of tonight.”

he turned to look at you.

eyes locked.

“yeah?” he whispered.

you nodded.

then you climbed over the center console like it was nothing, and next thing you knew, you were on his lap, hoodie and all, faces close, lips brushing. giggling quietly, almost getting caught when a van drove past and made the headlights flash inside.

you kissed like the world didn’t know.

you laughed like no one could hear.

and when he pulled back, forehead pressed to yours, breath warm, he whispered—

“i’ll teach you how.”

then just like that, you two were back to kissing. he kept a hand on your chin to angle your head in the perfect position. his tongue slipping in your lips, tasting you like he'll never get a chance to again.

and that's when you two made out recklessly in the car, breath heavy, and in love.

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

the survival show started before either of you could even process it.

you were waking up at 5 a.m., rehearsing until midnight, crash-napping in dance studios, living off energy drinks and willpower.

sunghoon was across the world—london, tokyo, la, award shows, en-oclock, fanmeets, and endless nights of soundchecks.

the phone calls slowed.

the messages became one-word replies.

then one-sided.

then nothing.

but not because you stopped caring.

it was just life.

it was debut season.

dreams were happening in real time.

you both were flying so fast that you didn’t even realize you were flying past each other.

months later

you were back. not just in seoul, not just in the same time zone—but here.

and you were debuting.

you made it into the final group.

four girls. you were the visual, the ace, the one people couldn’t stop looking at.

and the moment you saw his name pop up on your schedule—same venue, different floors—you knew.

you had to see him.

so you did.

your steps were slow but steady. nerves in your chest like fireworks waiting to go off.

he looked up when you entered the hallway. paused.

you smiled.

his mouth parted. just a little.

then you ran—fast, too fast—and wrapped your arms around his middle like you were afraid he’d disappear again.

his arms came around you instantly. like muscle memory. like home.

“i made it,” you whispered into his chest, voice trembling.

he didn’t say anything at first. just held you tighter.

then—

“i know,” he said quietly.

you blinked up at him.

and he smiled, eyes a little glassy, cheeks a little pink. “i saw every performance.”

you laughed through your tears. “you did?”

“mhm.” he nodded. “even the boot camp episode. and your level test. and the one where you cried after your vocals cracked—”

“shut up.”

“i cried too.”

“shut up.”

“i saved the fancam.”

you slapped his shoulder, but your grin couldn’t be wiped off.

“and i saw yours,” you whispered, pressing your palm to his chest like you could feel all the places he grew while you were away. “every award. every encore. every fancam. you were so… amazing.”

“you too,” he murmured. “we both made it.”

and for a second, it didn’t matter that the world was watching.

that you had bodyguards and managers and contracts now.

that there were rules and rumors and cameras always watching.

because right here, in this small hallway of a massive building—

it was just the two of you again.

“missed you,” you said.

“teach me how to get over you,” he whispered.

and you shook your head.

“no,” you whispered back. “i’ll teach you how to keep me.”

a/n: posting part 2 tomorrow 5pm kst ! if you want to be tagged, please reblog so you can be added (that would help me much too hh). i already have a reserved taglist, so if you want to register, just click my forms :>> loveyallsosomuchh

chapter 2 is posted !

<to read next chapter tap the underlined>

taglist: @kpoplover-19 @kpoppiesofinternet

[ohproserpine]

iv. dolly

see all chapters here tags: fem! reader, reader is a performer in a speakeasy, jealousy, possessiveness, alastor does not know how to interpret love, or maybe he does, in his own twisted way, roadkill used as a symbolism, gorey descriptions of love, murder the song she sings is 'roxie' from chicago

˚୨୧₊♱

"Hey!" Charlie's voice rang out as she spotted Mimzy making her way towards the hotel entrance. The blonde froze, casting a nervous glance behind her to see the demon princess rapidly approaching with a worried look that she mistook for anger.

With practiced ease, the blonde put on a fake frown, pressing her hand over her chest. "Oh, Charlie! I'm so sorry for the trouble last night, sugar! I'll pay—"

"No, no! I'm not here for that," Charlie waved her hands with a smile, seemingly oblivious to the slump of relief on Mimzy's shoulders. "Are you leaving so soon? The hotel wouldn't mind taking you in!"

Caught off guard by Charlie's unexpected offer, Mimzy grimaced. She hesitated, opening her mouth before shutting it as she struggled to find the right words. "Oh! Well…you see…"

A laughing track, sounding like it was filtered through a radio, echoed through the air, and Mimzy turned to the source to find Alastor towering over her with his signature grin.

"I don't think redemption is quite her style," Alastor's chipper voice rang out. His clawed hand reached for Mimzy’s hair, plucking a feather from her headpiece. In his hands, the pink ornament erupted into flames. "Frankly, I have my doubts she could even be redeemed at all!"

Horrified, Mimzy watched as her feather fell to the floor in ashes, her hand instinctively reaching for the charred remnants.

"Alastor," Charlie glared at him before turning her attention back to Mimzy. "We believe in redemption for everyone. It's not about what you were; it's about what you choose to be now. We'll be here to support you every step of the way."

"Thanks, sugar," Mimzy forced a smile, waving her hand around daintily. She glanced at the entrance with a subtle wish for escape, playing up the nice act while Alastor continued to watch the scene unfold with a cryptic smile. "But radio here is right. I don't really think it's my style. Different strokes for different folks. Plus, I've got a business to run!"

Alastor hummed, twirling his microphone cane around in his hand. The crimson glow of his eyes narrowed at her as he chuckled. "You couldn't possibly mean that wooden box of debauchery you call a club, right?"

"My 'wooden box of debauchery' has more character than any joint in that city," Mimzy grit her teeth together in a smile, barely concealing her frustration.

As another argument began to form, a throat clearing interrupted the flow, capturing Mimzy's attention. A pink glove slowly rose from the couch and Angel Dust pushed himself off the furniture, sitting up with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"If I may~" Angel Dust chimed in. "You saying you, ah, got a bar? I'm always up for checking out new places. Mind if I swing by sometime, tits?"

Mimzy beamed and sent Alastor a smug look, making her way toward Angel Dust. She reached into her chest, pulling out a card with a flourish. "Of course, kitten! Here's all our information. You'll find us in the Vee district. Feel free to swing by anytime. And don't forget to bring a friend!"

Angel Dust took the offered card, a grin forming on his face. "Bring a friend, huh? You got it, toots."

˚୨୧₊♱

The Vee district, designated as the entertainment hub of Pride, was dazzled with bright neon lights and tall towering buildings adorned with blazing billboards. The streets pulsed with life, where every ten steps brought you face-to-face with street performers desperately vying for attention, hoping to catch the eyes of industry scouts. The message was clear – fame was the ticket to success. Performers were everywhere, found in rundown bars, neon nightclubs, and costly theaters catering to the insatiable appetites of the elite.

Mimzy's Lounge, nestled down east on one of the city's worse-off streets was no fancy stage. The building, weathered and worn, seemed to barely hold itself together. The exterior bore the scars of years gone by, with cracked windows, peeling paint, and near-rotting wooden walls. While it may not have been on the standards of the elite, to the poor and downtrodden, it was the best piece of entertainment they could afford.

Inside, the dim lighting of the bar did little to conceal the stains and cracks that adorned the floor and ceiling. Tables and chairs, mismatched, were arranged haphazardly. The air hung heavy with the smell of cheap perfume, wrapping around the audience—a motley crew of lost souls. On the stage, a couple of scantily clad showgirls were performing a dance routine, or at least their movements vaguely resembled one. The quality of the performance didn't seem to matter to the audience, who, hungry for any form of entertainment, welcomed the spectacle with open arms.

Seated discreetly in the back booths, Angel and Cherri had drawn their curtains tight, creating a cocoon of privacy amid the bustling buzz and thumping music in the club.

"…And check this out – Alastor is hitched," Angel Dust spat out the last word as if it were poison. His face caught the warm, bright lights spilling into their booth, slipping through the small gap in the middle of the curtains. He sipped from his drink, a glint in his eyes. "And the owner here's got some serious dirt on his missus or somethin' like that."

"That why you dragged me to this hellhole? Knew it," Cherri snorted, taking a sip of her cocktail, the sweet and tangy flavors doing little to mask the less-than-pleasant ambiance. "Couldn't believe you'd even want to step into a place like this."

"You know I can't resist a bit of gossip, and where else can you find more gossip than in a joint run by a gal who's got the goods on Alastor himself?" Angel grinned, his golden tooth flashing as he reclined in his torn red chair. "Hell. I bet anyone else would do what I'm doin'. I mean, who wouldn't be tearin' these walls down just to catch a glimpse of the Radio Demon's wife?"

Cherri Bomb let out a throaty chuckle. "Well, you're bloody right there."

A sudden blast of music echoed through the air, prompting Angel Dust to scramble out of his seat and poke his head out from behind the curtain. The previous performers stepped off the stage, making way for the upcoming act. He caught sight of a familiar pudgy figure sauntering onto the stage and hastily turned his head back to the booth, meeting Cherri's amused face. "It's startin'!"

“Welcome, all you devils and darlings, to the Dollhouse Lounge!” Mimzy's voice boomed, and the lights gracefully dimmed to focus on her. The hum of conversation dwindled, the audience's attention now on the stage. “It's the moment you've all been waiting for! The last act of the night… Dolly, the living doll!"

With Mimzy's spirited introduction, the claps and cheers crackled in the air. In an instant, the lights plunged into darkness, leaving Angel to flit his gaze across the smoke-hazed stage, hungry for a glimpse of what was to come. Suddenly, a surge of stage lights sliced through the lingering smoke, akin to a celestial burst, revealing your silhouette with a large signage that spelled out your name in bold, red letters.

Wearing a lovely smile, you spread your arms wide, catching everyone's attention as you sang the first note, voice sultry and dripping sweet like honey. "The name on everybody's lips is gonna be Dolly."

"That's his wife?" Cherri gawked behind Angel, her jaw dropping in disbelief. "Are you sure we got the right girl?"

"Hell, I'm just as surprised as you are," Angel shot back, an equally dumfounded look on his face.

"The lady raking in the chips Is gonna be Dolly," your voice echoed, the melody carrying through the lounge as you strolled towards the stage's platform. The rhythmic beat of the music vibrated against the soles of your heels while the spotlight dutifully trailed after you, its gentle glow caressing the curves of your glittery dress, casting glimmers of silver and gold that danced across the dimly lit bar.

"I'm gonna be a celebrity. That means somebody everyone knows," you continued, sauntering around the stage. As you swirled and twirled, your silhouette became a blur of sequins and shimmer. The spotlight then intensified its focus on you, highlighting the glint in your eyes. "They're gonna recognize my eyes. My hair, my teeth, my boobs, my nose."

"Fuck," Angel muttered under his breath. As you moved closer to the end of the platform, he could finally get a good look at you.

Shimmery blue eyeshadow graced your lids, while a dark blush adorned the apples of your cheeks, complementing the red lipstick you had on. Your dress, a dazzling ensemble of sequins, was not only radiant but also provocatively low-cut, teasingly revealing a glimpse of your chest before gracefully dropping to your knees. Dark silk stockings, sensually tracing the contours of your legs, were held by garters. At your feet, bedazzled red Mary Janes sparkled like jewels, catching the light with every step you took.

As Angel thought back to his conversation with Mimzy, he found himself agreeing with her earlier comments. You really were a living, breathing doll.

"From just some dumb canni-bal’s wife. I'm gonna be Dolly," you continued, seamlessly weaving your magic, each lyric a spell that bound the audience. "Who says that murder's not an art?"

With a spin, you twirled around the stage, a ditzy grin on your face, the sequins on your gown catching the light like stars. "And who, in case she doesn't hang, can say she started with a bang! Dolly Heart!"

As the final notes of the song echoed through the venue, the room erupted in applause and cheers. But, the curtain wasn't falling yet. Standing backstage, Mimzy let the moment linger, reveling in the prolonged applause. After all, happy customers always tipped generously.

On cue, bills and coins descended like a storm, hitting the floor with a crisp sound that mixed beautifully with the cheers of the delighted audience. There was so much that the shower of currency formed a makeshift carpet beneath your feet.

Angel Dust, still peeking from behind the curtain, wore a smirk of approval. "Not bad, not bad at all," he whispered to Cherri, who nodded in agreement.

Standing on the stage, bathed in the lingering glow of the spotlight, you held your pose, chest heaving up and down. A demure smile graced your lips as soft, appreciative nods and fluttering eyelashes accompanied each gaze you cast toward the audience. Tonight's turnout was impressive, though not unexpected given your agreement to perform one of your most famous songs after a prolonged hiatus.

"Dolly" was a beloved crowd-pleaser and the one song you hated with a passion.

The spotlight continued to shine relentlessly in your eyes, causing a painful burn in your irises. The deafening applause felt like a relentless assault on your senses as each clap echoed loudly in your ears. From the speakers, the music blasted in waves, the volume rattling your bones. Showbusiness, a constant companion in both your living and afterlife, had become an achingly familiar yet tormenting cycle.

In the corner of your eye, you saw Mimzy step up onto the stage to address the crowd. "Thank you, my lovely devils and darlings! Wasn't Dolly simply darling tonight?" she squealed through the mic.

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause once more, the energy in the room reaching a fever pitch. Mimzy basked in the adoration, her grin widening as she soaked in the success and the money. Oh, the money.

"I know you loved that!" she laughed. She leaned into the microphone, her voice turning into a whisper "Of course, you all do. I wrote it."

"Now, let's give our star her rest. Dolly, my dear, take a bow!" Mimzy's voice rang out, signaling the end of the performance. Relieved, you bowed before making your way towards the curtains as the heavy fabrics began to descend. After blowing a few more kisses to the audience, you slipped backstage, letting the smile fade from your face. As you vanished from view behind the curtain, Angel caught the look on your face.

It was a look he knew all too well.

"She looks perfectly happy without him," Cherri remarked with a casual shrug. "I mean, look at 'er. She's the star of the show. You think she left on purpose?"

Angel furrowed his brows, deep in thought. It didn't make no sense to him.

Why would you willingly perform under Mimzy's control when Alastor, with his power, could easily get you out of here? Contract or no contract, that radio freak could tear Mimzy apart like a hot knife through butter.

The spider's attention shifted towards the audience, and his gaze locked onto Mimzy, who was engrossed in conversation with some VIPs. The sight of her triggered a scowl to etch itself onto his features.

"I don't think so. There's more to it," Angel's eyes narrowed, the wheels in his head turning, "I've seen that look before."

"What look?" Cherri raised an eyebrow.

"That trapped look," Angel said, his gaze following Mimzy as she continued her animated conversation, oblivious to the scrutiny. "Before the curtains dropped, I saw it on her."

"Shit, Angie," Cherri's gaze followed Angel's, and she pursed her lips. "You think she's playing the part or really stuck?"

Angel Dust stood up straight, now opening the curtains wide as his eyes never left Mimzy. "I don't know, but I'm gonna find out."

Both of them took their time, patiently waiting until Mimzy stepped away. Once the blonde demon finally made her way backstage, they discreetly followed her lead, slipping behind the curtains with her.

The busy backstage corridor welcomed them with an assortment of items – costumes, props, and stage decor – scattered in chaotic disarray. Angel's eyes wandered around, and he spotted Mimzy in a far corner, sitting atop worn cardboard boxes. Nudging Cherri, he gestured for both of them to move closer.

"Hey~ How's it going, blondie?" Angel purred, leaning against a nearby prop, his tone dripping with a sickly sweet tone. Mimzy looked up, confused before she recognized him and flashed a wide grin.

"Hey, you! You're that spider fella from the hotel!" She tapped her chin in thought narrowing her eyes at him. "Uhm, Angle Dust was it?"

"It's Angel Dust," he corrected, a twitch of annoyance in his eye.

"Uh-hah, that's nice," Mimzy seemed unfazed, continuing to count her money, her legs swinging back and forth absentmindedly. "You like the show? Oh, who am I kidding, of course, you did!"

Angel Dust crossed his arms with a chuckle. "Yeah, about that. That girl, Dolly. She's quite a number, ain't she?"

"Oh, yeah. She's my little masterpiece," Mimzy smirked. "Met her before she had any of this."

"Let's cut the fuckin' crap," Cherri rolled her eyes, tired of dancing around the conversation. The cyclops leaned down to Mimzy's height, scowling into her face and driving her finger into the blonde's chest. "I'll say it straight. What's the deal with her? You got some strings attached?"

Mimzy paused and glanced up at Cherri with an arched eyebrow before turning to Angel and laughing tensely. "Your friend here sure is forward, Ankle! Oh, sweethearts, Dolly's here because she wants to be."

Angel Dust shot Cherri a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. "Yeah?"

"The girl signed a contract willingly," Mimzy explained with a casual shrug. "She gets what she wants, and I get what I want. It's a fair exchange."

Angel's eyes narrowed, his skepticism evident. "Contract? What's in it for her, then? Why willingly perform in this dump when she could easily be the star anywhere else?"

The blonde sent Angel a glare for his dig at her lounge but still answered him. "Dolly owes me something. A little debt she's paying off with her charming performances. A contract might sound sinister, but it's just showbusiness, furs." Mimzy leaned back, folding her arms, her expression daring the two of them challenge her further.

"Bull. She sold you her soul to dance and sing?" Cherri scoffed, taking the challenge.

"No, no, there was no soul exchange involved," Mimzy rolled her eyes. "Just a contract. But still binding, magical, and all of that stuff."

"Now, can you two get out of my hair?" Mimzy huffed, shooing them away with a dismissive wave. "I've got a lot of things to run here!" She returned to counting her money, clearly eager to be rid of the unwanted attention.

"Let's go, Cherri," Angel said with a look of defeat, pushing himself off the prop he had been leaning on.

Once the two of them finally stepped out of the establishment, the spider groaned to himself, now finding himself with more questions than answers.

˚୨୧₊♱

You strolled behind the weighty curtains, the backstage area buzzing with the rush of staff, the shouts of managers, and the lingering presence of performers idly awaiting their cues. Navigating through the organized chaos, you directed your steps towards your private dressing room—a sanctuary away from the glaring spotlight.

You threw the door open, entering quickly and slamming it shut behind you, the sudden silence a stark contrast to the clamor and racket outside. Flicking a light switch, the dim glow of a single, flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling revealed the room's worn-out glamour. A vanity cluttered with makeup, costumes haphazardly thrown on a worn-out sofa, and a cracked mirror that had seen better days—all were familiar sights.

"I would kill for a glass of whiskey," you murmured to yourself, the weariness of the performance settling in. Rolling your head and groaning as you heard a satisfying crack, you added, "or maybe a whole bottle of it."

Kicking off your heels, you let the cool floor cradle your skin, leaving the discarded shoes in a dusty corner to rest. Seated at the vanity, the chaotic world beyond the backstage curtains ceased to exist. The gentle glow of the vanity lights exposed the weariness in your eyes as you wiped away your mascara and dusted off the remnants of glitter from your skin. While removing your earrings, the shimmer of your wedding ring caught your eye.

A frown tugged at your lips, the subtle ache of longing surfacing.

You missed your husband.

With a sigh, you continued removing your earrings before tossing them onto your vanity. Seeking to ease the edge, you reached for a whiskey bottle on a nearby dresser, grabbing a glass and pouring yourself a drink. The golden liquid glimmered in the subdued light as you took a sip, the warmth of the alcohol coursing through you.

"C̵h̶e̸r̷?̷"̸

A static rumble of a radio, like thunder, jolted you mid-drink, causing the liquid to catch in your throat. Coughing and sputtering for a while, you scrambled to collect yourself before turning behind you. Your gaze landed on the desk table where your radio sat. The crackling static continued, accompanied by a familiar voice and distorted sounds.

Alastor.

Grabbing a cloth to wipe yourself, you rushed to the desk and grabbed the old radio in your hands. The radio was a faded, worn red with yellowed dials, and its antennas were visibly broken, held up together with scraps of tape. Your contract with Mimzy did not allow you to meet with Alastor or his shadows for as long as you were under her, but that didn't mean you couldn't communicate with Alastor in other ways.

With trembling hands, you carefully adjusted the dials, aligning them to the familiar frequency that bridged the gap between you two. Your heart thrummed in your chest, head almost dizzy from anticipation. The distorted voices began to clear, and Alastor's distinctive voice cut through the static, a lifeline in the abyss.

"Cher, my dear, are you there?" Back in his room at the hotel, Alastor spoke through his mic, awaiting your response. He was sitting by the large windows, bathed in the dim glow of the Ring of Pride's lights. The hues painted a lovely ambiance against his skin, highlighting the contours of his sharp features as he reclined against a plush couch.

Heavy silence lingered for a while as you felt your throat closing up. Without realizing it, you began crying, your sobs echoing through Alastor's microphone.

"Yes, Al," you choked out between sobs, your hands gripping the surface of the radio tightly, nails scratching against the peeling paint. "I'm here. I missed you."

Alastor listened to your tearful voice through the crackling static, his shoulders tense as his claws clenched against his microphone handle. Your vulnerable confession hung heavily in the air, and he felt a storm stirring within him. Unsure of what to do with these emotions, he could only sit there and listen to you weep.

From the busiest street in Pentagram City to the darkest alleyways, Alastor's reputation as a bloodthirsty killer was infamous, and he reveled in it. The idea that an overlord like him could entertain genuine care for someone sounded preposterous. Throughout his human days and beyond, Alastor never felt such sentiments.

Decades ago, he only needed himself. However, ever since you entered his life, he became a man possessed.

The moment he first laid eyes on you, you were a vision of beauty with bright eyes, flushed cheeks, and he couldn't deny that he felt an inkling of fondness for you right from the start. But that was all it ever was—nothing more, nothing less.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he couldn't help but notice that the glow in your smile was brighter, lovelier. And despite his usual tendency to dismiss such details, Alastor couldn't look away. Not anymore.

You held him captive, like a deer frozen in the blinding glare of oncoming headlights. He was aware the collision was imminent, yet it still caught him off guard; A torrent of emotions crashing into him like a speeding truck, leaving him with twisted limbs and cracking bones, antlers torn from his head, fur matted and bloodied, with his heart exposed, beating vulnerably before you.

In the months that followed, Alastor remembered how foreign the feeling to him was. He didn't want to understand it, refused to, but each attempt to rip those festering emotions out of his chest only left him bleeding.

Looking back, Alastor finds himself incapable of fathoming how life was bearable before you entered it. The mere thought of returning to a time when you weren't present is something he refuses to entertain. The person he used to be, before he stepped into that speakeasy, now feels like a distant stranger, a mere shadow of the man he has become with you in his life.

The static in his thoughts subsided, in tandem with your crying and sobbing dying down. A prolonged pause lingered before Alastor interrupted the silence. "Cher, you know I'd bring you out of that wretched place if you just said the word."

A bitter laugh escaped your lips as you wiped away tears with your trembling fingers. "You tell me that every time we have these calls. Do you not get tired of it?"

"Never," Alastor hummed. The sound of your laughter, even tinged with bitterness, momentarily lifted the heavy burden that his heart carried. "The offer will always be up, darling!"

"You know I can't, Al. Me and her have history together," your voice paused, cracking with emotion. "And I still feel guilty."

Alastor sighed heavily, frustration dancing in his eyes. He always struggled to understand why you felt indebted to Mimzy, why guilt still clung to your decisions like a persistent shadow.

To him, Mimzy deserved the consequences. Despite his constant offers to free you from her grasp, you remained steadfast in your decision to complete your contract

"Very well, dear," Alastor's smooth voice crackled through the radio, weaving a comforting presence into the air as you moved back toward your vanity, taking a seat. "Now, enough of these melancholic talks. Tell me, how was the show tonight?"

"Mimzy had me perform 'Dolly' again," you remarked, a crooked smile playing on your lips. "She's well aware that I despise that song. I mean, really? Have you ever taken a look at the lyrics? It's a bit on the nose, don't you think?"

As your frustrations spilled out, Alastor stood from his seat, staff in hand. Placing it beside his closet, he attentively listened to your words, occasionally responding with chuckles and interjections. He slipped off his monocle, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and then his vest, revealing a well-tailored red undershirt that clung to his lean frame.

"I find the cannibal's wife line rather charming," Alastor smirked, and though he couldn't see it, you rolled your eyes in response.

"Of course you'd enjoy that part," you scoffed, mirroring Alastor's movements on the other side. Shedding the bedazzled dress, you opted for more comfortable attire, draping yourself in a robe.

"What's not to like? It shows the audience that you're my darling wife," Alastor quipped with a smug tone.

"Bushwa. They don't even know it's you. And I don't think anyone thinks highly of some poor fool shackled to a gaudy singer," you snorted. With the radio in tow, you began to pack your belongings into your purse.

"Don't be ridiculous," Alastor's laugh rumbled against the speakers. "My dear, being 'shackled' to you is the most delightful form of imprisonment."

"Such a sap," you scoffed, unable to suppress the smile that spread across your face. Shouldering your purse, you made your way towards the door, ready to leave. However, a sudden memory of a conversation with Mimzy surfaced.

"By the way, did you know Mimzy was planning to have me perform on some talk show?" you shared with Alastor while locking the door to your dressing room. A furrow appeared on your brow as the backstage lights played with shadows, casting a pensive expression on your face. "What was it again… Oh! Yes! Box-2-Nite."

A sudden screech from the radio erupted, its harsh sound reverberating in the hallway. Luckily, no one was around at this hour, and you cringed at the unexpected disturbance. Glaring at the box, you raised your brow. "You scared the living daylights outta me."

Alastor stayed silent for a while, claws digging into the cloth of his coat, ripping the fabric. With a snap of his head to the side, he dropped it to the floor and moved toward his staff, his shadows playing on the intricate patterns of the carpet beneath his feet.

"Do you perhaps mean… Vox-2-Nite?" His voice, usually smooth, carried an edge.

"Is that the name? I thought you hated telev—Oh. Ohhh..." As you ascended to the higher floors of the building, a realization swept over you.

Alastor's relationship with Vox was complicated. It didn't take a genius to see that. If the ceaseless back-and-forths on broadcasts, the turf wars that had casualties matching mass-extinction events, and the hushed gossip circulating among the other performers were anything to go by.

“Small world,” you chuckled, strolling down the hallway that led to the performers' rooms, the echo of your footsteps blending with the distant murmur of conversation. “I’m guessing I shouldn't take her up on the offer?”

"Absolutely not," Alastor practically snarled out, venom dripping from his tongue. The radio in your hand crackled and buffered, a faint golden glow emanating from the dials. "That pompous piece of shit television is nothing but a clout-chasing, mediocre host flitting between this fad and another on his little picture show podcasts."

“I know, love.” With a swift turn of a doorknob, you opened the door to your flat. "I wasn’t… planning… to…”

Your words trailed off, lingering in the air, as you entered the room. Your eyes widened in awe, captivated by the sight of a bouquet of white roses gracefully adorning your bed.

"Alastor," you spoke into the radio, your voice filled with genuine warmth. "Did you send me roses?"

Back in the hotel, Alastor, settled back into his plush couch. The fiery embers of his anger melting away like a fleeting shadow, replaced by the realization that you had discovered his gift.

A soft chuckle came from the radio, "Guilty as charged, cher. "

Your heart fluttered, and you sank onto the bed, dropping the radio on your mattress and taking the bouquet into your hands. The delicate petals felt soft against your fingers as you admired their beauty. White roses, unlike red ones, were so scarce it was difficult to get a hold of.

"Alastor, this is… wonderful," you spoke into the radio, smile so wide your cheeks almost hurt. "Why—How did you even—How did you even manage to find these?"

"Oh, I pulled a few strings," your husband grinned before chuckling, "and a few limbs too."

Your laughter intertwined with his and Alastor listened fondly, finding solace in the melody of your delight.

The day you inked that deal with Mimzy marked the onset of an agonizing pain he had never experienced before. The thought of leaving your sorrowful self under the wretched contract of that avaricious woman had incited a frenzied rage within him, leading to weeks of unbridled slaughters on the streets of hell.

The blood he spilled onto the sidewalks left a stain on the concrete that lasted months.

Fortunately for you and him, the ordeal was nearing its end. Just one more year remained until Alastor could finally reunite with you. After enduring decades of this agony, an additional year seemed like mercy.

"You like it, cher?" Alastor's voice dropped an octave lower, the satisfaction evident in his tone, pleased to bring happiness to your moment.

"Yes," you laugh, cradling the bouquet in your hands. "I like it very much."

˚୨୧₊♱

[cheriedivine]

𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 | chapter 4

previous | chapter 4 | next

꩜ synopsis: you’re best friends. just best friends. except when she lingers a little too long at your door. except when she calls you her favorite, and it doesn’t feel like a joke. except when her fingers graze yours and neither of you pull away. except when you start to wonder if she’s wondering, too…

꩜ Pairing: Ellie Williams x fem reader (no use of y/n)

꩜ CW: swearing, mentions of smoking, tension, yearning (lmk if i missed any)

꩜ WC: 9.7K (UMMMMM)

꩜ A/N: this is a LONG ASS chapter, and holy fuck it is some chapter, i’m edging yall atp. (if u caught the jackieshauna reference i love u)

୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧

Since the shopping trip with Ellie—and all the unspoken tension that came with it—Friday flew by. The diner was as packed as ever, but with Maria’s guidance, you held things down. Before you even realized it, you’d survived your first week as assistant manager. You gave yourself a well-deserved mental pat on the back.

Back at your apartment, Sally was nowhere to be seen. You figured she was probably out with her boyfriend, which meant you had the place to yourself. Heaven. You took your time unwinding—long shower, softest pajamas, candles lit, and the warm flicker of the TV glow filling the room.

You curled up on the couch with dinner and a dumb sitcom playing in the background, halfway through your meal when it hit you: you hadn’t texted Ellie all day. That was... rare. But understandable, with the week you’d both had—her prepping for the gala, you juggling work.

You reached for your phone and opened her contact.

“Hey there, how’s everything going?”

Her reply came seconds later:

“helloo, sorry I've been arranging all my shit for tomorrow, hbu?”

“Just chilling, long day. Glad it’s finally the weekend.”

There was a short pause before the next message came.

“Can I be honest for a sec? I’m kinda terrified about tomorrow.”

That one made your chest ache a little. Ellie always had a hard time accepting good things—like she didn’t deserve them, or worse, like she might mess them up before they could even begin.

You didn’t waste time replying:

“I get it, Els. But you’ll do amazing as always—and you’ll look hot while doing it, so there’s really no need to worry.”

Ellie stared at the message a little too long. Her stomach twisted—but this time, not from nerves.

It was almost midnight. You yawned, stretching out.

“You should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow. We don’t want you walking around like a zombie out there.”

She smiled, already feeling lighter.

“Yeah, you’re right. Sleep deprivation is getting to me. I’ll pick u up tomorrow at 6pm sharp.”

“Yes ma’am. Goodnight, Ellie ;)”

“Night :)”

She tossed her phone onto the bed and groaned, flopping backwards like gravity was suddenly ten times heavy. “What am I doing?” she muttered to no one. Eventually—after flipping around and staring at the ceiling like it held answers—she finally drifted off, all her worries vanishing away. Tomorrow would be a whirlwind.

Late morning sunlight cut through her curtains, hitting her square in the face. Ellie groaned, eyes scrunching shut before she blinked awake, freckles bathed in warm light. She sat on the edge of the bed, hair sticking up in every direction, she rubbed the sleep off her eyes, staring at the neatly folded clothes on the armchair—laid out with unusual care the night before.

White button-up. Black slacks. Blazer. Loafers, cleaned and polished. She made her way to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, blinking at herself in the mirror. Wide-eyed. Awake now. After that she headed to her small kitchen, grabbing some milk and cereal for breakfast. Could never go wrong with it.

Her camera bag was sprawled on the small dining table, along with all the equipment she had already double checked, but would probably check it again later. She’d charged all her batteries, packed backup lenses, made sure she had her extra SD cards— She could do this in her sleep. Still, her leg bounced as she sat, stomach tightening.

This wasn’t just another gig. It was the gig. The one that could open doors, land her work in bigger publications, finally get her name out there in the way she always said she didn’t care about. But now that it was here, she did care. A lot.

And then there was you.

Her chest tightened at the thought of seeing you in that dress. Standing beside her. Laughing. Maybe letting your arm brush hers like you always did, like you didn’t even notice it anymore—though she always did. You were going to be there. Looking…well. However you were going to look, it would be stunning. You always looked good no matter what.

But tonight? In a dress? At her side? Ellie felt like she needed to lay down. Again.

She needed to stop these thoughts, you probably weren’t even thinking about her like that. Shit maybe, you didn’t even notice it. But the truth is, you noticed. Every little detail. The way her eyes glistened when she saw you, or her nose scrunched just a bit when she laughed. It made her feel like an idiot, but she couldn’t bring herself to face… whatever this was.

She ran her hand through her hair and stood up, forcing herself to move. Shower. That would help. Hot water and routine. Maybe call Joel too.. She peeled off her hoodie, grabbed a towel, and headed into the bathroom. But the second the water turned on, her thoughts spiraled again.

What if you looked too good? What if people thought you were her date? Worse—what if they didn’t?

What if you felt out of place? What if you regretted coming?

“Get it together, for fuck’s sake,” she muttered, scrubbing her hair like it personally offended her. “It’s just a job.”

But even as she said it, she could already picture the way your eyes would light up when you saw the venue. Or how you’d lean in to whisper something, your shoulders brushing hers.

Her stomach flipped.

She got out of the shower and dried off quickly, throwing on a clean shirt and boxers before stepping back into her room. Her phone buzzed with a text. It was you.

“Morning sunshine. Ready for the big day?

Ellie smiled, thumbs hovering.

"I’ve been triple checking all my equipment since last night, I think I'm getting there."

You smirked at the message, still laying in bed, too warm to get up.

“Well, if it makes you feel better I already looked up pictures of the venue and the fundraising and everything”

“lol, you’re a weirdo”

“u love it”

You tossed your phone to the side, finally getting out of bed, saturdays were always for slow mornings, you didn’t care about waking up early. The apartment was quiet as usual, just the sounds of the outside world, and the soft hum of the tv in the living room.

Sally sat curled on the couch, coffee in hand. “Morning. There’s still some in the pot.”

“You are an angel.” you replied, heading to the kitchen counter and pulling your favorite mug out of the small cabinet, the mug felt warm in your hands, steam blowing out of the dark liquid. You joined Sally at the other end of the couch. Both of you falling into the usual chatter, tv playing in the background with some news channel. You really enjoyed Sally’s presence, even if both of you were extremely different, you got along well.

You made some actual breakfast (which was more of a brunch considering the time) and ate it on the table, gossiping every now and then or just doom-scrolling on your phones. You checked the time and it was almost 3p.m., time to start getting ready. Standing up you excused yourself off the table and dropped both plates on the sink, heading to the bathroom to brush your teeth and do your skincare routine.

Sally hung in your room for a bit, helping you get your hair done, tossing it into rollers that made you look ridiculous—but she swore the blowout would be worth it. You trusted her.

Barely.

Still, your brain kept drifting. Would Ellie think you looked good? Was it too much? Too little?

Your overthinking wasn’t helping at all. You reached for your makeup bag and started applying your foundation with a soft brush, blending it carefully all over your face, while a playlist hummed from Sally’s phone, you continued applying more products while she did your hair, it was almost therapeutic.

Meanwhile, Ellie stared at her open closet like it was some kind of puzzle she couldn’t solve.

The button-up was already laid out—crisp white, freshly ironed. Beside it, black slacks and the blazer she wasn’t sure looked cool or like she was going to a job interview. She adjusted the sleeves again for the fifth time, then stepped back like that would somehow make the outfit look better.

This was stupid. It was fine. It was neutral and professional and not trying too hard. Except… her brain wouldn’t stop poking at the same thought over and over again: What if you looked at her and didn’t feel anything at all?

She huffed and ran a hand through her hair, combing it with her fingers.

There was nothing else to tweak about her camera bag. She’d gone over every lens, every battery, every backup memory card like a maniac. Her whole gear kit was triple-checked, zipped up, and ready to go by noon. Which meant the rest of the day was just… waiting. And spiraling.

She sat on the edge of her bed, fidgeting with the cuff of her sleeve, before grabbing her phone. She dialed Joel’s number.

“Hey kiddo, everything alright?” His voice was warm, grounding.

“Hey Joel... yeah. I guess. Just a little nervous about this gig I’ve got later. It’s kinda a big one.” She tugged at her shirt hem as she talked.

“You mean that fancy fundraiser thing? Where you gotta play nice with the rich folks?” He chuckled.

“Yup. That’s the one.”

“Thought you said you weren’t worried about that?”

“I wasn’t. Now I am.”

Joel was quiet for a beat. “This about the gig... or the girl?”

Ellie groaned. “Don’t start.”

“Can’t help it. You’ve only mentioned her about two dozen times.”

“She’s coming as my plus one,” Ellie muttered. “Not—like—not a date. Just… kind of.”

Another chuckle. “Ellie, I’ve seen you more relaxed on a rooftop during a thunderstorm. You sure you’re just nervous about the photos?”

She went quiet.

“Look,” Joel said, his voice softer. “You’ve done way harder things than dress up and take pictures. You’ve worked your ass off. You deserve this. And from what I’ve seen, that girl’s lucky to be standin’ next to you tonight.”

Ellie rubbed her forehead. “I just… don’t wanna mess it up.”

“You won’t. You’re gonna knock it outta the park. Just be yourself. Take the shots. Let yourself enjoy it. And maybe—if the moment’s right—don’t be afraid to tell her how you feel.”

But that’s the thing. Ellie didn’t know how she felt. And it was killing her inside.

Ellie gave a breathy laugh. “Now you’re pushing it.”

“Maybe. But sometimes you need a little push. I’m proud of you, kiddo.”

She smiled, a quiet warmth settling in her chest. “Thanks, man.”

“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

She hung up, feeling just a little calmer.

She laid back down, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, it was still early to pick you up, so she decided to have a smoke, maybe that would relax her a bit. She leaned against the window, cigarette burned between her fingers, smoke curling lazily toward the sky.

She took a drag, exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dance in front of her.

You were probably finishing your makeup, or fixing your hair. Maybe pacing. Maybe not even nervous at all. That made her stomach twist worse.

“This is so stupid,” she muttered to herself, flicking ash onto the pavement. “It’s not even a date. Just work, a big one.”

Except it wasn’t just work. And it did feel like a date. Because you’d said yes. Because you were getting dressed up—for her. And that meant something.

She finished the cigarette, stomping the butt on the ashtray by her bedside. Then she glanced at the time.

5:30 PM.

“Shit.” she grabbed her camera bag, along with the case that contained her tripod and stepped out the door.

You smoothed your palms over your dress for the fifth time.

Sally was standing behind you in the mirror, carefully removing the last roller from your hair like she was defusing a bomb. “Okay,” she said, voice hushed with reverence. “Turn around.”

You did. Slowly.

And when she beamed—hands clutched dramatically to her chest—you knew she wasn’t faking it.

“Oh my god. Babe. You look hot. Like... ruin-a-man’s-life hot.”

You laughed, nervously adjusting the straps. “It’s not too much?”

“It’s perfect,” she said, tugging your hands away from your waist. “Stop fidgeting. Ellie’s jaw is gonna hit the floor.”

You tried to play it off with a shrug, but your heart was pounding. You’d never gone all out like this—not for a date, not for anyone. But tonight? You didn’t want to just look nice. You wanted to look like someone Ellie couldn't look away from.

Back in your room, you added the final touches. Lipstick. Perfume. Earrings that caught the light. You stood in front of the mirror, hands on your hips, trying to steady your breathing.

“You’ve got this,” you whispered to your reflection. “It’s not a date. It’s just... a gala. With Ellie. Who is your best friend. It’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine. You were spiraling.

What if you were overdressed—or worse, underdressed? What if she looked at you and saw right through you? Saw all the messy, fluttery feelings you kept trying to shove into the background?

The knock on the door snapped you out of it.

Sally opened the door, greeting Ellie politely, like she had done before.

“She’s just adding the final touches—” Sally said as she let Ellie in the apartment “she’ll be out in a second, have fun at the gala” and with that she disappeared into her room. Ellie sat on the couch, hands clammy, hair tied in a half up, half down bun. Suddenly she heard your voice down the hall.

“Sorry, I was battling with these earrings but I’m all done—” Your gaze hadn’t met hers yet, but when it did, the world narrowed to one thing: her.

Ellie stood there, hands stuffed into her pockets, blazer sharp, button-up crisp. But that wasn’t what stopped you cold.

It was the look on her face.

Like she’d just forgotten how to speak.

Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “…Wow.”

You laughed under your breath. “Good wow or bad wow?”

She blinked hard, eyes dragging down the length of you and back up like she was trying to memorize every detail. “Good wow,” she said, finally. “Like… insanely good. Holy shit.”

You bit your lip to hide your smile.

She scratched the back of her neck, looking helpless. “You, uh… you clean up nice.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” you teased. “Very professional.”

“Good,” she muttered. “’Cause I’m gonna be winging the hell out of this.”

You both laughed, the tension breaking slightly—but the air between you still buzzed with something you refused to address.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then Ellie glanced sideways at you, her voice softer. “Seriously… you look incredible.”

And you—despite your best efforts—blushed. “Thanks, El.” you said, eyes falling into the poorly tied tie around her neck. It made you giggle.

“Ellie,” you breathed out a laugh, stepping closer. “What the hell is this?”

“I know, I know,” she groaned, hands raised in surrender. “I watched three YouTube videos and still managed to screw it up. It’s cursed.”

“Come here,” you said, tugging gently at the fabric.

She swallowed hard as you stood close—close enough to smell your perfume, to see the tiny shimmer of highlighter on your cheekbones.

Your fingers worked quickly, but your eyes kept flicking up to hers. “You really didn’t have anyone growing up to teach you how to do this?”

“Joel wears bolo ties,” she muttered. “The man’s useless in the formalwear department.”

You giggled and kept tying.

Ellie couldn’t focus on anything. Not your hands, not your lips, not how soft your voice got when you whispered, “There we go. All fixed.”

She looked down at you. You looked up at her.

And for a second, everything stilled. The hallway faded. The air crackled with electricity.

Neither of you moved.

Then you gave her tie one last tug, playful but firm. “Okay, now you look like you know what you’re doing.”

She cleared her throat, stepping back. “Cool. Cool, yeah. You, uh. Ready to go?”

You nodded, clutching your purse, heart pounding in your chest.

Sally popped her head out from her bedroom. “Don’t you two look fancy. Have fun and don’t let the rich people steal your souls.”

“Noted,” Ellie said with a salute. You waved goodbye and stepped out into the doorway beside her.

Your fingers brushed as you walked side by side. Neither of you pulled away.

The drive started quiet. Ellie’s truck hummed steadily down the road, golden hour casting everything in that honey glow. You sat with your hands folded in your lap, legs crossed at the ankles, feeling the nervous heat spread through your skin like your body couldn’t decide if it was freezing or burning up. Maybe both.

Soft music played from the speakers—something chill and vaguely indie, the kind of playlist Ellie always had on in the background but never skipped a single song from.

You fidgeted nervously with the zipper of your purse, pulling it up and down, up and down, the faint zip sound filling the silence in between the songs. Meanwhile, Ellie’s fingers tapped restlessly against the steering wheel, pinky twitching, ring finger drumming.

You caught her stealing a glance.

Quick. Like she hadn’t meant to.

But she did. And you did too.

You turned your head slightly, eyes meeting hers for half a second before she snapped them back to the road. The corner of her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.

Then Ellie cleared her throat. “So uh… the venue’s downtown, just off Main. It’s at this weird, bougie museum-turned-ballroom thing. Pretentious, honestly.”

You laughed gently. “Sounds perfect for you.”

“Oh, 100%,” she nodded, finally letting out a real smile. “Nothing says Ellie Williams like white wine and too many people pretending they’ve read The New Yorker.”

You grinned, relaxing into your seat a little more.

The car turned onto a wider avenue. The sun had started to dip behind the skyline now, streaking the sky in lavender and rose. You could still feel her sneaking glances—watching you when she thought you weren’t paying attention. Your hands. Your legs. The way your lips moved when you smiled at something on the radio.

Her knee bounced.

Your heart did too.

You turned slightly, voice softer now. “You okay?”

Ellie nodded quickly, eyes on the road. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Just…” She exhaled through her nose, then gave you a sideways glance. “A little nervous.”

You smiled shyly, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “You’re going to do amazing Ellie, there’s no need to worry.”

The tension softened—but it didn’t go away. It just shifted. Only if you knew that the thing making her nervous was you in that dress…

The closer you got to the venue, the more your stomach fluttered. Ellie turned onto a side street, passing a long line of fancy cars parked in front of the tall glass-and-marble building up ahead.

People in gowns and suits walked across the entrance plaza under strings of lights, the early evening glow making everything look like a scene out of a movie.

Ellie pulled into a parking spot a few blocks away, engine cutting out. Neither of you moved for a second.

She looked over at you again, this time slower. A little longer. “Ready?”

You nodded, voice quiet. “Yeah.”

You both stepped out of the truck, feet clicking softly on the pavement.

Ellie walked a half-step ahead of you as you made your way toward the venue, but she kept glancing over her shoulder to make sure you were close behind. Your dress swayed with every step, catching the soft breeze, and Ellie—despite the nervous buzzing in her chest—managed to hold the door open for you like it was second nature.

The moment you stepped inside, your breath hitched.

“Holy fuck,” you murmured.

The lobby alone looked like something out of a dream—gleaming marble floors, tall arching ceilings wrapped in soft, golden light, modern art installations scattered between sculpted pillars. A string quartet played somewhere deeper inside, the music echoing through the open space like silk in the air.

Ellie let out a low whistle next to you. “Jesus. This place is… yeah.”

You both stood there for a second, completely still, like tourists in a museum too fancy to touch anything. And for a moment, it didn’t matter that Ellie was here to work, or that this was technically a fundraiser gala. It just felt like the two of you had stumbled into someone else’s glamorous night.

She turned to you, lips parted to say something, but stopped herself. Her eyes flicked down your figure and back up again—slow, deliberate, a little dazed.

You blinked at her. “What?”

She shook her head, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Nothing. Just—hope you’re ready to be the hottest person in the room.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed. “Please. I’ve never seen anyone look better in a suit.”

Ellie laughed, tugging at said blazer like she’d just remembered she was wearing it. “Alright, alright. Let’s find the event coordinator so I can check in. Then we’ll scope out the best free food.”

You gave her a mock salute. “On it, boss.”

Ellie led the way deeper into the venue, camera bag slung confidently across her shoulder now, while her other hand gripped the tripod case firmly, shoulders squared like she was finally slipping into her zone. But every few steps, her hand would twitch like she wanted to reach for you. Every time someone walked by and glanced at you both, she’d glance back—just a second too long. Protective.

You couldn’t stop glancing either.

She looked like someone out of a magazine—tie straight now, eyes focused, jaw clenched just enough to make your heart jump. The same Ellie you knew, but sharper, more composed, like she didn’t realize the effect she had on you.

The ballroom was even more breathtaking up close. Tall arched windows framed the setting sun, casting soft golden light across linen-covered tables topped with elaborate floral arrangements and flickering candles. Staff moved like clockwork, setting wine glasses, placing silverware, adjusting napkins folded like origami swans. It reminded you somehow of the diner, but way less fancy.

Ellie scanned the room quickly, eyes sharp behind her lashes. “There she is.”

You followed her gaze to a woman in a sleek pantsuit, clipboard in hand, giving instructions to a cluster of servers. Ellie straightened her posture and motioned for you to follow before approaching with practiced ease.

“Hi, Eva is that right?” Ellie said, offering a small but confident smile. “Ellie Williams, photographer.”

Eva turned to her with a brisk nod and a once-over glance at her equipment bag. “Perfect. Glad you’re here on time. We’re expecting guests to start arriving within the hour. You’re cleared to shoot during the cocktail hour, dinner, and key speeches. Avoid flash during performances or when people are eating.”

“Got it,” Ellie said, already mentally running through the list. “Any VIPs I should keep an eye out for?”

“The keynote speaker—Dr. Rosalind Carter. She’ll arrive closer to seven. And the foundation’s director, Mr. Bennett, and of course Dr. Anderson, he will want a group photo with the board around dessert. I’ll flag you when it’s time.”

“Cool. Mind if I set up now?”

Eva nodded and gestured toward the far end of the room, near the stage. “There’s a designated corner for your gear and charging station. If you need anything, I’ll be by the entrance.”

With that, she disappeared into the controlled chaos.

Ellie exhaled through her nose. “Alright. Showtime.”

You trailed behind as she headed to the gear table, helping her unpack her bag and started working in focused silence. Out came two camera bodies—one with a wider lens, one with a longer zoom—followed by her trusty light meter, extra batteries, a pouch of memory cards, and a tripod she tucked discreetly behind a curtain near the back.

You watched her slip seamlessly into her element, eyes sharp, fingers steady. She checked her white balance, adjusted her strap, wiped a smudge from her lens, and held one camera up to her eye, framing a test shot of you.

“Hey!” you muttered under your breath.

She glanced over, smirking slightly. “What?”

“Focus on the real celebrities here”

Ellie blinked at you, she knew what she was doing. A little pink crept up her neck, but she tried to play it cool, swapping cameras like it was no big deal. “Yeah, well. I needed to test the lens.”

You laughed and leaned against the nearest table, still watching her move—focused, grounded, magnetic.

The ballroom started to fill slowly as the first guests arrived—well-dressed couples stepping through the main doors, the soft hum of classical music weaving through their chatter. Ellie slipped her camera over her shoulder and gave you a quick look.

“I’ll be around. Try not to fall in love with any rich assholes while I’m gone, alright?”

“How could I?” You rolled your eyes, but she was smiling as she turned and walked into the crowd, lens raised, already disappearing behind a group of socialites in tailored suits.

You wandered toward the refreshment table, a glass of something bubbly in hand—not quite champagne, not quite soda—trying not to look out of place as the room filled with soft laughter and swishing fabric. The guests were glamorous in that effortless kind of way. It was clear who belonged here… and who felt like they were just tagging along.

Still, you held your head high and smiled politely at anyone who made eye contact. Fake it till you make it, right?

“First gala? Never seen you before” a voice said beside you—smooth, warm, a little amused.

You turned, nearly spilling your drink when you caught sight of the broad-shouldered woman in a tailored black tux with her blonde hair pulled back in a braid. She looked like she’d stepped straight out of a magazine ad for expensive cologne and probably lifted weights for fun.

“Uh—yeah, kind of obvious, huh?”

She smiled, teeth sharp. “Nah, you’re pulling it off. Most people don’t know how to stand near the wine table without looking like they want to run away.”

You laughed, grateful for the ease in her tone. “I’m doing my best. You a regular at these things?”

“More than I’d like,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. “My dad hosts these every year. Fundraising, networking, all that jazz.”

Wait.

“Wait—your dad is…?”

“Dr. Anderson,” she said with a small, self-aware bow. “Abby.”

You blinked. “Oh. Wow. Nice to meet you, Abby.”

She smirked. “You too. And you are…?”

Before you could answer, a voice cut in—tight and familiar.

“Dude this place is huge—”

You turned slightly to find Ellie standing a few feet away, camera strap across her chest, expression carefully neutral but her eyes—her eyes were screaming "What the fuck?"

Abby raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying herself. “You’re with the photographer?”

“Yeah I invited her” Ellie said quickly, too quickly. “I’m her… friend.”

She was absolutely spiraling.

Abby chuckled. “Right. Got it. Guess I’ll behave, then.”

She turned to Ellie, a little too pleased. “Anyway, I think you’re supposed to get a shot of me and my dad before he heads to the stage.”

Ellie cleared her throat, clearly trying to refocus. “Yeah. Right.”

You watched as Abby waved over Dr. Anderson, who approached with the kind of air only people who owned entire institutions carried. He smiled warmly at Ellie.

“Ms. Williams, pleasure to have you here tonight. Eva tells me you come highly recommended.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ellie said, lifting her camera. “Just over here by the floral arrangement, if that’s okay?”

Dr. Anderson nodded, and Ellie snapped a few quick photos—Abby standing beside her father, one hand in her pocket, posture relaxed. When they were done, he gave Ellie a respectful nod and turned toward the stage.

The lights dimmed slightly as the event coordinator stepped up to the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, please find your seats. We’re about to begin.”

You and Ellie locked eyes briefly as everyone started moving toward the rows of tables. She walked backward, camera raised, already snapping shots of the crowd settling in, the soft lighting glowing over their shoulders.

Dr. Anderson took the stage, greeted by polite applause. Ellie raised her camera again, eyes in the viewfinder, already focused.

“Thank you all for joining us tonight,” he began. “This fundraiser is not only about financial support—but about vision. About believing in the stories we still have to tell…”

You found your seat near the edge of the room, heart still racing a little—half from Abby’s easy charm, half from the look on Ellie’s face when she saw it.

Ellie stayed standing, moving like a shadow along the edge of the room, capturing the moment in quiet bursts of the shutter. But every now and then, her eyes flicked back to you.

And your eyes flicked right back. Magnetic.

Dr. Anderson’s voice flowed through the speakers—confident, practiced, charismatic. He spoke about stories that shaped communities, about the importance of funding creative programs, about the photographers, writers, and artists who hadn’t yet been discovered.

You sat quietly, watching him, trying to absorb the atmosphere—the clinking of glassware, the hushed murmurs of the crowd, the way the light reflected off the hanging chandeliers like golden dust in the air.

Ellie had moved closer to the stage now, snapping photos from different angles—Dr. Anderson behind the podium, the crowd’s reactions, the attentive expressions, the elegant chaos of the evening frozen in delicate frames. She moved like she belonged there. Like she was in control of the moment.

But even through the lens, her focus kept drifting.

She found you in the crowd, the soft slope of your shoulders relaxed, your eyes fixed on the stage with that thoughtful look she’d seen a hundred times before—at the diner, across a booth, behind a coffee mug.

She adjusted the lens.

Click.

You turned slightly, just enough for the soft lighting to kiss the side of your face.

Click.

You didn’t even notice her. You were too focused. Too beautiful.

Her heart beat faster.

She shouldn’t. She really shouldn’t. But—

Click.

One more. Just for her eyes to see.

After the speech, soft music filled the room again and waiters began to circulate with trays of fancy entrees and drinks. Dr. Anderson stepped down from the stage to applause, mingling quickly with key donors and guests. The fundraiser had officially shifted into cocktail hour.

You stood from your seat, smoothing your dress and heading toward the refreshment table again—half for something to sip on, half to keep your hands busy. You felt lost without Ellie, but she suddenly reappeared beside you, camera now resting against her chest.

“Hey.”

You turned toward her, smiling. “Hey. You killed it up there.”

“I just pointed and clicked,” she said, brushing a hand through her hair.

You gave her a look. “You also climbed on a chair at one point.”

Ellie shrugged, smirking. “Gotta get the shot.”

A pause settled between you both. Soft, warm. Your shoulders nearly touched. The hum of music and voices blurred into the background.

“You looked like you belonged up there,” you said quietly.

Ellie’s eyes searched yours for a beat. “You’re bluffing.”

You blinked. “You know I would never”

She shifted her weight awkwardly. “Are you enjoying it? Or you’re too bored without me?”

It came out in that teasing tone of hers.

“Well I was having fun with Mrs. muscles until someone cockblocked me” you gave her a slight shrug.

“Oh yeah right, this is your way of getting at me for Cat”

You smiled “Why you jealous?”

“Why would I? I’m prettier” she scoffed, but the red on her cheeks was giving her up.

A waiter passed and you grabbed a small plate of hors d'oeuvres, offering it to her. Ellie shook her head—probably too nervous to eat—but she lingered close.

Your eyes flicked toward her camera. “Did you get good shots?”

“Yeah,” she said, clearing her throat. “Some good crowd reactions. Got Abby and her dad. Anderson’s speech.”

You tilted your head. “Can I see?”

Ellie stared at her drink. Remembering the candids she had taken of you. Fuck. “It’s boring really”

You gave her a look. “Ellie come on.”

“Fine…” You practically snatched the camera off her hands, flicking through the pictures until you came across some photos that definitely weren’t Dr. Anderson. Your stomach fluttered at the sight.

You blinked. “These are boring too?”

She rubbed the back of her neck. Slapping herself mentally. “The lighting was good. I just… I wanted to remember it. That’s stupid. Forget I said that.”

Your chest ached, but in the good way. The fuck, say it again way.

You touched her arm lightly. “I love them Ellie.”

She looked up. Your eyes met again, that same magnetic, breathless tension pulsing between you like a second heartbeat.

And then someone called Ellie’s name—one of the event staff—and the spell broke.

She cleared her throat, stepping back. “I, uh—I’ll be right back. Save me some fries.”

You nodded, watching her disappear into the crowd. Her camera bouncing gently against her hip, her tie still just slightly crooked from earlier.

You touched your lips without realizing it. Had she taken those voluntarily? She thought you looked good. And of course the Abby thing made her jealous. She was a bad liar. But then again, it was funny seeing her get all red and jealous of that. After all, it is kind of a payback for Cat.

The fundraiser buzzed with renewed energy now that the formalities were done. Music had shifted to a softer jazz track, blending with the ambient clinks of glasses and low conversations. You wandered through the crowd with a fresh drink in hand, soaking it all in—the clothes, the artwork on display, the glittering city skyline beyond the ballroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows.

That’s when you spotted Abby again.

She leaned casually against a pillar near the hors d'oeuvre table, nursing a glass of something that looked expensive. Her suit jacket was off now, sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing toned forearms that didn’t seem fair on someone also so confident.

She caught your eye and smiled. “Hey, it’s the mystery date.”

You laughed, half-glancing behind you. “You know my name.”

Abby grinned. “Yeah, but this way I get to keep asking.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Is that your go-to line?”

“Only when it works.”

She was charming. There was no denying that. And there was a spark of playfulness in her tone that made it hard not to lean into it just a little. So you did—trading jokes and playful banter while your drink slowly disappeared.

Across the room, Ellie watched with her jaw clenched so tight it could’ve cracked her molars.

She was adjusting her camera settings, trying to get better lighting near one of the centerpieces, but her gaze kept sliding over to you and Abby—laughing, leaning in a little closer, your lips parting around something you said that made Abby smile like that.

Ellie didn’t hear what you said.

Didn’t matter.

She looked away. Back to the camera. Check the aperture, adjust the white balance, focus, click. Her finger tapped against the shutter button harder than necessary.

She wasn’t jealous. Of course not. Why would she be?

You weren’t hers.

She didn’t have a claim. Couldn’t even bring herself to say half the things she wanted to. God she couldn’t even acknowledge all these feelings she’s been pushing down. Could barely meet your eyes when you fixed her tie earlier without burning alive on the spot. So what right did she have?

Still, when she glanced back and saw Abby tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with a teasing smile—Ellie nearly dropped the camera.

“Fuck” she muttered under her breath, turning sharply away.

Her expression tightened, mouth set in a hard line as she walked toward the other side of the room to "get some crowd shots," even though the lighting was worse over here and she’d already covered it twice.

She needed to do something.

Anything but stand there and watch you smile like that for someone who wasn’t her.

The conversation with Abby flowed easily. She was charming and smooth with her words, making you laugh a few times. But still, your eyes kept drifting to the crowd, scanning for a familiar auburn head of hair.

Eventually, you made your way back from the refreshment table, balancing a small plate of appetizers in one hand and french fries in the other. Your eyes moved carefully across the room until you spotted Ellie off to the side, fiddling with her camera strap. Her jaw was tight, shoulders stiff—like she was holding herself together by threads..

You approached her with a soft smile. “Hey, thought you might be hungry. I grabbed you something.”

She glanced at you—barely—and then looked back down at her camera. “Thanks,” she muttered bitterness in her tone, but didn’t take the plate.

Your smile faltered. “I—I mean, it’s fine if you’re not. I just figured…”

Ellie let out a breath through her nose. Not quite a sigh, but close enough.

“I’ve gotta go take some shots of Mr. Anderson with a few of the donors,” she said quickly. “He just gave me a list.”

“Oh. Right.” Your throat tightened.

She still wouldn’t look at you. And you had no idea why. You hadn’t done anything wrong. But Ellie’s head was a mess tonight, jealousy clawing at her chest, and she couldn’t trust herself to say anything without it spilling out sideways.

You tried to keep it casual. “Okay. No worries. I’ll just… wait here for you.”

Ellie finally looked up, just for a second. Her eyes softened like she wanted to say something. Needed to—but swallowed it instead. “I’ll be right back,” she said quietly.

She felt like the worst person in the world. That look on your face—she’d put it there. And it made her heart ache. But she needed space. Just for a minute. Not from you, but from her feelings.

You nodded, stepping back, the plate still in your hands. “Yeah. Of course.”

And then she was gone—already walking across the ballroom, camera raised, posture sharp like she had something to prove.

You stood still, the noise of the crowd growing distant. The laughter, the clink of glasses, the low hum of chatter—it all blurred. Like you were underwater. You didn’t know why her sudden coldness cut so deep. Or what had even triggered it.

Maybe she was just stressed. Maybe she couldn’t get the right shot?. Maybe you were overthinking it.

Still, the ache didn’t go away.

You sat back down in silence, surrounded by strangers, the plate of fries growing cold in front of you. The one person who brought you here felt miles away.

Thirty minutes passed, and no sign of Ellie. Your stomach twisted with irritation, your appetite long gone. You set the plate aside and rose to your feet, deciding to take a walk around the exhibits. Maybe clear your head. Maybe have a smoke.

You checked Ellie’s camera bag—she’d left it on her seat—and found the Altoids tin tucked inside like you knew it would be. You slipped it into your purse and started wandering through the venue’s wide halls, taking your time with each display, forcing yourself to admire the artwork even as your thoughts drifted.

Eventually, you found a side exit and stepped out into the cold evening air. Marble stairs led down into a quiet courtyard. You sat on the top step, reaching for the tin, taking a cigarette between your lips.

“Fuck,” you muttered. No lighter.

Of course. Ellie had it. She’d used it earlier before leaving her apartment. She always kept it in her pocket.

You sat there defeated, arms wrapped around yourself, cigarette untouched. The cold settled in, seeping into your bare shoulders.

A few long quiet minutes passed.

Then, without a word, something warm draped over your back. You turned quickly.

It was Ellie—her blazer resting across your shoulders. She didn’t say anything at first, just pulled the lighter from her pocket and flicked it on, igniting the cigarette still tucked between your lips.

Your eyes met hers.

Both static.

The flame hovered for a second longer than necessary, and then she let it go out, the soft click of the lighter closing cutting through the silence like a spark.

There was this look in her eye, a spark of regret glistening in her gaze, Ellie sat down beside you without a word, elbows on her knees, hands clasped loosely between them. The silence lingered for a few moments, just the soft sound of you exhaling smoke and the distant thump of music echoing from inside the building.

“I thought you had ditched me for a second” she said finally, her voice low.

You glanced at her, brows lifting slightly.

“I was a dick,” she continued. “And I’m… I’m sorry.” Almost like she hated saying it out loud.

You didn’t answer at first, just took another drag from your cigarette, letting the smoke sit in your lungs a second longer before exhaling. “Yeah,” you said softly. “You kinda were.”

Ellie winced a little but nodded. She deserved that.

“I don’t know why I acted like that,” Ellie said, thumb running over a scratch on her knuckle. But deep down, she knew exactly why. “Actually—I do. I just don’t wanna say it because it sounds pathetic.”

You looked at her again, eyes softening just a little. “Try me.”

Ellie let out a bitter huff of a laugh. “I just—it’s stupid but, seeing you with Abby, laughing and flirting with her… It made me feel so—I don't know—replaceable? Like maybe you don’t need me at all. And it sucks because I think I might always need you.” Her voice caught at the end, a knot forming in her throat.

You blinked, caught somewhere between shock and the tiniest flicker of hope.

“It’s stupid because you can talk to whoever the hell you want. I just—” she paused, jaw tightening. “I hated how much I hated it.”

You were quiet again, the smoke curling lazily from the end of your cigarette.

“Ellie,” you said softly.

Her eyes met yours. Both of you were facing the other now, close enough that your knees almost brushed. The space between you felt like it was narrowing by the second.

“I could never in a million years replace you. There’s no one quite like you. Abby didn’t mean anything at all. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. You know that, right?”

But oh, how you wished it could be more than just that.

“Yeah, I know,” Ellie murmured, but her chest ached. Was that all she’d ever be to you?

“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “I didn’t want to ruin your night.”

You gave her a soft smile. “You didn’t ruin anything, Els. The night’s not over yet, you know?”

Ellie snorted gently. “Yeah. I’m still supposed to be working though.”

You both sat there in a silence that felt lighter now, as if something had finally been unclenched between you.

Ellie glanced over, her voice quieter now, sincere. “You look beautiful tonight,” she said. “Meant to say that earlier. Didn’t.”

You looked at her. Really looked at her. Hair a little messy, shirt slightly wrinkled, the tie now hanging loosely around her neck like she’d forgotten it was there. And those eyes—open, unsure, and a little scared.

You nudged her shoulder. “You look pretty good too. Even when you’re being a jealous asshole.”

Ellie smiled—real and warm.

“Still mad at me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Your faces were so close now, just inches apart.

You took one last drag from your cigarette, and without thinking, Ellie reached out and gently plucked it from your lips, slipping it between hers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Maybe,” you said, your breath fanning her cheek.

“How much?” she asked, her eyes flickering from your mouth to your eyes again—lingering this time.

Your heart was pounding. Her fingers were still brushing yours from the cigarette exchange. You could feel her breath now, warm and shallow, and your lips were so, so close.

Ellie leaned in—just a few centimeters more and—

“Miss Williams!”

The voice shattered the moment like glass.

You both startled slightly, turning toward the source. It was the event coordinator, heels clicking against the marble as she approached in a hurry, clipboard in hand.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I need you immediately. Dr. Anderson’s about to do the donor photo and you’re the only photographer he’ll work with.”

Ellie blinked, her jaw clenched like she wanted to scream. “Right. Yeah. Coming.”

The woman was already walking off, clearly expecting her to follow.

Ellie looked back at you, guilt flashing behind her eyes. “I—shit. I’ll be right back.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Go.”

She hesitated for a second longer, then stood up, fixing her tie absently as she followed the coordinator inside.

You sat there alone on the steps, your skin still buzzing from the almost.

And all you could think about was how close she’d been. How close you had leaned in. And how— it had almost happened.

You stayed outside for a minute longer, letting the night air calm the fire still burning under your skin. The almost-kiss sat heavy on your lips, like a phantom touch. You couldn’t stop thinking about it—how close she’d been, the way her breath had hitched, how she’d looked at you like you were something sacred.

Eventually, you rose from the marble steps, brushing off the back of your dress and adjusting Ellie’s blazer on your shoulders, as you made your way back through the halls, heart still thudding.

The ballroom was less crowded now, the lighting slightly dimmed to a golden hue. The gentle hum of music played under the laughter and clinking glasses. You kept your head high as you re-entered, trying to blend back in like nothing had happened. Like you weren’t seconds away from kissing your best friend out on the stairs.

You spotted Ellie immediately. Of course you did. She was near the podium now, snapping shots of Dr. Anderson with his donors. Her camera was up, but her eyes kept shifting. Scanning. Searching.

For you.

She found you in an instant, her breath catching when your eyes met. And for a moment, everything stilled.

You gave her the softest smile, the one you knew only she got to see. She blinked, like you’d just knocked the air out of her lungs. Then her camera moved again—too quickly. She almost fumbled it, forced herself to look away and pretend like she wasn’t absolutely spiraling.

Ellie tried to focus on the shot—adjusting the aperture, lining up the angle—but every frame looked wrong. The lighting was too harsh, the smiles too forced. Her mind was still outside on the steps, with you. The curve of your mouth. The softness in your voice when you said “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

Friend.

She cursed under her breath and took another picture, jaw clenched.

Neither of you could pretend it didn’t happen. And neither of you could figure out what the hell came next.

Her hands were steady. At least, that’s what she was trying to do.

Focus. Aperture. Composition. Lighting.

She adjusted the zoom with mechanical precision, the lens shifting slightly as she snapped another picture of Dr. Anderson with one of the donors. The camera’s shutter clicked, a sound she usually found soothing, grounding. But right now, it just felt like static.

Because all she could fucking think about was you.

You, sitting on the stairs in that dress that made her heart stop. You, leaning into her like maybe—maybe—you were about to kiss her. And then the goddamn coordinator’s voice cutting through the moment like a knife.

She hated how fast she stood up, like she’d been caught. Hated that you pulled away so quickly, face flushing as if maybe you regretted it.

She didn’t even get to say anything. Didn’t get to ask if you’d mean to.

Now, you were somewhere in the crowd—probably trying to act normal—and she was up here trying to be a professional while her chest was in knots and her brain was looping the moment on repeat like a broken record.

Ellie lifted her camera again. The lens focused on Dr. Anderson shaking hands with a man in a green suit. Her fingers pressed the shutter. One click. Two.

She barely registered the images. Her throat was dry, and she realized she hadn’t spoken in a while.

“Can we get one more, just by the stage?” the coordinator asked.

“Yeah. Sure.” Her voice cracked slightly. She cleared her throat.

She repositioned herself, stepping back and lifting the camera again. But her eyes flicked sideways, automatically. Searching for you. Needing to know where you were.

And there you were—leaning quietly against the far wall, Ellie’s blazer still draped over your shoulders, looking so painfully soft it made her knees weak.

You gave her a small smile when your eyes met, and it wrecked her. Gentle. Reassuring. A little sad, maybe.

She should’ve said something out there. Should’ve kissed you.

But now she was here. She forced herself to look away again. Let the camera be her shield.

Because if she didn’t, she was going to walk across that ballroom, wrap her arms around you, and kiss you in front of every single donor in the room.

And she wasn’t sure she’d survive what would come after.

She was on her way back to you—eyes already scanning the crowd for the familiar shape of your shoulders, the soft curve of your profile. The blazer still hung loosely around you and Ellie swore she’d never wanted to be a fucking jacket more in her life.

She’d barely taken two steps when someone called her name.

“Miss Williams?”

She turned, a tight smile forming automatically. A tall man in a tailored suit—gray streaks at his temples, glass of champagne in one hand, walked toward her. He looked vaguely familiar. Probably one of the board members Dr. Anderson had introduced her to earlier.

“Yes?” she said, polite.

“I just wanted to say—your work is phenomenal,” he said, “The way you capture people—it’s got heart. That’s rare.”

Ellie nodded, eyes flicking again toward you. You were sitting at a table near the far end, fiddling with a fork, head tilted slightly like you were deep in thought. You looked tired. Beautiful. Miles away.

She forced herself to smile at the guy. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

He kept talking. Asked about her process. About gear. Lighting. “Do you do exhibits? Ever consider a book?”

All she could think about was the way your lips had parted earlier. The way your eyes dropped to hers. The way her heartbeat had been deafening in her ears.

She gave him a few more distracted answers, promised to email a portfolio link, and then finally, finally, the man was called away by Dr. Anderson himself.

Ellie made her way back across the room in a daze, her footsteps slower now. Nervous. Her fingers still tingled from where they’d grazed your hand earlier.

You didn’t say anything when she sat down beside you, but you did nudge a plate toward her. Fries, a little cold now. Chicken skewers. A tiny cupcake. A napkin folded under the fork with her name scribbled on the corner. Her chest ached.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, eyes down.

You just nodded.

Ellie started eating—not because she was hungry, but because her mouth needed something to do other than say something stupid. Like: Were we about to kiss? Or: Did you want me to?

The silence between you wasn’t awkward, just… careful. Like neither of you wanted to say it first. Neither wanted to break the spell if it turned out it had all been in your heads.

So you both sat there, shoulders brushing, not talking about it at all.

The music dimmed. The lights shifted.

People began leaving in pairs or clusters. Thank-you speeches echoed distantly. Ellie chewed on the edge of a fry, eyes still on you.

And still, not a single word about what almost happened. Because it’s easier to pretend it didn’t. Even when both of you are sure it did.

The gala wound down slowly, the last of the champagne glasses emptied and the string quartet packing their instruments in velvet-lined cases. People exchanged cards and polite goodbyes.

You helped Ellie gather her gear, carefully placing her backup lenses in padded compartments, holding her camera bag open while she zipped everything up with methodical precision. Her fingers moved quickly, like muscle memory, but her eyes kept darting to you. Like maybe you’d disappear if she looked away for too long.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, slinging her camera strap over one shoulder. “Gonna give these to Dr. Anderson and the coordinator.”

You nodded. “I’ll wait by the truck.”

She watched you go, the hem of your dress swishing softly with each step. A part of her wanted to call after you. To say something real. Something brave.

Instead, she turned and approached the crowd of remaining staff, handed out the cards, exchanged quick thank-yous and nods. Dr. Anderson complimented her again, and asked her about future projects. She smiled, but her mind was already in the parking lot.

By the time she got back to her truck, you were leaning against the passenger door, arms folded gently across your chest, face lit by the soft amber of the lot lights.

“All done?” you asked.

“Yeah.” she said unlocking the door.

The ride was quiet at first, the city bleeding past in blurred streaks of gold and blue. Then Ellie started talking, voice low and a little raspy from the long night.

“Some of the donors came up to me,” she said. “Said nice shit about my work. One of them asked if I ever thought about putting together a gallery, which is… ridiculous, but whatever.”

Your head dipped against the seat, lids heavier with each word.

“It would be amazing honestly,” you said softly. “All your best pieces of work gathered together, I think you could do it”

Ellie glanced over. “Someday maybe”

You were dozing. Lips slightly parted. Hands curled in your lap.

She smiled, soft and aching.

“I don’t really care what they say, though,” she whispered. “Not really. Not if you’re not the one saying it.”

You stirred faintly, but didn’t wake.

The rest of the drive was filled with low music and even lower thoughts.

When she finally pulled up to your place, she cut the engine, letting the silence settle between you before reaching over gently.

“Hey,” she murmured, brushing your arm.

You blinked awake, groggy. “We’re here?”

“Yeah.”

You yawned, stretching, eyes half-lidded as you turned to her. “Thanks, Els. For taking me. I really enjoyed tonight….”

Ellie chuckled quietly. “Yeah. Me too.”

She walked you to your door, hands in her pockets.

You turned to her, suddenly unsure if you should say something else. But instead, you just leaned in—arms wrapping around her shoulders, her face pressed briefly into your neck.

The hug lasted a second too long.

Neither of you moved to let go right away.

And when you finally did, Ellie gave you a small smile.

You took off the blazer from where it previously laid. Warm on your shoulders, handing it back to Ellie, fingers brushing at the exchange.

“Goodnight Ellie” you said, going up to your doorstep.

“Goodnight” she whispered, backing down.

You watched her go, heart thudding loud against your ribs.

And then she was gone—taillights glowing dimly as her truck rolled out into the quiet street, taking your almost-kiss and every unsaid word with it.

You stepped into the apartment, the door clicking softly shut behind you. With a sigh, you kicked off your heels, letting them fall where they may, and pulled your phone from your purse, fingers trembling.

The weight in your chest had been building all night—tightening with every glance, every unsaid word, every almost. You couldn’t hold it anymore.

You found Dina’s contact and hit “Call,” bringing the phone to your ear as it rang once… twice…

“Hello—”

“I think I’m in love with Ellie.”

You said it before she could even finish her greeting, the words pouring out in a single breath, rushed and delicate—but honest. So honest. And the second they left your lips, something unknotted inside your chest. A confession, quiet but earth-shaking.

Simultaneously, Ellie sat in her truck, hands gripping the steering wheel long after the engine had gone quiet. The hum of the night outside her window did little to quiet the storm inside her chest.

She stared out through the windshield, heart thudding like a drum in her throat. Her tie was still loose around her neck, the scent of your perfume lingering faintly on her blazer. That almost-kiss haunted every corner of her mind.

She pulled out her phone, thumb hesitating for a second before tapping Jesse’s name. It rang twice before his voice came through, hoarse and confused.

“Dude, it’s midnight. What the fuck—”

“I think I’m in love with her.”

The words came out low, like if she said them too loud, they’d become too real.

There was a pause on the other end. “With… her her?”

Ellie slumped back in her seat, covering her eyes with her hand. “Yeah. Her her.”

It was real. It was undeniable. She was in love with her best friend, like some fucking cliche—and the weight of it settled over her chest like a secret too big to hold. It pulsed through her veins, raw and terrifying, because loving you wasn’t something she could undo, and the thought of it never being returned made her feel like she might break open right there in the quiet of her truck. It was everything, and it was too much. And still, she wouldn’t take it back.

.

taglist <3

@liasxeatt @80saturn @eleanorsghost @youusunshineyoutemptress @jazzyxox @lesoulew @fangirlinc @hitmehardmommy @liztreez @chwekriz00 @vahnilla @elliespotion @haithone @stwolfhardimaginez @thxtmarvelchick @purinukie @lavenderseedling @elliesfavwife @mikellie @iadorefineshyt @thebadwritersposts @gayandsuffering26 @flynnph0bias @adoreasellie

lmk if anyone else wants to be added !

[inuiiwonderland]

Empire

Being crowned as empress of the Yuunkaedangon empire at the age of 17, you begin to start loving the new status and power. But it soon gets a bit boring and demanding the moment you turned 18. Harem? Heirs? Tf not!

Chapter 2

Words:1.0k

Fem reader but I don’t really say any she or her in this.

-

Being an empress has started to get a little boring now if you’re being honest. You frown at the stack of books and papers you had sitting on your desk. You turned to your attendant with a pout. He only shakes his head with a soft sigh.

“It’s the only way you can keep the higher ups from demanding an heir at the moment” He says calmly. You sigh as you pick up your writing equipment.

Bill passing….

BORING!

“I’m too young to have a child” You muttered. A little annoyed.

“Having kids isn’t all that bad, but I get why you’re upset”

You hum softly.

Now this isn’t you saying you hate kids or anything! You think they're alright, a little needy and loud but overall okay.

It’s just

You aren’t ready

“Ah I’ve had a talk with one of the higher ups earlier and he said that your consorts need ladies in waiting” You perk up.

“Ladies in waiting?”

“Mhm”

“I guess you’re right. Plus, it’ll be nice company for them since I’m not always gonna be there”

“Great. I’ll tell the higher ups tomorrow and have them assign them their own”

“Make sure they do background checks. Can’t have creeps and unworthy people working for my lovely consorts now can I?” You say. Your attendant nods.

“By the way, how’s your son?” His eyes lit up. He then goes on a rant about how his son is currently taking swordsman lessons and that he's getting better day by day. You smile.

At least now you can slack off just a little bit!

-

You watch as the last of the few ladies and men have been brought into the throne room. You eyed every single one carefully, some shivering under your watchful eyes as others seemed confident or uncomfortable.

“These are the best candidates the higher ups were able to gather last night” Your attendant, atsushi bows before calling out the first person up.

Both Riddle and Leona watch carefully at every single person that steps up. Listening closely to every single thing that comes out of their mouth along with their appearance, how they carry themselves, etc.

“Ace trappola! Young man from the Queendom Of Roses, good talents are cleaning, tending animals, and……card tricks?” The boy, “Ace” stifles a laugh but was given a stern look from his older brother which made him stop.

Riddle can already sense that he’s big trouble while Leona could really care less.

You get a good look at Ace.

He’s average height, fair skin, fluffy orange hair, and scarlet like eyes.

Not bad

And you won’t lie, he’s kinda funny.

You turn to riddle, wondering if he’ll take in trappola as a lady in waiting.

Riddle can already feel your stare on him. His cheeks turn a light pink at your stare.

“I’ll take him” He mutter softly. Small pout as he looks away. Leona scoffs.

“Excellent! Next”

After what seems to be hours (years even)

Your two lovely consorts have each of their own ladies in waiting.

Riddle: Ace Trappola, Deuce Spade, Cater Diamond

Leona: Ruggie Bucchi, Jack Howl

Once everyone was satisfied with their choices, your attendant dismissed the ones who weren’t chosen. You walked down to greet the new ladies in waiting with a soft smile.

“It’s nice to have you young gentleman here” You say. The boys jumped before quickly bowing to you. You smile.

“Now you know that each of you will be staying with and taking care of my two precious consorts right?” Riddle turns a bright red as Leona looks away. You can tell your charms got to him by how he fiddles with the hem of his sleeves.

“I hope you guys take good care of them!……or else” You gave them a menacing look. The five boys gulp, before nodding their heads. Some of them held a look of determination while a few….looked a little scared.

Perfect!

“Great! I’ll have my lovely attendant escort you guys back to your pavilions” You gave each concubine a kiss on the cheek before making your way out. A happy go lucky look on your face as the ladies in waiting can only look at each other and shiver in fear.

What a scary empress!

-

It’s been two months since you’ve gotten your consorts their ladies in waiting.

And it’s going great so far!

….

…..

Kinda

Riddle has been having trouble with Ace lately- scratch that, he’s been having trouble with him since he entered the heartslabyul pavilion.

He’ll rant to you about him every time you stop by and visit. You’ll just massage his tensed shoulders and whisper sweet words in his ears until he stops and relaxes.

Other than Ace, the other two don’t trouble him at all! Very good care takers, cleaners, and cooks!

Leona on the other hand, doesn't have any trouble with his ladies in waiting.

They’re patient, quick and ready to do anything he needs, and very good cooks!

Happy wives, happy life!

Not wives yet

Now speaking of wives, you are currently reading a letter from a high end family that wants their son to be a part of your harem.

Ha….you haven’t gotten one of these in months

“The Ashengrotto Family” You mutter. You paced back and forth in your home office as you read the letter.

“He’s the son of a very high ranking merchant. His mother owns a very successful restaurant somewhere near the east side and his stepfather is an ex military official”

“Mm”

You haven’t taken anyone in after Leona. And your vassal keeps pestering you to grow your harem.

Weirdos

Maybe it’s finally time to take someone in again!

“Schedule a meeting for tomorrow in the afternoon” You yawn out, ready to end this busy day and go to bed.

“Already done”

“Huh?” You turn around to see your attendant wearing a prideful smile.

“I know you will agree!” He says.

Eh?!

“Are you serious?”

“Mhm! Now go get some sleep, Mrs. Ashengrotto is very excited to meet you tomorrow!”

“You’re killing me”

“No”

“Yes….”

“By the way, are those papers done yet?” He asks.You froze. He raises a thick brow as he patiently waits. You batted your lashes at him as you sway side to side.

“Y’knowwwww you’re right! I should get some much deserved sleep, don't you think?” You slowly walk closer to the exit, still making eye contact as your hand slowly inches closer to the door.

“Y/n” he says sternly.

“Bye bye good night!” And with that you make a quick escape.

“Y/n!”

atsushi only sighs before a small smile creeps up upon his face.

“Just like their old man”

-

Tag list!🏷️

@gl00muraaii @ghostlysyntaxed @zoukaposts @twistedcece @kisses2kanao @s7-evermore @c0ralrubi @owl778 @rubyninja1 @roseapov

If you want to join the Taglist, feel free to tell me!☺️

If you have any questions or anything about this AU don’t be afraid to ask!

ALSO TYSM FOR 1k FOLLOWERS!!! LOVE YOU ALL AND THANK YOU FOR ALL THE SUPPORT!!!

Can you guys see how reader cares for them? 🫣

[aishangotome]

Main Story Chapter 21 Card: Charlie - Anesthetized (局部麻醉) | Light and Night 光與夜之戀

Light and Night Polyphony

♡———♡

-

The Lesoia Rebellion Part 1

Lesoia, a small and relatively unknown country.

It's hot and arid here year-round, and various forms of life grow wild and untamed on the barren, sandy land.

It had been several months since Charlie came to Lesoia as a doctor without borders, and he had gradually grown accustomed to life in this country.

Stepping out of the makeshift tent that served as the hospital, many people greeted him along the way.

Locals: Good morning, Dr. Zha!

Local youth: Dr. Zha, don't forget to come to our gathering tonight!

The locals were mostly warm and friendly. Years of war and hardship had left deep scars on their lives, but hadn’t diminished their inherent enthusiasm.

In just a few months, Charlie had blended into the community with his cheerful personality.

Lesoia’s mornings are bustling and vibrant, even though just a few streets away are the remnants of yesterday's attack.

Beside the low, earthen-yellow houses along the street, a shabby barbed wire fence barely maintains the idea of a "safe zone," and a few barefoot boys play in the barren park.

The only two-story building in sight is the local hospital they're assisting, and the hospital's walls still bear the scars of bomb damage.

Early in the war, this hospital was crippled by attacks, and only regained its function with the intervention of international aid.

The medical conditions here are extremely limited, and the standard of living is at its lowest.

Before arriving, Charlie had made many assumptions, but upon arrival, he realized how inadequate the information was.

Here, everything is a race against time, fighting against the clock to snatch people from the clutches of death.

Charlie, who often worked for days at a time without leaving the operating table, barely recognized himself with his dark circles and unshaven face.

Occasionally, when he reminisced, that prosperous and peaceful civilized world felt like an unreal dream.

As night fell, a bonfire was lit on the open ground.

The gathered young people sang and danced to the lively music of the region, and Charlie, having shed his white coat, regained his smile, leaving behind the blood and death of the day.

Soon, the lively gathering reached its peak, as a dark-skinned young man knelt on one knee, offering the ring in his hand to a woman with a face full of surprised delight.

Young man: Will you marry me, Farah!

Overcome with emotion, his voice cracked as he shouted.

In the crowd, Charlie clapped an arm around the shoulder of the person next to him, joining the others in raucous laughter.

Crowd: Say yes! Say yes!

With Farah's continuous nodding, the entire open space erupted in excitement, and someone bumped Charlie's shoulder.

Local youth: Dr. Zha, you should find yourself a bride too!

Charlie: I already have one. My scalpel is my bride.

The other man laughed heartily, with a very obvious hint in his tone.

Local youth: What kind of girl do you like, doc? You might just meet her here!

Charlie: If that really happened, I’d have to reject her with a heavy heart.

Charlie shrugged, then stared at the future newlyweds dancing in the center of the gathering, and suddenly considered the question seriously.

Charlie: To be honest, I've never really thought about it.

Charlie: Maybe I'll be married to my scalpel for the rest of my life. A doctor's work is too demanding for a family. And…

The verbal pause indicated an unspoken thought, but Charlie didn't continue.

He thought of his own father, and then gave a self-deprecating laugh - Being controlled by a man like that for a lifetime? Better not to ruin some girl’s life.

Just as he was thinking this, he saw a familiar figure running towards them, and he immediately straightened up.

Local youth: Dr. Zha! Someone at the border has been critically injured by a gunshot and needs surgery immediately!

Charlie: I'm on my way!

His earlier thoughts vanished as he sprinted towards the hospital, racing against time.

Local youth: The injured man just arrived. He has multiple penetrating wounds all over his body, and is in hypovolemic shock. They're trying to resuscitate him.

-

In the hospital hallway, a young woman, covered in blood, knelt outside the operating room, crying and begging.

Woman: Please, save him, don't let him leave me!

Charlie: We’ll do everything we can. Please believe us.

Charlie scrubbed in, disinfected, changed clothes, and was on the operating table in record time.

The young man was severely injured, and the best time for treatment had passed. The surgery lasted almost ten hours.

Despite the limited medical resources, everyone gave their all, pulling a life back from the brink of death.

As he stepped down from the operating table, Charlie’s numb, bloodshot legs buckled, and he almost fell to the ground.

Outside, the sound of the young woman’s overjoyed tears filled the air.

-

After a long night, the sky outside was already starting to brighten. The doctors who had performed the surgery barely had time to take off their surgical gowns before collapsing against the wall to rest.

A hand holding a flatbread was offered to Charlie. He looked up, meeting his teacher's gentle gaze.

Charlie: Teacher, what are you doing here?

Echino: The surgery took so long, have something to eat.

Charlie reached out and took it, only then realizing his hands were shaking and his stomach was painfully empty.

The surgeon next to him swallowed his food, still managing a playful tone.

Surgeon: Dr. Echino, even though Charlie hasn’t graduated yet, he can do the work of two people.

Surgeon: Bringing him here was a real boost to our team!

Surgeon: You've always had a good eye, choosing such a talented student.

Charlie stole a glance and noticed a subtle smile appear on his usually stern teacher's face.

Charlie: Actually, Teacher didn’t want me to come at first.

Echino didn’t get angry, but instead, replied with a smile.

Echino: Come to think of it, he's the first time I've ever made a wrong judgment about someone.

A few months prior, Lesoia had experienced another widespread conflict, resulting in a large number of civilian casualties, creating an urgent need for external humanitarian aid.

The hospital where Charlie worked received a request and decided to select several doctors from various departments to form a medical team to assist Lesoia.

The trip would require three to four months of commitment, and not many doctors volunteered. Only Charlie immediately picked up an application form.

After submitting his application, he began packing, ready to leave at a moment's notice.

However, before the list was released, he received news that his application had been rejected.

Charlie went straight to his supervisor’s office.

Charlie: Hello, Dr. Denny, I'd like to ask why my application was rejected.

Supervisor: Charlie, it's good that you have this aspiration.

Supervisor: But you don't have enough experience yet. You need to study for a while longer.

The supervisor's words were gentle and persuasive, but Charlie could sense the underlying finality.

He knew that some interns who had joined the hospital at the same time as him had also joined the medical team, and his abilities were among the best.

However, Charlie didn’t pursue the matter further, silently accepting the supervisor's decision.

His mind had already found the answer, and in that instant, he thought of his father.

That man's influence had already permeated this hospital, he had foreseen it, but he hadn't expected it to be so deeply rooted so soon.

But the hospital had those whom that man couldn't bribe. Charlie's gaze settled on Dr. Echino, who had parachuted into the hospital after returning from abroad.

Dr. Echino was the hospital's most "unique" doctor. Her surgical skills were superb, and she was quite accomplished in medicine, but her personality was straightforward and unyielding, known for her "iron fist."

She never socialized with other doctors after work, and patients often complained about her personality. Many whispered behind her back that she had a relationship with the hospital director, which was why she could parachute into this hospital.

When choosing a supervisor upon entering the hospital, Charlie had considered her, but Dr. Echino never took on students, so he eventually went under his current supervisor.

Charlie, having weighed the options again and again, and ultimately letting the appeal of the medical team outweigh all else, knocked on Dr. Echino's office door.

Charlie: Excuse me, Dr. Echino, I'm the intern, Charlie.

Dr. Echino, who was looking through patient records, looked up at him, put down her pen, and rubbed her temples, her expression hinting at some impatience.

Echino: What is it?

Charlie: I'd like to join the medical team going to Lesoia.

Meeting Dr. Echino's suddenly sharp gaze, Charlie met her eyes with composure, his tone sincere.

Charlie: I heard that you'll also be joining the medical team, and there are still open spots. I'd like to ask you to help me get on the list.

Dr. Echino stared at him for a good while, eventually delivering a blunt refusal.

Echino: Rich young masters should go back to inheriting the family business once they've had their fun.

Echino: Medical aid isn't a game. The medical profession is busier and more difficult than you imagine.

After being met with such a cold dismissal, Charlie wasn't angry. He knew it would take a lot of time to shed the labels people had placed on him.

And since Dr. Echino, once she settled on a conclusion, was difficult to sway in the short term, he had to think of another way.

-

A few days later, it happened to be Christmas. At around two or three in the morning, a piercing phone ring woke Charlie from his deep sleep.

He reacted instantly, throwing back the covers and jumping out of bed to answer the call.

Hospital Phone: There’s been a multi-vehicle pileup on the overpass near the hospital.

Hospital Phone: The emergency room is flooded with casualties. All doctors who are available, please get to the hospital as soon as possible!

Charlie: I'm on my way! I'll be there in fifteen minutes!

Charlie hurriedly threw on his clothes, splashed cold water on his face, and drove towards the hospital.

The hospital's emergency hall was a scene of chaos. A constant flow of patients awaited treatment, and a calm, powerful voice directed the operations.

Charlie saw Dr. Echino and the emergency room on-call doctor in the distance, and immediately headed towards them.

Charlie: Dr. Echino! What do you need me to do?

Seeing him appear, Dr. Echino seemed surprised, but quickly pointed in a direction.

Echino: Head to the emergency operating room. We have another tough battle ahead of us.

-

Charlie rushed to the operating room, donned his surgical gown, and stood beneath the bright lights. The scalpel’s handle was placed in his hand.

His battle had begun.

The surgeries, one after another, continued until noon the next day. When he finally walked out of the operating room, Charlie felt like his body was no longer his own.

He dragged his numb feet, intending to find a corner to collapse and see the sandman, but someone had already claimed the spot.

A little girl, fully clothed, was asleep on the cold metal recliner. Even though the heating was on in the hall, she was shivering in her sleep.

Charlie sighed, went back to the office to get a coat, and returned to gently cover her.

After doing this, he couldn’t hold on any longer, and collapsed against the wall, falling into a deep sleep.

His sleep was restless, as if he could still hear the painful moans, tugging at him.

He hadn’t slept for long when the vibrations of a gurney carrying a patient past shook him roughly awake.

Charlie, relying on sheer willpower, forced his heavy eyelids open, and staggered to his feet, leaning on the wall.

Dr. Echino had appeared sometime between sleep and waking, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Echino: Are you trying to kill yourself? Go get some rest, before you drop dead from exhaustion.

Charlie strained his eyes, barely distinguishing reality from dream, and nodded vaguely.

It wasn't until the evening of the next day that Charlie learned, to his surprise, that Dr. Echino had vouched for him and got him onto the Lesoia aid team.

The moment he heard the news, his expression was so shocked that a fellow doctor from his department patted him on the shoulder sympathetically.

Department doctor: How did you get so unlucky, to get targeted by Dr. Echino?

Charlie, suppressing his emotions, immediately went to find Dr. Echino, but she just looked back at him, her expression calm.

Echino: You were the first resident who arrived that day.

Echino: The other doctors didn’t start arriving for over an hour after you.

Echino: So, why wouldn't I give you a chance?

Charlie didn’t think this was anything particularly praiseworthy.

Charlie: It's just that I live very close by.

Dr. Echino shook her head, a smile gracing her lips.

Echino: It has less to do with the distance, and more to do with a sense of responsibility.

Charlie: You only agreed because of that?

Echino: Yes, because I realized I was perhaps too arrogant, and was prejudiced against you from the start.

Echino: But if you don’t perform well, I can just as easily send you back from Lesoia.

Charlie confidently raised the corners of his mouth, answering her with a smile.

Charlie: Now that I'm going, I won’t come back easily.

-

The Lesoia Rebellion Part 2

Department doctor: How did you get so unlucky, to get targeted by Dr. Echino?

Charlie, suppressing his emotions, immediately went to find Dr. Echino, but she just looked back at him, her expression calm.

Echino: You were the first resident who arrived that day.

Echino: The other doctors didn’t start arriving for over an hour after you.

Echino: So, why wouldn't I give you a chance?

Charlie didn’t think this was anything particularly praiseworthy.

Charlie: It's just that I live very close by.

Dr. Echino shook her head, a smile gracing her lips.

Echino: It has less to do with the distance, and more to do with a sense of responsibility.

Charlie: You only agreed because of that?

Echino: Yes, because I realized I was perhaps too arrogant, and was prejudiced against you from the start.

Echino: But if you don’t perform well, I can just as easily send you back from Lesoia.

Charlie confidently raised the corners of his mouth, answering her with a smile.

Charlie: Now that I'm going, I won’t come back easily.

-

The Lesoia Rebellion Part 2

After hearing this story, several doctors looked at Charlie with newfound respect.

Surgeon: Charlie, I'm curious. Just how rich is your family? Are we talking 'richer than a country' rich?

Charlie blinked and shook his head honestly.

Charlie: Not quite richer than a country, maybe half a country.

As soon as he finished speaking, everyone around him audibly inhaled in shock.

Surgeon: ...You are way too modest.

Another doctor, Simon, joined the conversation.

Simon: You guys don't know, when Charlie first came to the hospital, he wore the same coat every day.

Simon: Rain or shine, he never changed it.

Simon: Everyone thought he was really poor, and some people took advantage of the newbie and made him run errands.

Simon: But he didn’t mind, and helped out whenever he had time.

Simon: Then someone saw the car he drove, checked it out, and found out it was outrageously expensive.

Simon: Everyone was stunned. The next day, nobody dared order him around.

Recounting these past events, Simon’s face was full of emotion, clearly having been among those who had misjudged Charlie.

Surgeon: Charlie, why didn’t you say anything back then?

Charlie looked enlightened.

Charlie: Oh, so that’s why! I made a point of parking far away from the hospital.

Cardiothoracic Surgeon: Hey, with rich young masters like you working so hard, how are ordinary people supposed to live?

The others laughed along, and a doctor passing by paused as the eagle-eyed Simon caught him.

Simon: Dr. Lyon, want to grab some food together later?

Dr. Lyon glanced at Charlie, then turned away and walked off disdainfully.

Simon: Uh… Dr. Lyon prefers to eat alone, don't mind him.

Charlie: Simon, do you really think I'd care about something like that?

Charlie stood up and patted Simon's shoulder, long since used to this kind of treatment.

Charlie: Let's go. We should eat quickly and get back to rest. We've got more work ahead of us.

-

A few days later, war descended on Lesoia once again. The border was subjected to indiscriminate attacks, and a medical team was dispatched for emergency relief.

On the return trip, everyone was exhausted and silent. The car was filled with heavy breathing and no conversation.

In this silence, an ambush hit their vehicle.

A deafening explosion rocked them, and the world was suddenly turned upside down, engulfed in blinding white light.

Charlie, clutching the back of his seat, struggled briefly before succumbing to unconsciousness.

When Charlie awoke, he found that everyone's hands and feet were bound, surrounded by soldiers armed to the teeth.

It was easy to tell from their uniforms that they were rebel forces. Charlie's heart sank.

At that moment, a tall, burly officer rushed over from a distance, pointing a gun at them.

Officer: Hurry up! The doctors, get out and save him!

The sight of the black gun barrel brought a heavy threat and pressure. No one dared breathe.

Officer: Don’t waste time! If you can’t save him, you'll all die with him!

Simon: We are Doctors Without Borders. You can’t do this, it violates humanitarian protocols!

"Bang!" - the gunshot was his only reply.

The officer lowered the gun, a bloody smile spreading across his face.

Officer: I don't care about any protocols. You can be doctors, or you can be government soldiers we captured.

Everyone fell silent. After a few more tense seconds, Lyon attempted to negotiate.

Lyon: We can try to help, but doctors aren’t saviors. We can’t guarantee anyone will survive.

Officer: Then I'll send you to hell.

The officer kicked Lyon to the ground, raised his gun, and pressed it against Lyon's head.

The click of the hammer cocking made everyone's faces drain of color.

Charlie: Okay.

Charlie spoke suddenly, hearing his own voice sound too calm.

Charlie: I can do it.

The gun was instantly pointed at him.

Charlie raised his head and met their gaze, his own eyes as cold and sharp as steel, piercing into their bloodthirsty eyes.

In the brief yet drawn-out standoff, the gun was the first to move.

Officer: If you fail, you'll be the first to die.

Charlie’s hands, bound behind his back, clenched. He could feel the anxious and worried glances from the others, but at that moment, there was no other option.

-

When he entered the makeshift operating room, he found two other doctors already preparing for surgery.

Their eyes met, acknowledging that they were also doctors forcefully brought there.

On the makeshift operating table, the army commander was unconscious, his upper body revealing a large, gaping wound, almost showing his perforated organs.

He was severely injured. Charlie quickly scanned the limited monitoring equipment and made an immediate assessment.

Death was already standing in that "operating room," waiting to claim the commander, and all of them with him.

With countless guns pointed at them, Charlie could only steady himself and stand before the operating table.

Charlie: Let's begin the surgery.

The steps proceeded in an orderly manner, a scalpel’s handle pressed into Charlie's hand.

Charlie glanced over and saw it was Lyon, who had followed them in.

But that distraction was only for a moment. Soon, he had no energy to pay attention to anything else.

He focused entirely on saving the patient before him, cleaning the shrapnel, suturing the ruptured organs… The entire process seemed fast, yet was executed with extreme caution.

Even with death looming, his hands remained steady, each movement precise, more like a performance than surgery.

Then, a few strands of hair, not properly secured, slid down his forehead, obstructing his vision.

Charlie slowed his movements, trying to see more clearly when a gun pressed hard against his back.

Soldier: No sudden moves.

Charlie paused, and Lyon, who had finished his task, quickly reached over to fix his hair.

The surgery continued, and the commander’s vital signs dipped several times, but the experienced doctors fought desperately to bring him back.

The damaged blood vessels were repaired, the organs sutured, and the area was inspected for active bleeding…

The oppressive tension finally eased slightly.

But soon, their hearts tightened again, because the guns were still aimed at them.

In the silence, no one knew if they would simply open fire.

The commander under anesthesia remained unconscious, his vitals fluctuating at the edge of the minimal standard.

Officer: Two of you will stay behind and continue to watch over him.

Everyone understood that those left behind would be "hostages," with little chance of leaving alive.

Looking at the older doctors beside him, Charlie was the first to step forward.

Charlie: I was the lead surgeon. It should be me who stays.

Simon urgently tugged at his arm, whispering his desperate protest.

Simon: Charlie, do you know what you're doing?

Charlie: Don’t worry. This is the best option right now.

Charlie: Once the patient wakes up, I can come back.

While they were talking, Lyon also stepped forward, standing alongside Charlie.

Lyon: I’ll stay behind too. The rest of you can leave now, right?

Before anyone else could react, the rebels let the others go as agreed. Watching the vehicle drive away, Charlie finally felt a small measure of relief.

The two of them were locked in an empty room not far from the operating room. Through the window, they could see the soldiers heavily guarding the area.

Charlie, utterly exhausted, leaned against the wall and sat on the floor, looking across at Lyon, who was equally disheveled.

Charlie: Thanks for what you did back there.

Lyon glanced at him, his expression constantly shifting, eventually turning his head away with a hint of awkwardness.

Lyon: I was just repaying you for saving my life before.

Charlie: Dr. Lyon, I thought you really disliked me. Why did you choose to stay?

Lyon: Disliking you and staying aren’t mutually exclusive. I didn’t want the other doctors taking the risk.

Lyon: But you, a rich kid. Why would you do something like this? It’s not like there’s any benefit to you.

Charlie rubbed his aching wrist, forcing a wry chuckle.

Charlie: Of course there’s a benefit. I might get a medal, a promotion, and a raise.

Lyon snorted dismissively, but after a moment, he couldn’t resist asking.

Lyon: What are the chances of that patient waking up?

Charlie: Under these surgical conditions, the most optimistic estimate is less than 50%.

Lyon: So our chances of surviving are less than 50%.

Charlie: Possibly even less.

Lyon: Aren’t you… scared?

Charlie: Yes. Actually, I am terrified.

Charlie took a deep breath and massaged his growling stomach.

Charlie: I wonder if they'll bring us breakfast tomorrow. I’m starving.

Despite being utterly spent, neither of them felt any sleepiness, and they chatted idly.

Although Lyon's words seemed to carry some prejudice, Charlie found that they actually shared quite a few views on certain things.

Lyon: You're not what I expected.

Lyon suddenly spoke as Charlie started to feel drowsy.

Charlie: What did you expect me to be like?

Charlie: Should I have been crying for my mommy and daddy? Or throwing around a black card and saying my family has enough money to buy my way out?

Charlie: But this is Lesoia. All lives are equal here.

Two days later, the door, which had remained shut the entire time, finally opened.

Lyon: He's awake.

Their eyes met.

Charlie: I guess we got that 50% chance of survival.

Lyon: Do you think they’ll let us live?

Charlie: More likely than not, no.

-

In silence, they checked the commander's vital signs and then were blindfolded and thrown into a transport helicopter.

Charlie: I've seen in movies that once the helicopter lands, the hostages usually get executed.

As the helicopter's rotor blades whirred to a start, Charlie, leaning against the cabin wall, caught snippets of a conversation in the local language through the deafening noise.

Lyon: Why are you so determined to be a doctor?

He heard Lyon ask beside him, and he opened his eyes, staring into the darkness, and thought for a moment.

Charlie: There aren't that many reasons. I just want to save people.

Lyon: I apologize. I misunderstood you before.

Charlie: It's not too late to see clearly.

Lyon gave a wry smile.

Lyon: Too bad we're about to die.

Charlie: We still have a chance.

Charlie: When you hear the sound later, lie down and play dead. Don't make a sound.

After quickly saying this, Charlie felt the helicopter descend. In the near distance, he heard a "click."

The person seemed to be toying with them, repeatedly removing and reloading a magazine.

As the helicopter got closer to the ground, he keenly perceived the distinct sound of a bullet being chambered.

In that critical moment, an invisible force spread throughout the cabin. The helicopter lurched violently downwards, its frame groaning under immense strain.

Charlie tore off his blindfold and saw the soldiers clutching their chests, collapsing and losing consciousness.

He kicked open the helicopter's shattered cabin door, and the scene outside made his pupils shrink.

But he had no time to hesitate. His face cold, he clenched his hand, unleashing his ability on a larger scale.

Amidst cries of shock, Charlie rushed out, taking down the remaining soldiers in rapid succession.

Once everyone was down, Charlie found Lyon in the wreckage, freeing him from his bindings.

Charlie: Lyon, are you still alive?

Lyon, overwhelmed by the shock, took a long time to react. He looked at the chaos around him, as if witnessing a supernatural event.

Lyon: What... what happened? Did you just... take them all out?!

Charlie shrugged, feigning helplessness.

Charlie: Well, you know, I'm a pretty valuable young master. I have a few trump cards to protect myself.

Charlie: When we get back to the hospital, I’d appreciate your discretion on this.

Lyon stared at him intently for a moment before nodding firmly.

Lyon: Understood. After they dumped us, they got into a skirmish with some militia, we got away in the commotion.

Charlie: Good point, now we should probably use the chaos to our advantage and slip away.

Even though it wasn't yet dusk, the sky had already darkened, and heavy, oppressive clouds hung low on the horizon.

A wind from an unknown direction swept across the land, stirring up sheets of sand and dust, and creating a desolate, mournful wail across the open terrain.

Charlie helped the injured Lyon to his feet and walked towards the hospital, step by step.

-

Burning Star Part 1

After the verdict on that medical malpractice incident was reached, everything quickly settled.

With Dr. Echino’s resignation and departure, the cries of the family members and the clamor of the media gradually faded away.

Only Charlie remained silent.

Several times, he wanted to leave, just like his teacher, but each time he finished writing his resignation letter, he would end up pressing it down at the bottom of his drawer.

His friends were very worried about him and frequently invited him out for meals and gatherings. When he was working, they’d cover his shifts, and they'd often offer him various forms of concern.

Even Lyon often found excuses to show up in their department's office, making small talk about the weather and how the flowers were blooming outside.

Everyone tacitly avoided the subject of Dr. Echino, as if it were a forbidden topic.

Charlie felt a bit helpless about it, but didn't refuse his friends' kindness.

The initial anger in his chest had now subsided, settling deep down, and he didn’t know when it might brew into another, unknown emotion.

-

One day, after finishing surgery, Charlie walked out of the hospital in the early hours of the morning.

The hospital's outpatient hall was still bustling, with patients' families and medical staff rushing in and out, seemingly separated from the quiet world outside.

Charlie wearily slumped into the car, not starting the engine immediately, but leaning back in the seat to let his mind drift.

Tomorrow was the anniversary of his mother's death. He had been working almost nonstop for the past two weeks to clear his schedule for a day off.

In the darkness, he saw his own expressionless face reflected in the car window.

That face was etched with fatigue and weariness. For a brief moment, it felt utterly unfamiliar.

Before he could figure out why, he saw a familiar nurse rushing out of the hospital hall, looking around as if searching for someone.

Charlie honked the horn, and she immediately spotted him and ran to his car.

Nurse: Thank goodness, Dr. Zha, you haven't left yet! Dr. Jones isn’t doing well. Could you take a look?

Thinking of Dr. Jones and her baby bump, Charlie didn't even lock his car before running back into the hospital with the nurse.

-

Dr. Jones was clutching her stomach, leaning against the wall, her face pale with pain, but she was holding back her cries.

Only when she saw Charlie did her tense expression relax.

Dr. Jones: Dr. Zha, I'm sorry to bother you, but... it seems my due date has come early, and I'm about to give birth.

Dr. Jones: Could you... could you perform my surgery tomorrow?

Charlie: Don't worry. I’ll take care of everything.

Charlie supported her and, with the nurse's help, took her to the obstetrics and gynecology department.

While they were completing the admission procedures, Dr. Jones's husband rushed to the hospital.

He burst out of the elevator, still wearing his suit, his face a mask of worry.

Doctor’s Husband: Jones? Is she alright?!

However, Charlie detected a subtle hint of anger beneath his anxious façade.

Sure enough, intense arguments erupted inside the ward as soon as Charlie left the room, making him pause, filled with concern.

Doctor’s Husband: Don't you know this is practically murdering our child!

Dr. Jones: Murder? I've been working hard and conscientiously. What have I done wrong? Could you have predicted my water would break now?

Doctor's Husband: Her due date is next week.

Doctor’s Husband: Any pregnant woman who cared would know better than to work night shifts, perform surgeries, or even run at this stage!

Dr. Jones: I'm a doctor! That patient had to go into surgery immediately. Any delay would have cost him his life, do you understand?

Dr. Jones: This is my job, my beloved career. Please leave. I don't want to see you right now.

Doctor’s Husband: Right, I don't understand, I’m not as noble as you.

Doctor’s Husband: Does the hospital pay you extra for all you do? Do they promote you?

Doctor’s Husband: What good is all this?

Doctor’s Husband: When we got married, you said nothing would stop you from being a doctor, and I understood.

Doctor’s Husband: So I've taken care of the household, I've been your unconditional support, and I've dealt with all the family issues.

Doctor’s Husband: But look at our home now, does it even resemble a home?! Our child almost died!

Doctor’s Husband: I'm tired, Jones. I love you, but I can't be the only one holding this family together.

Doctor’s Husband: You have to choose now, your family or your work.

Charlie's hand, raised to knock on the door, froze midair. He lowered it, clenching his fist, and leaned against the wall.

Hearing the muffled cries behind the door, he suddenly didn't want to know the almost-certain answer.

A wave of intense powerlessness and absurdity washed over him. He forced a smile and left the hospital again.

-

Back in the car, Charlie tried to insert the key several times before finally succeeding.

He rested his head on the steering wheel, and a sudden, violent headache crashed down on him.

The searing pain tore at his nerves, his heart raced, and he felt as if the air had been sucked out of the vehicle, unable to breathe.

Charlie fumbled for a pill from his glove compartment and swallowed it dry.

That done, he roughly pulled open his shirt collar and gasped for breath like a dying fish.

Charlie: .....

The only sound in the car was his desperate panting.

Only then did his other senses slowly return. His hands and feet were icy cold, and his back was drenched in cold sweat.

The dizziness in his head gradually subsided, and he felt a belated sense of relief.

His phone, tossed onto the passenger seat, vibrated twice. After a while, he reached over to pick it up.

The light from the screen illuminated his bloodless face, showing it was almost one in the morning.

It was a message from Dr. Kellerman, his colleague, similar to the messages he'd received over the past few days, asking if he wanted to grab drinks together.

Even though his head was pounding, Charlie didn't want to go home. Drinking might be a welcome distraction.

He started the car and drove to their usual bar.

The bar wasn't particularly lively, with a lone female singer on stage crooning a retro jazz tune.

He quickly spotted the group of four or five people sitting in the corner.

Kellerman, Simon, Owen... even Lyon, who rarely joined these outings, was there.

Kellerman: Charlie, you're the last one to arrive. Shouldn’t you buy the first round?

Charlie: What should I get?

Simon: Anything’s fine. Milk or hot chocolate, maybe!

Charlie scanned the table, noticing that there were glasses of milk and hot chocolate specifically placed for him. The others had some low-alcohol, sweet drinks.

He poured himself a random drink, took a sip under the others’ surprised gazes, and sat down next to Lyon.

Lyon: You look terrible. What happened?

Charlie: Just busy. It's been non-stop these past few days. I just got off work.

The slightly bitter taste spread across his tongue, but it was just enough to soothe his headache.

Lyon: You…

Lyon hesitated, looking at him, then half-joked.

Lyon: Are you really planning to marry your scalpel?

Charlie: Yeah, that way I can be with "her" every day.

Charlie leaned back on the sofa with his drink, listening to the others' chatter, finally letting his tense nerves relax a little.

Nearby, Kellerman was downing drinks one after another, his eyes growing red-rimmed. He suddenly sighed.

Kellerman: I gathered you all here tonight because I have something to say.

Kellerman: I'm leaving the hospital next month.

Everyone was stunned. The most impatient of them, Simon, grabbed his arm, demanding.

Simon: Why?! You just got promoted! Did someone mess with you?

Kellerman forced a smile, but it looked strained.

Kellerman: You know, my family isn't doing so well financially. The salary from the hospital just isn't enough to support my parents.

Kellerman: So I'm going to work as a pharmaceutical rep. It pays a lot better. I hope you guys will think of me if you need anything.

Simon: I can lend you money! And Charlie can! He's loaded! How much do you need?

Kellerman: It's not a lack of money that can be fixed by just borrowing. I've thought it through.

Everyone suggested different solutions, but they all turned out to be unfeasible.

Owen: This is so unfair!

Owen angrily swallowed a gulp of his drink.

Owen: You're so talented, and Dr. Echino thought so highly of you. Why do you have to quit?

Kellerman: Can't be helped. Faith and ideals can't put food on the table.

Kellerman: Kids from poor families, like me, can't afford to make mistakes. I should have realized this a long time ago.

Charlie felt a weight press on his chest, but seeing the regret, yet determination in Kellerman's eyes, he didn't say anything.

He could only down drink after drink, trying to find some respite in the numbness of the alcohol.

???: I don't know when it started, but this job has begun to feel so powerless...

Someone suddenly lamented, like opening the floodgates. Everyone began to chime in.

Owen: You guys think you have it bad? I'm fighting four lawsuits.

Owen: All I wanted was to save lives.

Owen: But those families, if the surgery failed, they sued me without thinking twice!

Owen: Standing in court, I truly felt like I never wanted to step into an operating room again!

Simon: Don't even start. The day my grandma passed away, I was operating on someone else's grandma.

Charlie: I also haven’t visited my mom in years. The weeds on her grave must be pretty tall by now…

They talked and talked, but there seemed to be no answers to their questions.

Charlie suddenly thought of Dr. Echino again. No matter how much they tried to avoid it, that cruel reality remained a bleeding wound.

The law protected the rights of the vulnerable, but the doctors who saved lives were not protected.

A few months after Dr. Echino left, he received a text from her.

His teacher said she wouldn't be a doctor anymore, and she felt relieved.

But was she really relieved? She had shouldered so much for this profession, yet only when abandoning it did she receive society's protection.

Charlie downed his drink and, fueled by a drunken defiance, declared.

Charlie: If I had another chance, I wouldn’t become a doctor either.

Lyon: Yeah, anything would be better than being a doctor.

Owen: Exactly! You give so much but get nothing in return!

At that moment, a horrified scream pierced the air.

They followed the sound and found a young man collapsed on the floor near the bar.

Charlie was the first to throw down his glass, and they all rushed to the scene.

Charlie: Move aside! We’re doctors!

Charlie looked at the unconscious man. He was unresponsive, pale, covered in sweat, and his breathing was faint.

Simon: He just drank two glasses of amaretto!

Charlie laid him down flat to ensure blood flow, turned his head to the side, and loosened his collar to keep his airway open.

Charlie: He's still breathing. I suspect anaphylactic shock.

Lyon: We've called the nearest hospital. They'll be here in five minutes!

In less than five minutes, the paramedics arrived and rushed him to the hospital. The remaining doctors stared at each other, unsure what to say.

Saving lives seemed to be ingrained in their subconscious. The Hippocratic Oath they'd sworn, from the first day of medical school, was etched into their bones.

I solemnly swear to dedicate my life to the service of humanity.

I will practice medicine with conscience and dignity. The health of my patient will be my first consideration.

I will maintain by all the means in my power, the honor and the noble traditions of the medical profession.

I will give to my teachers, colleagues and pupils the respect and gratitude which is their due.

Charlie lost his desire to drink. The group parted ways, and Lyon followed him out.

Lyon: Charlie, are you really okay?

Facing his worried gaze, Charlie shook his head.

But reality seemed to be getting worse and worse.

-

Burning Star Part 2

In order to achieve higher rankings, the hospital began to take on more patients, resulting in longer work hours for all the doctors.

One day, after completing several surgeries in a row, Charlie felt his vision white out as he exited the operating room.

He swayed a few times, catching himself on the wall before he could fall.

A chorus of cries erupted nearby, but as Charlie was about to say he was alright, he saw someone else collapse.

Nurse: Dr. Hawk? Dr. Hawk! We need a crash team here!

The nurse frantically performed CPR, but the person on the ground remained motionless.

Moments later, the gurney carrying the doctor rushed past Charlie toward the operating room.

Charlie stared at the young face, somewhat familiar, now pale and ashen, devoid of any hint of life.

The next day, Charlie learned that the doctor couldn't be revived.

Apparently, someone from their department had called out sick, and he had been working around the clock for half a month. He suffered a sudden heart attack after finishing a surgery.

His condition was so dire that even with the hospital's best resources, they couldn’t save him.

Death was a common occurrence in a hospital, but this particular incident seized Charlie's attention.

-

Dr. Hawk’s parents were gentle and polite high school teachers, but the sudden death of their child shattered them.

When they came to the hospital to settle his affairs, their eyes were swollen and red, their faces etched with grief, but they still stubbornly demanded an explanation from the hospital.

Elder: That was my child! He was only in his thirties! I can’t accept this…

Hospital Leader: We understand your grief…

The hospital leader offered the usual, empty words of comfort.

Eventually, the hospital appeased the family with compensation, but the amount was meager due to the hospital's financial situation.

A human life, extinguished just like that.

Like a raindrop, causing a brief ripple before vanishing without a trace.

The hospital didn’t reflect or adjust its practices. Each day continued as if nothing had happened.

-

Lyon: Do you think there’s any hope?

Lyon asked this over the phone.

Charlie had been pondering this question all night. He couldn’t help but think of Mark’s death.

He didn't die in a fire, but was murdered by the schemes of those powerful capitalists.

Is it worth it to work yourself to death, even sacrificing your life, for the ideal of saving people?

Charlie felt a profound sickness in society, how everyone was being exploited, murdered, even beyond death.

Charlie: As long as one person stands up, there’s still hope.

This was the answer he gave Lyon, and also the answer he gave himself.

He’d read a quote: "The only obligation of the awakened is this: to seek oneself, become sure of oneself, grope one's way forward along one's own path, no matter where it leads."

Then, to hold fast to it for his entire life, with complete devotion, and without rest.

Having made his decision, Charlie gathered his friends.

Charlie: I want to change the status quo.

Charlie: I want to overthrow this unreasonable system.

No one spoke. Only their eyes watched him in silence.

Charlie knew they thought he was chasing a pipe dream. The hospital, this system, this entire structure had existed for so long.

It was a behemoth, and he was just a single, insignificant leaf.

Charlie: If we don’t change things, more and more doctors will leave this profession.

Charlie: We can’t wait for dawn by just waiting.

His eyes shone brightly, like a star burning with its own fuel.

Lyon: I’m in.

Simon: Sounds good to me.

Kellerman: Even though I’m not a doctor anymore, I can still contribute.

A broken branch began to sprout roots and grow again.

Charlie began organizing protests, issuing a rallying cry to "Acknowledge the unfair treatment of doctors."

The applications for the protests were repeatedly denied, so he resubmitted them. Worried about insufficient publicity, they went to various hospitals and media outlets to spread the word.

-

The first protest took place in several major cities simultaneously, with thousands of medical workers taking to the streets.

When those usually silent doctors voiced their demands, when someone held up a blood-stained white coat, when they wrote the names of the doctors who had died…

Charlie realized that those silent voices weren't insignificant. They were more powerful, more impactful than he had imagined.

He used his accumulated connections in the press to publicize their cause, hoping to attract wider social attention.

At first, their voices were constantly suppressed, and only some small newspapers and online media outlets were willing to report on them.

Pressure from his father, the hospital, and society kept mounting, pushing him to give up.

For a long time, Charlie endured immense pressure. Only the constant consumption of coffee allowed him to persist.

Fortunately, he had his partners, and the growing number of people standing behind him.

That glimmer of dawn, though faint, was now visible.

And those who have seen the light will never be content to return to the darkness.

More people joined Charlie's team, not only doctors but people from all walks of life.

More and more voices echoed his call, uncovering the cruel realities that had been hidden for so long.

The parents of Dr. Hawk, who had died suddenly, stepped forward, willing to donate his remains for autopsy.

Charlie found a hacker he knew from college and asked him to infiltrate the hospital's network.

They retrieved Dr. Hawk’s work hours, and proved that he had no underlying illnesses or genetic predisposition, presenting the truth in a raw and undeniable form to the public.

Finally, people began to acknowledge, for the first time, the hardships faced by doctors—

Hardships hidden beneath a seemingly glamorous image, suppressed by a supposedly unbreakable noble oath.

If this festering wound was not excised, one day it would rot completely.

They also wanted fairness; they also wanted to be given equal consideration for their sacrifice.

The hospital, under public pressure, sincerely apologized. It was like a spark that ignited the entire movement.

Countless voices merged, gaining the power to shake the mighty trees of the system.

Hospitals began to strictly enforce rest periods, and more and more hospitals followed suit. Even the state government was forced to introduce new regulations.

However, Charlie knew he couldn’t be satisfied with the status quo. This was only the beginning. There was still so much that needed to change.

He resolved to build his own team: digital experts, pharmaceutical experts, and even armed forces.

And he would need to raise more funds to support these endeavors, to ensure his plans weren't just castles in the air.

He would become a pillar, supporting the ideal of this utopia.

He had a premonition that his fight had only just begun.

-

Fate's Origin Part 1

Under a clear blue sky, an international flight slowly landed at the airport of Guangqi City.

The familiar silhouette of the city faded from view as the plane touched down. Charlie casually turned on his phone, which promptly displayed a barrage of new message notifications.

The first was a welcome text for tourists in Guangqi City, followed by the arrival gate information from Lao He.

Having a break from work, and with the anniversary of his mother's passing approaching, Charlie finally embarked on the journey home after two years away.

As soon as he exited the arrivals hall, he immediately spotted Lao He holding up a welcome sign with a cheerful grin.

It was the same sign from two years ago, with the gaudy lettering: "Welcome Dr. Charlie to Guangqi City First People's Hospital for Exchange and Guidance."

Charlie: You guys still haven't thrown out this sign?

Charlie walked over, took off his sunglasses, and looked at Lao He, who hadn't changed much compared to two years ago.

Charlie: Lao He, long time no see!

Dr. He: Long time no see, Charlie. Let me see, you've gotten taller, and stronger too.

Charlie: I'm almost thirty years old, how could I still be growing taller? You only remember what I looked like when I was a kid.

Dr. He: It's your own fault for not coming back for two years.

Charlie: Work's been too busy, I couldn't get away.

Lao He patted his shoulder, nodding in understanding.

Dr. He: Yeah, I guess it’s the right time for you to be focused on your career.

Dr. He: Come on, your Aunt He has been waiting for you at home for ages.

-

Outside the car window on the way back, the scenery was still mostly the same as it had been a few years ago.

Although he had only spent a little over four years in this city, returning felt intimately familiar, like returning home.

Dr. He: So, does it seem a bit different compared to before?

Lao He drove, pointing out the new parks and shopping centers being built, and finally sighed.

Dr. He: The world changes so fast now, you might not even recognize it in a blink.

Charlie thought of the past. So many years had passed, and those memories were already somewhat hazy.

Lao He's house was in a hospital residential area. Even before they entered, the smell of braised pork ribs wafted from the hallway, a very homey scent.

-

Dr. He: Honey, we’re back.

Aunt He, wearing an apron, hurriedly came out of the kitchen, greeting Charlie with a big smile.

Aunt He: You’re finally here! I’ve been waiting for you all day. Let me see, this kid is getting more handsome by the day!

Aunt He: Are you hungry? Tired after such a long flight?

Aunt He: Your uncle here went out without even getting you a snack to eat.

Aunt He: I made pork rib soup, braised pork knuckle, and Buddha Jumps Over the Wall, all waiting for you to dig in!

Charlie: Aunt He, you're too good to me. Let me give you a hug.

Charlie: How is it that every time I come back to see you, you look a few years younger? You look like my older sister now.

Aunt He: I love it when you talk like that! But why are you alone? Didn’t bring a partner?

Aunt He: You’re not getting any younger. A man over thirty has a hard time finding a wife. You better hurry up.

Aunt He: While I’m still young, I can help you with the kids. Nannies are outsiders; you can't rely on them to take care of your children properly.

Charlie: The state doesn’t assign me a wife, so I can only come back alone.

Lao He, bringing Charlie's luggage into the guest room, shook his head when he heard this.

Dr. He: You know, a doctor's work is too busy, who has time to find a partner?

Aunt He rolled her eyes, looking quite displeased.

Aunt He: Is anyone busier than you in the whole world? Charlie wouldn’t be like you, ignoring his family and only thinking about the hospital all day.

Aunt He: I finally get to drag you out for a holiday, and you get called away again in the evening and disappear...

Dr. He: Charlie, don't listen to her.

Dr. He: Fate, you know? It comes when it comes, you can’t stop it. If you don’t have someone now, it just means it's not the right time yet.

Charlie listened to their bickering, not joining in, just smiling and nodding.

The He family had a wonderful atmosphere. Lao He was often busy with hospital work, while Aunt He was retired, spending her days dancing, walking the dog, and playing mahjong, enjoying a carefree life.

The two had an agreement to go hiking and sightseeing together when they had the time, often making their son exclaim "dog abuse!"

*The phrase "虐狗" (nüè gǒu) is a slang term in Chinese, particularly popular online, meaning "PDA (Public Display of Affection)" or "being overly affectionate." It is a humorous complaint, implying that the couple's actions are so lovey-dovey that it "abuses" or "harms" single people by making them feel lonely.

So, in the context of the passage, the couple is very loving and enjoys activities together, and their closeness is so apparent that their son jokingly protests, calling their behavior "dog abuse" (i.e., too much affection).

-

The guest room prepared for him hadn't changed from two years ago. The quilt on the bed was obviously freshly sun-dried, carrying the scent of sunshine.

Charlie slept soundly that night. This place felt more like home than his apartment overseas.

The next day, when he woke up, it was another clear and sunny day. Charlie had a breakfast of char siu rice rolls at a nearby stall before heading alone to a grassy hillside.

Some fire-scorched ruins still stood atop the hill, but they were mostly overgrown with lush weeds.

When the wind blew, the undulating green landscape swayed like waves in the sea.

Charlie sat quietly on the hilltop, letting the sunlight blanket his shoulders, and listened to the sound of the wind, seemingly lost in memories of the past.

The figure consumed by fire in his memory had become somewhat blurred.

Only time possesses the power to change everything, and this place was no exception.

Charlie: I'm leaving now. I'll come back and see you again.

He stood up, waving casually behind him, and left the hillside.

-

Half an hour later, Charlie's car pulled up in front of an upscale restaurant.

A few young people, roughly his age, stood at the entrance. As soon as he got out, one of them, a handsome, dark-haired young man, waved enthusiastically.

Meng Zeyang: Charlie, over here! I heard you're either working overtime or working overtime these days, busy to the point of collapse.

Meng Zeyang: I thought you'd be exhausted and haggard. How come you still look so handsome!

Charlie: Same goes for you, though I'm still a bit ahead in the looks department.

Charlie: Where were you last night? What were you up to?

Meng Zeyang: Don't even ask. You know how my parents are, always hounding me to find a partner.

Meng Zeyang: Come on, let me introduce you to some friends.

Meng Zeyang gestured to the people around him and introduced them to Charlie. They were all wealthy second-generation heirs, and he had some business dealings with them.

The youngest-looking one, a redhead, enthusiastically raised his hand to Charlie.

Redhead: Nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you. So you're the Dr. Charlie that Xiaoyang always mentions.

Charlie: The pleasure is mine.

Two years ago, Charlie had been invited back by Dr. He, representing Guangqi City First People's Hospital, to perform surgery on a patient with severe burns.

The surgery was very successful, and Charlie unexpectedly hit it off with the patient’s son, and they became friends.

Over the years, Meng Zeyang had become an angel investor in China, and also helped him invest in several properties in Guangqi City.

Meng Zeyang: Charlie, how long are you staying in China this time? I’d love to show you around those properties.

Charlie: My holiday isn’t long. I’m going back in a few days.

Redhead: I mean, you’ve made so much money, why do you even bother being a doctor?

The redhead stared at Charlie, not with any malice, just pure curiosity.

Meng Zeyang: Come on, you’re so shortsighted!

Meng Zeyang: Charlie’s the most amazing doctor I’ve ever met.

Meng Zeyang: My dad even calls him a genius! Someone like that wasting his time on business would be such a crime!

Rich kid A: What’s so bad about being in business? My biggest dream is to lie on the mountains of cash my dad made and just live the rest of my life lazy.

Rich kid B: Yeah, tell me about it!

Charlie ate and drank with Meng Zeyang's group of friends, the conversation ranging from monetary policy to the best way to cook steak.

A slight smile played on his lips, easily fitting in with the crowd, and soon they were calling each other brothers.

His constantly tense nerves seemed to relax in this environment.

For a brief moment, the thought flashed through his mind: this kind of life doesn’t seem so bad either.

Redhead: Charlie, let’s do this again sometime!

The group split up to go their separate ways, and Charlie drove to an old house in a run-down district.

The house stood quietly in the setting sun, with moss climbing the walls, adding a touch of ancient charm.

He pulled out a key and awkwardly unlocked the door, and the dust stirred up by the opening door made him sneeze a few times.

The light from the open doorway spilled into the living room, like a golden path.

Usually, at the end of the hallway, someone would be waiting for him.

Charlie paused for a moment, then quietly closed the door.

Charlie: I'm back.

He slowly walked further inside. An empty vase sat on the entryway cabinet, and the diamond-patterned retro floor tiles showed the wear of time. The light and airy curtains were now a bit yellowed...

Further in, the small living room, once warm and romantic, was entirely covered in white sheets.

It jumped out clearly from a distant memory, appearing before his eyes.

Charlie lifted the sheet covering the sofa, sat down, and the sofa creaked softly.

The air carried a faint scent of decay, and he closed his eyes, feeling as if he had returned to the past.

This was the first time he'd been back here since that time. Over twenty years had passed... and he'd grown from a helpless child into a fully grown man.

Suddenly, the sound of a key turning in the door made Charlie snap his eyes open.

He took a few steps toward the door, just as it swung open, the two of them coming face to face. Time seemed to stop, and they both froze.

It was a woman he didn't recognize, looking to be in her forties or fifties, with a gentle demeanor but a hint of unapproachable detachment.

Fear and suspicion flashed in her eyes first, and she took a wary step back.

Middle-aged woman: Who are you? Why are you here?

Before he could answer, recognition seemed to dawn on her, her expression changed, and she turned to leave.

Charlie stepped in front of her, already forming a guess in his mind.

Charlie: It looks like you might recognize me?

Charlie: I'm Charlie.

The woman turned back, her gaze lingering on him, as if she were seeing something else through him.

Middle-aged woman: You've grown so much...

Middle-aged woman: I'm a friend of your mother's, Shu Yun. You can call me Aunt Shu.

Shu Yun: I come here every year at this time to pay my respects to her.

The two sat down in the living room, each carrying their own memories.

Charlie: Aunt Shu, thank you for remembering her every year.

Shu Yun: Actually, I’ve always felt like she never really left.

Shu Yun: Maybe it's because I've never let go, and I’m unwilling to believe that a spirit clan member with such exceptional talent would pass away so easily.

From her conversation, Charlie learned that his mother's name among the spirit tribe was Xi He. Tears glistened in Shu Yun’s eyes, but she quickly wiped them away with the back of her hand.

Shu Yun: I'm sorry, that was rude of me.

Charlie: It’s okay. My mom would be happy to know that a friend still remembers her.

Shu Yun: After that incident, you left directly. I didn't even get a chance to come and see you...

Perhaps afraid of stirring up unpleasant memories for Charlie, she paused, not continuing the topic.

Shu Yun: It's getting late. I should go.

Charlie stood up with her.

Charlie: I'll see you home.

Shu Yun: There's no need. Outsiders can't enter where I live.

Shu Yun: Here's my number. If you have any questions, you can ask me.

She took out a business card with only her name and phone number on it, left it for him, and left somewhat hurriedly.

Charlie watched her go, vaguely recalling the events of that time.

That night, Charlie dreamed of his mother for the first time in many years.

They were still living in that house. The morning breeze stirred the gauze curtains in the living room, and his mother turned back with a smile, calling him for breakfast.

The young Charlie hugged his mother's waist, whining until she finally patted his head with her palm.

But when he woke up, there was only a lingering sense of loss.

-

Fate's Origin Part 2

No one noticed Charlie’s hidden unease as Aunt He, bustling about, urged him to help at the hospital by delivering lunch.

Hospitals, in any country, are crowded and busy, with patients and their families rushing and waiting, occupying nearly every nook and cranny.

Charlie, familiar with the layout, found Lao He's office and delivered Aunt He's "love-filled lunch." After a brief chat, he prepared to leave.

While waiting for the elevator, a person suddenly fainted without warning.

The girl beside him screamed, and Charlie dashed forward, quickly laying the person down flat, loosening their collar, and checking their pulse with his fingers.

The pulse was erratic, but there were no other obvious symptoms; it was as if the person had simply fallen asleep.

Before Charlie could examine them further, the arriving doctors and nurses pushed him aside and lifted the patient onto a gurney.

Only then did it belatedly dawn on Charlie that the person’s symptoms matched those from when his mother fainted years ago.

The gurney was already being wheeled into the elevator, and he watched as it ascended and stopped on the 25th floor – the top floor of the hospital.

Judging from the floor plan, the 25th floor wasn't designated for any particular department.

Charlie rubbed his fingers together, sensing a faint trace of spirit tribe energy left behind.

His heart skipped a beat, and a sudden sense of unease clouded his thoughts, making him feel inexplicably disturbed.

-

When Charlie returned to Lao He’s office, Lao He had already finished lunch and was cleaning up. He looked at Charlie with confusion.

Charlie: Lao He, do you know anything about the 25th floor?

Dr. He: The 25th floor? What about it?

Charlie stared at Lao He, then uttered two words.

Charlie: Spirit clan.

Lao He's expression changed several times, then he sighed heavily.

Dr. He: So you know.

Charlie: So this hospital is aware of the spirit clan's existence.

Dr. He: Only a few people do. The top floor of this building is specifically reserved for them.

Charlie gasped softly, still finding the whole thing incredibly unbelievable.

Charlie: Do you know what’s causing their illness?

Lao He sighed.

Dr. He: I don’t know the specifics, but I can tell they’re in a bad way. I’m just a regular doctor. The spirit clan's ailments are beyond my field.

Just then, the communicator on the desk suddenly buzzed. Lao He grabbed his white coat from the back of his chair and put it on.

Dr. He: You should head back. I’m busy right now.

Charlie didn’t leave. Instead, he waited until Lao He was out of sight before heading towards the 25th floor.

However, the 25th floor required card access. Charlie devised a plan. He located a doctor who was also a spirit clan member and quietly followed him.

The moment the elevator doors opened, Charlie instinctively held his breath.

The entire top floor was eerily quiet. The layout of the wards seemed similar to regular patient rooms, except the rooms were spaced much further apart.

He walked along the corridor to his right and stopped outside one of the wards.

-

A doctor pushed open one of the ward doors, and Charlie used the opportunity to peek inside.

The room was large, with only a single bed in the center. A spirit clan member, who appeared to be a young leopard, lay listlessly on the bed.

He rested his head on his crossed forepaws, looking weak and dispirited.

"Click" - the door closed.

Charlie stood at a distance, straining his ears to catch any sound from within.

They spoke quietly, making it hard to hear, but suddenly, one sentence was raised in volume.

???: Don't you know how severe your regression is?

Charlie: ...Regression?

Charlie keenly picked up on the key word "regression," turning it over and over in his mind.

He could almost infer its literal meaning, but what role did it play among the spirit clan?

The more he thought about it, the more his mind raced. He had always assumed his mother was simply ill, but now, for the first time, he began to question the nature of her condition.

Too many coincidences were no longer coincidences, but a deliberate pattern.

Charlie moved to a corner, took out the business card Shu Yun had given him the previous night, and called her.

When Shu Yun heard his inquiry, she didn't seem surprised at all.

Shu Yun: I knew you would call about this. I just didn't expect it to be so soon.

Charlie: I need to know, what is "regression"?

Shu Yun: Regression is the calamity that all spirit clan members face.

Shu Yun: Spirit clan members with strong spiritual energy can live for a very long time before experiencing regression.

Shu Yun: But those with weak spiritual energy will show signs of regression in a short period.

Shu Yun: Until they completely regress to their original animal forms, they will die.

Those words struck Charlie’s ears, each syllable clear and hard, making him feel dizzy.

He felt like he had found the key to unlock the truth, but the truth was too cruel.

Charlie: What are the symptoms of regression?

Shu Yun: Frequent dizziness and headaches, chaotic spiritual energy that causes them to spontaneously revert to their animal forms...

Shu Yun: Each spirit clan member reacts differently, but these are common symptoms.

Shu Yun: Why do you want to know this?

Charlie didn’t have time to answer. He stood by the window, his hands and feet growing icy, chillingly cold.

These symptoms were too similar to his mother's condition all those years ago, forcing him to recall his father's reaction.

In his memory, his father calmly told him it was a rare genetic disease. During that period, he even halted almost all company operations to focus on developing medicine for his mother.

Was he genuinely unaware, or was he hiding something? And was his mother's death connected to him?

Charlie: About what happened back then, do you know if there was anything hidden?

Shu Yun: If I knew, I wouldn't have been so tormented by this for so many years.

Charlie had countless more questions. He tried to unravel the tangled threads, searching for more evidence to support his suspicion.

Charlie: How long does the regression last? Is there any way to stop it?

Shu Yun: The duration of regression varies depending on the strength of their spiritual energy, but it cannot be stopped. There is no known cure.

Shu Yun: I don't know much else. If you want to find out the truth, you have to find the spirit clan's Grand Elder.

Shu Yun seemed to have sensed his suspicion, and her suggestion instantly solidified Charlie’s decision.

Charlie: I want to meet the Grand Elder.

Shu Yun: The spirit clan have their own territory. Outsiders can't enter. But I’ll do my best to help you try.

Charlie: Thank you.

Shu Yun: No need. I also want to know the truth about her death.

After setting a time to meet, Charlie hung up the phone, his expression grave, and turned around.

Lao He was standing not far behind him, but Charlie, his mind in turmoil, hadn't noticed.

His mother's spiritual energy was so strong. There's no way she could have regressed and died within a few short years. He couldn't help but suspect foul play.

And did his mother know about this?

He recalled how she had tried to leave the Zha family when he was five, but was eventually brought back. He had a gut feeling that his father was involved in this conspiracy.

The idea was terrifying, but perhaps a seed of suspicion had been planted in his heart long ago, and had only now sprouted.

-

At the appointed time, Charlie met Shu Yun at dusk.

Shu Yun: Follow me, I'll take you to Qingyun Marsh.

Shu Yun: The spirit clan's five senses are sharp, but you carry a strong spirit tribe energy aura, so hopefully you can pass unnoticed.

Shu Yun: If we run into anyone, leave it to me.

They entered Qingyun Station. Charlie silently surveyed the station. His eyes met a spirit clan member's.

The spirit clan member’s strange gaze swept over the two of them, but Charlie kept a straight face.

Shu Yun gave the member a cold glare, her voice low and menacing.

Shu Yun: What are you looking at? Are you challenging me?

The spirit clan member immediately shifted his gaze and boarded the train as it arrived.

Everything in Qingyun Marsh retained traces of the past, as if time moved slower here than in the outside world. And this feeling was even more pronounced when they reached Lin Island.

Shu Yun: The Grand Elder is inside. Be careful.

Charlie nodded and entered the Grand Elder's residence alone.

Grand Elder: A member of the Zha family?

The Grand Elder's face darkened the instant he saw him, and an invisible pressure spread through the air.

Standing at the center of this force, Charlie instinctively felt a prickle of fear, but he didn't back down.

Grand Elder: Hasn't your Zha family already severed ties with the spirit clan? Why are you here on Lin Island?!

The Grand Elder slammed the teacup he held onto the table, launching into an unprovoked attack.

Charlie was forced to use his power, withstanding the successive onslaught that rained down on him.

In a very short time, the two had exchanged dozens of blows, but both had reservations, and soon stopped.

Charlie: I have no ill intent towards Lin Island. I simply want to inquire about my mother's life.

Charlie: My father once said that back then, she was driven out of the spirit clan and became homeless.

The Grand Elder scoffed, his face twisting with open mockery.

Grand Elder: The spirit clan has never done anything to wrong your mother.

Grand Elder: It was she who was bewitched and left with that human, abandoning the spirit clan!

Grand Elder: I don’t want to know how that human used his smooth words. Any spirit clan member who leaves Qingyun Marsh is destined for such an end.

Charlie wanted to ask more questions, but the Grand Elder turned and strode away.

Grand Elder: Lin Island is not a place for you to run wild. Shu Yun, see him out!

Shu Yun, who had been waiting outside, escorted Charlie out of Lin Island, her face filled with apology.

Shu Yun: I'm sorry. I couldn't be of much help.

Charlie: No, Aunt Shu, you've already helped me greatly.

Charlie: I'll investigate the rest myself.

He felt that there were too many suspicious circumstances surrounding his mother’s death, and that the man who claimed to love his mother deeply was hiding secrets.

-

That night, Charlie stayed up in his room until the late hours.

A soft knocking at the door broke his deep thoughts. Lao He, who was inexplicably still awake, stood outside.

Dr. He: Why aren't you asleep yet?

Charlie: I can't sleep.

Dr. He: Still thinking about what happened today?

Lao He came in from the doorway and sat down with him, seemingly with his own heavy thoughts.

Charlie: Lao He, what kind of person was my mother?

Dr. He: Your mother...

From Lao He’s reminiscing tone, Charlie heard about another side of his mother.

Dr. He: She was an exceptionally talented doctor, and she was able to have a compassionate heart because of that ability.

Dr. He: It was about 23 years ago, when Guangqi City was suddenly hit by widespread, unusual natural disasters.

Dr. He: A devastating tsunami destroyed the coastal areas, and a series of fires broke out.

Dr. He: Every hospital in the city was overwhelmed with patients.

Dr. He: Seeing so many patients in agony from the fires, building a burns center became our shared ambition at the time.

Dr. He: She always believed that treating burn victims was nothing less than giving them a chance to be reborn...

Dr. He: So she devoted all her energy to making that happen.

At this point, Lao He paused, his voice tinged with regret.

Dr. He: Unfortunately, she was severely injured during an overseas aid mission and was forcefully taken home by your father....

Charlie suddenly understood the reason for his mother’s persistent unhappiness, because her former aspirations made her unwilling to become a caged bird.

He was also struck by the similarity of his own path to his mother’s. It was as if an invisible hand of fate were pushing them onto the same track.

In the end, Charlie didn’t voice his suspicions about his mother’s death. He didn’t want to disturb Lao He’s peaceful life with those matters.

However, before leaving the room, Lao He suddenly turned back and asked him.

Dr. He: Charlie, would you be willing to work here?

Charlie: What?

Charlie looked at Lao He in surprise. His expression didn't seem to suggest a spur-of-the-moment thought, but rather something he had considered for a long time.

Dr. He: I've heard about your work overseas. Even if you were trying to hide it from me, I still made some inquiries.

Dr. He: I can sense that you’re not happy.

Dr. He: Your mother once said that she wished her child a lifetime of happiness.

Dr. He: Maybe a change of scenery would make you a little happier.

Charlie had never contemplated such an option before. He had always imagined his life trajectory continuing along his chosen path, moving forward and upward.

But suddenly, he began to hesitate.

The trajectory of fate, from that moment on, gradually began to change.

-

Reopening

Charlie's Mirage: There's a party going on outside, why are you hiding in here, staring at yourself in the mirror?

Charlie: Because you can only appear in the mirror. Though your appearance this time isn’t much different from mine.

Charlie's Mirage: Don’t play dumb. I’m from six months in the future. You summoned me to find out the choices you’ll make, right?

Charlie: I admit, up until a moment ago, I really wanted to know what the future would hold after making that choice.

Charlie: But you know how fickle I can be. I’m over it now.

Charlie's Mirage: Your face tells a different story.

Charlie's Mirage: Do you know what kind of expression people have when they’re unsure? Just like yours right now.

Charlie: Would it kill you to say something encouraging? But judging by that smug look, I’m guessing things go pretty well for me in six months.

Charlie: I was just thinking about what that guy said earlier.

Charlie's Mirage: He always likes to talk a lot. Which thing are you referring to?

Charlie: "Charlie, if you don’t marry her, you can’t go to Guangqi City, and you can’t continue being a doctor."

Charlie: What do you think about that?

Charlie's Mirage: I mourn your tragic future.

Charlie: Can't you talk like a normal person?

Charlie's Mirage: I’m just being honest.

Charlie's Mirage: Good heavens, you’re not actually thinking about marrying that unfortunate girl, just to fulfill your dream, are you?

Charlie: Of course not.

Charlie's Mirage: Then what’s with all the hesitation?

Charlie: I haven’t hesitated for a second. I won’t sacrifice another person’s freedom for my own.

Charlie: Marriage is an unfair contract. We’ve both witnessed enough of that tragedy.

Charlie: Even a single second of hesitation over this choice would be an insult to myself.

Charlie's Mirage: Yeah. An insult to the very idea of freedom.

Charlie's Mirage: If you’ve already made your decision, why did you even bother asking me what I think?

Charlie: I’m just… suddenly a little tired. I’m questioning whether what I’m doing is right.

Charlie: Not just about today's events, but every single thing I've done since I realized my life was completely under his control.

Charlie's Mirage: You're confused, because you regret it?

Charlie: No, I don't regret it. I'm confused about whether all this resistance I’ve been fighting is truly leading me towards freedom.

Charlie: Or rather, is my resistance even real resistance?

Charlie: I don't agree with him, I don't pity him, I despise the things he's done.

Charlie: But I can't hate him either. When I face him, I even… even want to run away. Just thinking like that makes me feel relieved.

Charlie: Like just now, when he said that thing to me, my first thought was to just leave for good. I'm tired of this constant battle with him.

Charlie: So I'm wondering if what I’ve always thought was resistance, a pursuit of freedom, is actually just me running away.

Charlie: I’m running away from those questions, and even more so, from what lies behind those questions… from my father’s...

Charlie's Mirage: You want to say, love. Right? Because most of the time he tries to control your life and choose your future for you, but there are also many times you can feel that he genuinely loves you.

Charlie: Yeah. But I don’t want to admit it.

Charlie's Mirage: You're so brave when facing others, why are you so weak when facing yourself?

Charlie's Mirage: Trust your gut. That's not love.

Charlie's Mirage: Say, maybe it once was love, but it’s become distorted now.

Charlie's Mirage: And you're not running away. You've chosen to be kind, so you keep all the confusion and regret to yourself.

Charlie's Mirage: Besides, you won’t keep running away forever.

Charlie: So what should I do? I feel like I can only continue resisting… or rather, escaping, in the name of chasing freedom.

Charlie's Mirage: Why not just keep going for now? If you do nothing, that's certain failure.

Charlie's Mirage: Soon, once he’s used up all your kindness, you’ll be able to face your true feelings. You only need to be true to yourself.

Charlie: What about freedom?

Charlie's Mirage: One step at a time, Charlie.

Charlie's Mirage: The prerequisite for freedom is first having yourself, and the prerequisite for having love is also first loving yourself. Isn’t that right?

-

Before Freedom

My fiancée ran away.

I never thought someone as perfect as me would one day encounter such a cliché.

Amidst the crackling of burning firewood, I set down the file I was holding.

Before receiving this “terrible news,” I was studying her photograph by the light of the campfire – The person in the photo had a standard, rehearsed smile with the corners of her lips lifted at a thirty-degree angle, but her eyes were different. They held a spark of life.

To be honest, in the world around me, almost nothing feels alive anymore. It only existed before I turned nineteen, and even then, it always appeared in a deceptive way.

For some reason, a sudden urge arose within me to ask her face-to-face why she ran away. Or perhaps that reason wasn't all that important, but it was the only excuse I had to actually meet her.

Maybe we could become great friends. But as recompense for this little fright, I should offer an equally unforgettable first meeting.

After all, only something truly memorable is worthy of being the real start of our story.

-

PHONE CALL

Charlie: My fiancée, something terrible happened today.

You: What is it? I actually have something… pretty scary to tell you too.

You: You go first.

Charlie: Okay, first, please answer me honestly, how much is my perfect face worth in your opinion?

You: In my opinion? It's priceless, of course!

You: Why do you sound so down? Are you planning to quit your job and rely on your looks?

Charlie: Of course not. But someone's using my photo as their profile picture to sell medical exam study materials.

Charlie: And they’re only charging nineteen ninety-nine (19.99) for a set of study questions. It’s an utter waste of my assets! My soul has been deeply wounded.

You: Wait, someone stole your photo?

Charlie: Yes. But don’t worry, fiancée. I’ve already contacted a lawyer to file a lawsuit for copyright infringement.

You: That's good. There have been a lot of scams lately, but since you're taking care of it, relax, it's not scary!

Charlie: But the fact that scammers can't even make money using my face means everyone's eyesight is impaired to some extent.

Charlie: Isn't that scary?

You: Hmm… How about you listen to my scary story first?

Charlie: Of course. A flawless fiancé would never refuse his fiancée's requests, even when his soul has been deeply wounded.

You: I made plans to play a murder mystery game with my coworkers, but it's a horror one, so I was hoping you could join me…

Charlie: …I would never refuse my fiancée's invitation.

You: Oh, you’re not scared? I was worried you wouldn't want to come.

Charlie: Well, two negatives make a positive, so the two scary things have canceled each other out.

Charlie: And with my love for my fiancée, the Charlie standing before you is absolutely fearless.

-

TEXT MESSAGES

Charlie: Chirp chirp chirp. You: Chirp chirp chirp? Charlie: Hmm, isn't it the weekend? Why is my fiancée awake so early? Charlie: Were you woken up by Sherry? You: She always looks out from the balcony after she wakes me up. Does she miss you? Charlie: Yeah, that’s not surprising. After all, she’s never been separated from me for this long. Charlie: But fiancée, is Sherry the only one who misses me? You: Then please, Doctor Charlie, hurry back from your business trip! Both Sherry and I miss you very much. Charlie: It’s rare for my fiancée to express her affection so directly. I must respond in kind. Charlie (Voice MSG): Ahem, I miss you too, fiancée. You: There are so many things I want to do while you're away on your trip. I'm saving them all for when you get back! Charlie: Hmm… Let me guess, is one of them “embracing my fiancé?” Charlie: If so, you won't have to wait long. I can make that happen in ten seconds.

-

TIMELINE POST

Charlie: The “good fortune” character we put up for the New Year has fallen down again.

You: It's been so long since New Year’s, we’ve gathered enough good fortune already! So it’s okay if it falls~

Charlie’s Response: You’re right. Then next up, it’s time for us to enjoy our days of happiness together.

.

.

.

.

.

S2 Chapter 4-01

If you'd like to support my translations and read them DAYS before they are published on this Tumblr, consider joining my Patreon!

Alternatively, feel free to leave me a tip here or buy me a coffee through the "Leave a Tip" button on my navigation bar. Thank you for all your support!

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 TWO SLOW DANCERS, LAST ONES OUT

FEATURING: osamu dazai

SUMMARY: your one day of pretend with dazai is over, but something isn't right. there's more going on than what he's led you to believe, and you're desperately trying to figure out what it is before it's too late.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: WAHHHHHHHHHHH PMREADER BEAST AU IS OFFICIALLY DONE. CAN U GUYS BELIEVE IT. what was supposed to be a 15k one-shot turned into a 40k monster </3 one day i will learn to be casual about things, but i fear it is not today </3 and especially not with beast au. wahhhhhh guys this was such a pleasure to write & share with you all, thank you all for bearing with me throughout it and showing me so much love. i put my full heart into this one :') and a special thank u to miss river & one of my irls who beta'd this whole monster for me and cleaned it up for you all to read. if you guys had seen the number of commas that river had to fix for me naifhsaiudfhsdu HUMBLING TRULY. anyway i love the both of you so so very deeply this couldn't have been done without you. as always, reblogs appreciated! MWAH love you guys <33

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, beast!dazai, tragedy, angst, canon compliant.

CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: mcd (suicide, canon), hints toward suicidal thoughts at the end.

SEE: TWO SLOW DANCERS SERIES MASTERLIST

The next morning, the two of you dress in silence. 

You don’t know what to say—you don’t even know if you have anything to say. Or you suppose that’s not true, you have a lot to say, but most of it you’re sure will just be answered with more ‘I can’t’s and you just don’t want to deal with the disappointment. Plus, Dazai seems to be done with whatever day of ‘weakness’ he had yesterday. His expression has been cold and withdrawn since he woke up an hour ago—he’s hardly even spared you a glance. 

He slept well, though. You couldn’t help but wonder if this was the first time he’d slept through the night in months—years, even. The moment he rested his head back on the pillow, one arm curled around your waist, Dazai was out for the night. He ended up shimmying closer to you so that he could rest his head on your chest, breath even, expression peaceful for the first time in… too long.

You were not quite as lucky.

Your eyes are heavy as you button up your dress shirt. You spent the whole night awake, restless as you watched him sleep; hours were spent carding your fingers through his hair, relishing in intimacy and trust he hadn’t given you in years, and hours were spent with your fingers curled around a paper-knife he left on the nightstand, considering the drawbacks of putting it through his throat while he slept in your arms. 

You could’ve done it—you almost did do it. You had the tip of the small knife pressed to his pulse point for twenty minutes, fingers trembling, each breath he took making the sharp edge press deeper into his bandages. Dazai is usually a light sleeper, so you suppose it’s a testament to how tired he was and how much he trusts you that he didn’t even stir with a knife against his throat. 

You weighed out the pros and cons. You would get away with it; who would even try to punish you for it? The Flags? Itou or Klaus? Chuuya? Over half of the upper echelon wants him dead, and the other half has no love left for him after he murdered Mori—Dazai is alone; he has no friends left, and he has no allies. The only reason people put up with him as boss is because of how the Mafia has prospered under his reign, and that will only be enough for so long. There are already whispers of incompetence and madness because of his recent decisions with the Armed Detective Agency. So, not only would you get away with it, but you’d be rewarded for it, you’d be given the seat and the scarf and full control over the Port Mafia. The worst you’d deal with is Chuuya’s irritation because he wanted to be the one to put Dazai down. 

And Dazai deserved it, didn’t he? After the four years of hell he put you through, after murdering Mori—Dazai deserves to die, and you deserve to be the one to do it, Chuuya would understand that. Dazai treated him like shit too, but it was nothing like what he put you through. He’s only as insistent as he is now about being the one to do it because he doesn’t think you can handle it. You gave him better than he deserved—a whole day of being able to pretend nothing changed between the two of you, being able to pretend his actions didn’t ruin what you had with him… it was more than he deserved by all accounts.

You almost don’t know why you didn’t go through with it.

“What are you thinking?” he finally asks, voice still rough with sleep, all of the warmth from yesterday gone. 

You look at him from the corner of your eye as you pull your suit jacket on. He’s not looking at you—he’s adjusting his scarf, making sure the ends are even in the mirror. His lips are curled down, bandages back over the left side of his face, and when you don’t respond immediately, his gaze flickers up to look at your reflection. You immediately look away.

“That I regret not putting a knife in your throat last night,” you tell him flatly. 

Dazai lets out a noise, you’re unsure if it’s a laugh or a scoff. You stiffen when you hear him padding across the bedroom in your direction. You can feel his presence looming behind you, fingers brushing over your hips before he lifts a hand to your chin, tilting your head back enough to force you to look at him over your shoulder. His touch is light, but it’s so different from the gentle caresses from last night that it sends shivers down your spine. It’s almost… you aren’t even sure how to describe it—oppressive, possessive, taunting? It’s light, but somehow the weight of it is unbearable—like he knows he’s going to say something to upset you and he’s waiting for you to react just as he wants.

You’re back to the mind games and power plays.

“You’re so quick to say such cruel things,” he murmurs, breath warm against your skin. His eye glints with something unreadable—amusement, maybe, like he knows something you don’t—but all you care about is the confirmation that yesterday is really over. You know that for sure now with him looking at you like this. “But you always come crawling back to me, don’t you?” 

You slap his hand away hard, but he doesn’t flinch.

“Fuck you,” you say coldly. “Do you want to know why I didn’t?” 

Dazai tilts his head to the side, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. His gaze is half-lidded as he looks over you, but he finally raises his eyebrows, beckoning for you to speak.

“Because last night, I finally realized how fucking miserable of an existence your life is,” you tell him, but you don’t find any pleasure in the way he draws back ever so slightly. “Death would be too easy for you.”

For a moment, the air between you stills, thick with something neither of you wants to name. Dazai’s expression is unreadable, but you don’t miss the flicker of pain that crosses his face. Just as quickly as you catch it, it’s gone, replaced with that infuriating smirk.

“Oh?” he hums, rocking back on his heels. “And here I thought it was your inability to let go of the past kicking in again. You’re too fond of me to ever hurt me.”

“Fond of you?” you scoff, taking a step closer, ignoring the way your heart races when he doesn’t move away. “What is there to be fond of, Dazai? Chuuya is right, you’re a walking corpse. I haven’t been fond of you in years, I’ve been mourning you.”

You don’t mean the words; you’re just looking to hurt him, but his expression shifts again, something raw in his gaze as he looks down at you that he can’t quite push away fast enough. Your stomach twists, but before you can say anything, his sharp grin returns. “Ah, and yet, you stayed. How many times did I give you the opportunity to leave?”

You shake your head and move to walk past him. You can’t stay in this place any longer—it’s suffocating, too much of a reminder of what could’ve been. Before you can get far, his hand darts out to grab your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. 

You turn your head to the side to look at him from the corner of your eye.

“Just out of curiosity,” he finally asks, a cruel edge to his voice that has you stiff, “how much of yesterday did you actually believe?”

His words and the implication of them don’t cause the pain that he clearly wants to make you feel. They can’t, not with the way you can feel his fingers trembling around your wrist. You look down at them pointedly and then drag your gaze back up to his face. Dazai snatches his hand back and shoves it into his pocket, but the damage has already been done.

“Not even you’re that good of a liar, Dazai,” you say quietly. Before you can change your mind, you turn to face him, lifting your hand to cup his cheek. His lashes instinctively flutter shut as he leans into your touch; the immediate reaction only serves to prove you more. “I don’t regret yesterday, but I hope you do.”

Dazai’s throat bobs beneath his bandages as he looks down at you. He looks young suddenly, even with the black cloak acting as a shield and Mori’s scarf hanging around his neck. He looks like a kid who knows he’s done something wrong but doesn’t know how to fix it. His lips part slightly, then press together again, as if he wants to say something but can’t find the right words. The usual playful glint in his eyes has dulled, replaced with uncertainty, fear even. 

“I should,” he replies, voice hoarse. “I really should, but I’ve always been too selfish when it comes to you. I’m sorry.”

You exhale, thumb running over his cheekbone gently. “I wish I could hate you.”

Dazai’s lips curl up into a small, wry smile. “Me too.”

Your hand drops from his face as you look away, gaze lowering to the ground. “We should go.”

Dazai lets out a quiet hum of agreement, following you out of the bedroom and to the front door. As you step outside, the early morning air is crisp, biting against your skin. The world feels too quiet as if it knows the weight of what happened between you and Dazai. He walks a step behind you, subdued.

You pause when you see that there are two cars waiting outside, your throat tight. If you’re not going back to headquarters together, then… You can’t help the wave of panic that starts to claw at your chest when you realize what that means. You look back at him and ask too quietly, “Are you… sending me away again?” 

His expression shifts into a softer one when he sees the genuine fear that crosses your face. His lips curl up into a small smile, and he reaches out to brush the back of his fingers against your cheek. 

“Just for a meeting,” he says to ease your panic, voice low and soothing, fingers lingering against your face as if he’s reluctant to pull away. “The Family reached out, wanted us to send someone to Rome to meet with them. Didn’t want to disclose why over the phone.”

Your brows furrow. “Goldoni reached out to you?” you ask suspiciously, wondering why he wouldn’t have just reached out to you instead. 

Dazai raises his eyebrows. “I am the boss,” he replies dryly, amused. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

You frown but decide not to press any further, letting it go with a shake of your head. You look back over to the cars—Albatross and Iceman are in one, two of Dazai’s personal guards are in the other.

“Itou and Klaus are already at the airport getting things ready,” Dazai answers your unspoken question. “Albatross and Iceman will escort you there.”

“Chuuya has a mission in Tokyo today, Lippmann is filming in Nagoya,” you say quietly, watching Dazai’s face carefully for any flicker of a reaction. “Who is going to be back at headquarters with you?”

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, much to your displeasure. When he sees the flinty expression cross your face, he smiles. “Atsushi-kun and Kyouka-chan will be there. So will Kouyou-kun and Piano Man. I’ll be fine.”

You’re still unsettled; something about it isn’t sitting right with you as you turn your attention back to the two cars. You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the unease creeping up your spine. Dazai is many things—careless isn’t usually one of them. He’s the smartest man you know, every action he takes is perfectly calculated. If he says he’ll be fine, then logically, you know he will be.

But logic doesn’t soothe the pit in your stomach.

“Fine,” you say at last, though it’s clear you don’t mean it. You step toward the car where Albatross and Iceman are waiting, but before you get down the front steps of the porch, Dazai speaks again.

He says your name. His voice is light, almost teasing, but there’s an underlying weight to it that makes you pause. When you glance back, his expression is unreadable, dark eye giving away nothing as he stares at your face, almost like he’s trying to memorize the picture of you beneath the early morning sun.

“What?” you press after a moment when he doesn’t say anything else.

“Will you… kiss me one last time?” he asks, his voice raspy and his gaze flickering with uncertainty as he looks down at you, fingers twitching at his side.

Your breath catches at the request, and for a second, all you can hear is the faint rustling of the trees, the distant chirp of a bird somewhere overhead, the engines of the two cars waiting for the two of you running. The morning light is soft, golden, and his eye looks like a pool of honey beneath it, gentle and inviting, warm. 

You swallow, heart stuttering in your chest. One last time. He watches you carefully, waiting, fingers curling slightly at his sides as if he wants to reach for you but doesn’t dare. You’re acutely aware of the four pairs of eyes trained on you from inside the waiting cars.

You could say no. You should say no. 

Yesterday is over, you’ve already given him more than he deserves.

But you step forward, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. His breath hitches, the soft expression on his face shifting to something closer to yearning. You barely breathe as you reach up, fingers brushing lightly against his jaw as you tilt your face toward his.

Neither of you close the distance for a moment. You stand there, lips just almost brushing, dizzy with the feeling of sharing each other’s air. You finally lean in that last bit, lips grazing his. The kiss is soft, hesitant at first, and then he exhales shakily, pressing his lips firmly against yours. He shudders as your hands slide up to thread your fingers through his hair, kissing you with a type of aching desperation that makes your chest tighten. His hands find your waist, fingers digging into your skin like he’s afraid to let go. Like the moment is slipping through his fingers even as it happens. 

When you finally break apart, his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven. His fingers linger on your waist, reluctant to let go.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just close your eyes, willing away the sudden tears that spring to them. You don’t even know why you want to cry—maybe because it feels too much like a formal goodbye, that this is Dazai telling you that things will never be the way they were again, and he needs you to let go.

“I love you,” you tell him quietly, voice cracking.

Dazai lets out a shaky breath, eye sliding shut as he finally pulls away. His hands drop to his side limply, and you pull yours to your body, wrapping your arms around your waist as you look up at him. 

“I know,” he whispers. “You shouldn’t. I’m sorry. I love you, too. Always.”

You make your way over to the car, but before you can open the door, Dazai speaks again.

“I—” he starts to say, and when you look back at him, there’s a conflicted expression on his face that makes you concerned. “I’ll miss you.”

You hesitate. “I’ll miss you too. See you in a few days.”

A smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes tugs at the corner of his lips, but he doesn’t say anything more. You slide into the car, shutting the door behind you. Neither Albatross nor Iceman says anything as you get settled in the back, your chest feeling impossibly heavy as you stare down at your lap.

“I didn’t understand,” Iceman says after a moment, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“You still don’t understand,” you reply tightly, swallowing the lump in your throat as your gaze flickers up to the rearview mirror. Dazai hasn’t budged from his spot on the steps, lips curled up into a small smile as he watches you pull away. “You can’t understand.”

“I know,” Iceman agrees quietly as Albatross drives down the long driveway of the beach house, “but I understand enough to know that I was wrong.”

You don’t reply, resting your head against the window as you stare into the side mirror until Dazai finally disappears from your line of sight. You don’t see the way his smile fades as soon as the car turns out of view, but that unsettling feeling returns, curling deep in your stomach like a warning that you can’t quite decipher.

You exhale slowly, trying to shake it off, and prepare to meet Itou and Klaus at the airport. It’s more important for you to figure out what this meeting with the Family is going to be about before you get there, but the further you get from Dazai, the bigger that pit in your stomach gets.

———

Klaus has been insufferable since the plane took off. He’s excited to be going back to Europe—it’s his first time back since you brought him back to Yokohama with you three years ago. Every five minutes, he’s asking if you guys can go to Munich after business is handled with the Family, and you don’t know how to tell him no without feeling like a bitch, so you keep giving Itou pleading looks to make him be the bad guy, but the man has the audacity to blatantly ignore you, whistling as he looks out the window. 

He’s calmed down for the most part now, though. He’s lounging back across the seats behind you and Itou, playing on his phone while you guys try to theorize why the Family wants to meet so suddenly. You’ve been dancing around the subject of what happened yesterday, and you know he wants to ask because he keeps side-eyeing you but just can’t figure out how to go about it. 

“Just ask, god,” you finally say irritably when Itou gives you another long side eye before dramatically sighing. “Stop pretending to be coy.”

Itou lights up like a kid in a candy shop, straightening in his seat before leaning forward, green eyes gleaming. “Tell me what happened yesterday. You were with him, weren’t you?”

You roll your eyes, distantly noticing that Klaus stopped tapping away at his game and is probably eavesdropping. You shift in your seat, trying to decide what exactly you want to say—neither of them are particularly fond of Dazai. Klaus especially dislikes him and doesn’t even really try to hide it when the two of them are face to face. So, you have to put in an effort to ensure that Klaus never has to go up to his office, that way you don’t have to deal with the repercussions of him disrespecting the boss to his face. Itou isn’t quite as upfront with his feelings about Dazai, but you know and that’s why you also know that in spite of his gossip mongering attitude, he wants you to tell him that his suspicions are wrong because he doesn’t like you spending time with him. 

“Why do you even care?” you finally ask flatly. “You already know the answer.”

As you expect, disappointment flashes across Itou’s face, and Klaus lets out a scoff of disgust, hanging above your seat to intrude on the conversation. You shake your head and look back down at your phone, frowning when you realize you still don’t have a response from Goldoni. It’s still the middle of the night back in Italy, but you’re becoming increasingly more concerned about all of this—the disconcerted feeling you’ve had since the beach house has only become more intense with each moment away from Dazai.

“I want to hear it from you,” Itou says flippantly, leaning back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. “What happened?”

“Yeah, what happened?” Klaus parrots, tossing a leg over the other seat so he can climb over to sit next to you. He leans in obnoxiously before he’s even fully climbed over and says, “Tell us.”

“Yeah,” Itou agrees with a smug smile. “Tell us.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Oh?” you question with a smile that neither of them trusts from the way they exchange looks with one another. “You want to hear about how good he fucked me?” 

Klaus recoils immediately, freezing mid-climb, knee awkwardly bent over the seat, and Itou stares at you aghast, like you’ve personally betrayed him.

“Gross,” Klaus gags, not even bothering to sit down next to you, going right back over the seat into his own area of the plane. He spits something else out in German that you can’t quite make out before sneering at you and saying, “You’re so disgusting. God. Don’t look at me, I can’t even stand the sight of you.”

“What is wrong with you?” Itou demands, looking thoroughly perturbed as he turns his attention back to the window. “That was so unnecessary.”

You laugh, delighted by their reactions. “But you asked,” you say sweetly, resting your chin on your hand. “You wanted details.”

“Not those details,” Klaus snaps at you from the far end of the plane, clearly trying to put as much space between the two of you as possible. “Obviously.”

“I was thinking more like, where did he bring you? Why did he bring you somewhere other than his office? Not—” He gestures vaguely, looking genuinely disturbed. “Not whatever nightmare you were about to unleash on us.”

Your smile softens as Itou rubs harshly at his eyes, still thrown off by your comment. You sigh as you look down at your lap. “I don’t know. It was… weird. He was acting weird.”

Itou looks up at you again, frowning. “How so?” 

“I… I don’t know, I can’t describe it,” you say quietly, shaking your head.

You won’t explain it. How are you supposed to explain the stuff he was saying without him sounding insane? You trust Itou and Klaus with your life, but that’s exactly the problem. Their loyalty has never been to the Port Mafia, it’s been to you. They’re already of the opinion that Dazai is bad for you, you don’t need to fan the flames with information that could confirm all of the rumors circulating about Dazai’s deteriorating mental state. 

Dazai doesn’t need more people working against him right now, so until you can figure out exactly what he meant at the beach house, you’re going to keep the information to yourself. 

 Klaus has drawn closer again, standing in the aisle next to your seat. He frowns, uncharacteristically serious, “Why not? What did he do?” 

You hesitate, fingers tightening in your lap. “Just… off,” you say, knowing it’s not enough but not sure how else to put it. “Like he wanted to tell me something, but he wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.”

“That bastard never has an issue running his mouth,” Klaus mutters, ignoring the flinty look you give him. “What? It’s true.”

“Watch your mouth,” you tell him flatly, picking at your nails. 

He isn’t entirely right—Dazai never has a problem running his mouth when it serves his interests, but he’s notoriously prone to withholding information from people when it doesn’t. You’ve known since the day you met him that there was something… odd going on with him, that he doesn’t tell you everything, but the things he was saying back at the beach house… they just didn’t make sense. You couldn’t understand the jumbled explanations he gave you, so there was no way anyone else would.

Itou leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“Did he hurt you?” His voice is soft, but there’s a dangerous edge beneath it—one that reminds you just how serious he can be when it comes to you. Sometimes, you forget just how ruthless he is, how easily he’ll turn to violence if he thinks you’re in danger. Klaus might be the louder of the two and quicker to act, but Itou is the one who follows through without hesitation. Of all of the members of the Port Mafia, he’s the one with the most blood on his hands—more than Iceman, more than even Chuuya. 

“No,” you say immediately. “No, he didn’t. He—he just… He said things. Things I don’t really understand yet.”

Itou and Klaus exchange another look, the kind that makes your stomach twist. They don’t trust Dazai, and you can’t even blame them for it.

“And you’re not going to tell us what those things were,” Itou sighs with a frown, but he doesn’t push more than that.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

Klaus rolls his eyes but changes the subject as he nods down to your phone. “Goldoni responded.”

You sit up straight in your seat, turning your attention down to your phone. Itou shifts in the seat across from you, leaning forward as he waits for you to read the message. You almost fumble as you open your phone; the unnerved feeling that’s been clinging to you since you left the beach house returns so suddenly that it almost makes you sick.

Goldoni: We don’t have a meeting. Did I miss something? 

“Well?” Itou asks, but his voice is distant, muffled, like it’s coming from underwater. Your ears ring as your eyes track over the words over and over again, trying to figure out if you’re reading them correctly. “What did it say?”

No meeting? But then why—

You feel sick to your stomach as you force yourself up to your feet. A cold wave of nausea crashes over you, head swimming, and Klaus has to steady you. His lips move—he’s saying something—but his words are lost in the deafening thrum of your pulse pounding in your ears. You blink down at your phone, fingers tightening around it as if the message might change if you stared hard enough.

Dazai lied.

But why?

“We need to get back to Yokohama,” you breathe out, voice hoarse and uneven. “Right now. We need to go now.”

“What?” Klaus demands, disgruntled, but concerned more than anything else. “What’s going on?” 

“Just breathe for a second,” Itou tries to soothe you, but your heart is racing out of your chest, the dark claws of dread ripping you open. “Breathe, what’s going on?”

But you can’t breathe. Not when your stomach is twisted in knots, not when your mind is racing through the implications at a dizzying speed. Your thoughts are unraveling, and panic is clawing its way up your throat, heart hammering against your ribs erratically.

Dazai is moving pieces.

He sent you, Klaus, and Itou to Europe.

He made sure Chuuya was out of the city.

Lippmann is up in Nagoya.

Iceman and Albatross are occupied all day with missions.

Are Kouyou and Piano Man even at base? Atsushi and Kyouka? Or was that a lie, too?

It’s not a coincidence, not chance—nothing ever is with Dazai Osamu. 

He planned this. He’s clearing the building out of all of the Mafia’s most capable members, all of the people who protect him. 

But why? What is he trying to do?

Only one answer comes to you—your hand flies to your mouth to hold back the nausea that suddenly pushes at your throat. 

“There’s no meeting with Goldoni,” you gasp, stumbling in the direction of the cockpit. Your body is moving solely on instinct, driven by fear. “He lied. We need to get back to Yokohama right now.”

Itou pushes past you to get to the pilot, not wasting any more time, and Klaus leads you back to a chair to sit down before you collapse. Your mind races, trying to piece together answers, dragging you through every interaction you’ve had with him the past two days, a whirlwind of fragmented moments flying around you. The lingering looks, the flashes of everything he refuses to speak in his eyes, the way he cried after he called you up to his office. The unusual tenderness, the beach house, all of the apologies, all of the regret, all of the refusals when you begged him to explain.

You’ll never forgive me.

You still don’t understand, I hope you never do.

You were never supposed to be the price of this.

I’m scared. I’m so scared for what comes next.

I knew how things were going to end from the beginning.

I tried to rid myself of you to make things easier on both of us.

How did it take you so long to realize? 

Your hand flies to your mouth as you gag, vision blurring—you should’ve realized, you know Dazai. You knew something was up, it never should’ve taken you so long to figure this out. If you hadn’t been blindsided by everything at the beach house, caught up in the fleeting illusion of everything that could’ve been, maybe you would’ve understood sooner.

“That’s why he brought me there,” you gasp, trying to rock back and forth to calm yourself down as horror sinks into your chest. “That’s what yesterday was about. It wasn’t—he wasn’t—it was a distraction. It was to distract me. We’ll never get there in time.”

You can text Iceman and Albatross to go back, but Chuuya won’t look at his phone until his mission is complete. Dazai knows this—he planned this, he counted on it—and you’re sure he also accounted for you putting together that there isn’t actually a meeting in Rome with Goldoni, which means—

Which means whatever Dazai is doing, it’s already started, and you’re rapidly running out of time to stop it.

———

Headquarters is a mess by the time you, Klaus, and Itou arrive. The air is thick with gunpowder and the acrid scent of burning rubber. Muffled shouts echo from inside the building, and the crack of gunfire ricochets through the parking lot. Albatross and Iceman are in the parking lot shooting at an enemy you can’t see, crouched behind a line of abandoned cars, Chuuya hasn’t even read your text yet, you don’t know where Kouyou and Piano Man are, you don’t know where Atsushi and Kyouka are, you don’t know where Dazai is. He hasn’t read any of your texts either, and every passing second has your heart crawling up your throat.

“What’s going on?” you demand, yelping as Albatross reaches out to drag you undercover with him and Iceman. You hit the ground hard, barely catching yourself on one hand as bullets pepper the pavement inches from where you were just standing. Klaus and Itou follow quickly. “Al—”

“It’s the Armed Detective Agency,” Albatross snarls with a bitter expression, reloading his gun with quick, practiced movements. “I don’t know how the fuck they got inside headquarters. We can’t get in—every time we manage to take one down, that fucking doctor of theirs heals them right back up. They’re holding us at the entrance while their other members do… whatever the fuck they’re doing in our base. We don't—”

You go still. Albatross doesn’t notice your reaction, but Iceman does. His sharp gaze flickers to you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Yosano is… here?” you ask, suddenly feeling too cold. You don’t really know what you were expecting—you knew Yosano was with the Armed Detective Agency, and you figured that with the rising tensions, you’d be forced to see her soon, but you didn’t expect it to be this soon. “Now?” 

Iceman looks at you from the corner of his eye. “You know the Agency’s doctor?” 

“It’s a long story,” you say distantly, swallowing thickly as you try to push away all of the old insecurities that claw their way to your throat. You can’t think about any of this now, you need to get to Dazai. You still don’t know what he's planning, but you know it’s nothing good, and if your suspicions are right… “I need to get over to her. I can convince her to let me through.”

A lie. Or at least a gamble. Yosano has always been sentimental, and you’re betting your life on her feeling guilty over having left you behind on Tokoyami Island when she blew it up, but you can’t let your uncertainty show; otherwise, Itou and Klaus will never let you try. 

“You’re not going over there alone,” Itou immediately says, as you expect. 

“They won't let all of us through, Itou,” you say quietly. “We don’t know how many there are. We can’t waste time fighting. I need to get to Dazai now. I’ll have an easier time convincing her to let me through alone than all of us. She knows I’m noncombatant.”

“No,” Itou snaps, his voice low but firm. “We’re not splitting up. The moment you stand up, they’ll be shooting at you—”

“I’m not asking permission,” you interrupt coldly. “Don’t forget who’s the executive here.”

His jaw tightens. Klaus shifts beside him, uncertain, glancing between the two of you. Albatross swears under his breath. The tension is thick enough to choke on, and you’re becoming increasingly more desperate—time is passing too quickly, and you’re already out of it. 

“I don’t give a fuck if you’re an executive. I’m not letting you die for whatever fucked up scheme that bastard planned,” Itou spits at you. “You said yourself that he set this all in motion for whatever reason. You—”

“Let her go.” It’s Iceman who speaks up, expression grim as his gaze settles on you. “She knows the boss better than any of us. If she thinks she needs to get up there, then she’s probably right. I’ll cover you if they don’t stop shooting.”

Itou gives Iceman a betrayed look, but Iceman keeps his gaze trained on you. You think maybe this is supposed to be an apology for the argument that happened the other night. You nod at him in thanks.

You don’t give them time to change their minds. Before anyone can stop you, you brace yourself, inhale sharply, and then run right into enemy fire. You brace yourself for the pain—the bullets don’t immediately stop, one grazes your ear, another your bicep. It’s a miracle that you’re not struck in the chest or head. It’s an agonizing three seconds before the gunfire comes to a halt, and when it does, you almost wish that you had been shot because you turn your gaze to the doors of headquarters, and Yosano Akiko is standing there staring at you like you’re a ghost.

She doesn’t move. She just waits there, eyes wide, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. The last time she saw you, she was being dragged off the Schwalbe Ritter after planting explosions that would have killed you, her, and everyone else still on the ship.

Behind you, you hear someone shift, but no one dares open fire. Your gaze drags behind her—you only see two gunmen, a boy with orange hair and a blonde man, but that doesn't make sense, does it? It seemed like there were far more than just two gunmen. 

“You…” she breathes out, a haunted expression on her face. “I—”

“I need to get through,” you say, not wasting a second. You have to force your voice to stay steady. “Now.”

Yosano doesn’t answer right away, grip tightening on the weapon in her hand, but she doesn’t raise it. Her expression twists—guilt, disbelief, and hesitation all war in her eyes before something else creeps in. Something colder. Your stomach drops.

“I can’t let you through,” she says quietly. “We have people in there and—”

“I don’t give a damn about your people,” you interrupt. “I need to get to Dazai. Please, Yosano.”

The words taste like acid—you hate begging, but you especially hate begging her. You think you’d rather swallow glass; it feels like reopening an old wound with your own hands. Yosano is the last person you ever wanted to need anything from, and yet here you are, standing before her, forcing yourself to beg her to let you into your own headquarters. The bitterness in your chest is suffocating, but you force it down and lock it away. You can’t afford to let it cloud your judgment, can’t let it stop you from what matters most right now—Dazai. Getting to him before he does something stupid.

“Please, Yosano,” you force yourself to say it again, a hint of desperation clinging to the words this time. “I can’t lose him too.”

Yosano’s face cracks at your words. You see the guilt in her eyes and the way her shoulders slump, and you know you’ve won, but the sweetness of victory is tainted by her bitterness over the situation.

Her gaze lowers as she steps to the side. “Go.”

You rush past her, pausing just long enough to murmur, “In the future, you shouldn’t be so sentimental with enemies. This kind of hesitation will get you killed one day.”

Yosano scoffs, folding her arms. “You really are just like him now. Can’t even manage a simple ‘thank you’ without slipping into a lecture about emotions. Go. Before I change my mind.”

You let out a huff of laughter. “It’s nice to see you haven’t changed, Akiko-chan.”

“You have,” she replies quietly. “I’m sorry that things went down the way they did back then. If I had done things differently… maybe we both could’ve gotten out of there.”

Your throat spasms as you swallow. “I guess we’ll never know,” you reply, and before she can say anything else to unsettle you, you make your way into headquarters. 

The detectives of the Agency haven’t actually killed anyone, you realize as you see the unconscious bodies strewn across the lobby. You think that’s more impressive than if they’d slaughtered everyone in here—the fact that they out-classed so many of the lower-ranking members of the Port Mafia to the point that they’d been able to fight with non-lethal force against lethal force is… unnerving to say the least.

It’s not something you can waste any time thinking about right now, though. You need to figure out where Dazai is. Because the emergency lights are on, you know that the building’s power must’ve gone out, and with it, the building’s elevators. You figure that it must’ve been Dazai’s doing because you doubt the conflict would’ve reached down to the electrical room. And if Dazai went out of his way to make sure the power was out, to make sure nobody could use any of the elevators, that leads you to believe he can only be in one place:

The roof.

You take off without hesitation, sprinting toward the nearest stairwell and throwing the door open with a slam. The air inside is stifling, heavy with the scent of concrete and dust. Your legs burn almost immediately, but you force yourself to push through, taking the steps two, sometimes three at a time. 

There are forty stories in the main building of headquarters. It’s an impossible distance, you know that—you’re already panting as you drag yourself up each flight of stairs, but you can’t give yourself time to stop, to think even. You can hear the rapid thud of your footsteps, the harsh drag of your breath, and the distant gunfire from outside resuming. Your muscles scream for relief, and your heartbeat hammers in your ears, but you force yourself to push it away—each step you climb, you become more and more certain that Dazai is at the top, about to do something terrible.

By the time you get to the roof, your body wants to give out—tears sting your eyes, your legs tremble violently, and you can barely breathe. Sheer adrenaline gives you the strength to push open the heavy metal door that leads to the roof; you don’t even notice Atsushi and a detective lying slumped on the ground, gaze focused on the familiar figure behind both of them standing on the edge of the roof.

Dazai is breathtaking under the light of the setting sun—it’s almost enough to make you forget where the two of you are, that he’s on the edge of the building, that you’ll never be able to reach him in time if he steps off the side. The warm golden hues cast soft shadows over his features, his black hair taking on an auburn sheen in the fading light—his eye widens as soon as he realizes you’re standing there, the usual dark void closer to a shimmering amber in the sunset.

“You… got here faster than I expected,” he says breathlessly.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice shaky. “Dazai, come away from there.”

His smile is soft as he looks over you, gaze lingering on every detail like he’s trying to memorize the sight of you. His fingers twitch at his side like he wants to reach out for you but knows he can’t, so he resigns to committing the image of you to memory. There’s something almost reverent in the way he studies you—like he knows that this is going to be his last chance.

Dazai tilts his head slightly, gaze focusing on yours. “You always did have a way of making things difficult,” he says fondly. “I thought it would be easier if you weren’t here.”

Your heartbeat thuds painfully loud in your ears. You try to take a step forward, but he tilts his head to the side, warning you silently that if you come any closer, he’ll step right over the edge. You feel sick, hands trembling because you don’t know what to do—you’ll never get to him in time, and once Dazai has his mind set on something…

“Easier for who?” you demand, stomach lurching as you fumble desperately for something to say to convince him to come away from the edge. “For you? For me? Did you think I wouldn’t care if I wasn’t here?”

His small smile doesn’t waver, but something in his expression cracks just for a second. You notice his own fingers are trembling at his side and you remember his words from last night: I’m so scared for what comes next. 

How hadn’t you realized? 

“I know you would,” he murmurs. “Don’t you understand now? That’s been the problem this whole time.”

You don’t dare take another step forward, but you find yourself leaning forward a little even though you know you can’t reach him from this distance. The wind whips around him, tugging at his long black coat and scarf. Each gust has your heart in your throat.

“Then come down,” you beg. Your cheeks are wet, vision so blurry that you can barely make out Dazai’s figure on the edge of the roof. “Please, Osamu. We can figure something out. I know we can. If you need to disappear, we can make you disappear—Tolstoy, his cousin’s ability, he can wipe everyone’s memories of you, and we can run. We can go back to the beach house or go to the countryside. We can get away from all of this. Nobody has to know, it’ll just be us.”

His smile softens, lashes lowering as he looks down at the ground. His voice cracks as he says softly, “That’s… a really nice dream.”

“Please just come away from there,” you rasp. “We can find a different way. Just—just explain everything to me, Osamu. Tell me what’s going on, what all of this is really about, and I’ll find a different way, you know I can. Give me that chance. Give us that chance. We deserve that, at least. I deserve that.”

Dazai exhales sharply, tilting his head back as the wind rushes around him, tousling his hair. The setting sun casts his silhouette in gold, and for a moment, he looks ethereal—untouchable, like something not meant to exist in this world. 

“I know it’s selfish,” he says, voice raw with emotion as he looks up at the sky. “I didn’t want you to be here for this, but I’m glad I got to see you one last time.”

Your heart sinks in your chest as his words slowly register. You shake your head, desperation clawing at your throat, and your lips part to speak, but the words die on your tongue when Dazai tosses you a bright smile, a genuine one that hurts more than anything else. It’s the kind of smile you’ve longed to see on him for years, the kind that has haunted your dreams since he took over as boss—warm, bright, alive, happy. But now, you only feel dread at the sight of it.

Terror grips your chest. “Osamu—”

“Thank you,” he whispers, and though you know you should be racing toward him now, your entire body locks up, feet planted to the ground. “For everything. I love you.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, time seems to slow. You scream his name as his body tilts over the edge, but instead of rushing to the edge, you turn back the way you came. 

Five.

You know you’ll never make it—you studied physics with Chuuya when he was learning how to refine his ability. The force of gravity is 9.8 meters per second squared, the Port Mafia headquarters is forty stories, around 130 meters—you know the equation like the back of your hand; it was one of the first things you learned. 

You don’t have more than five seconds before he hits the ground.

But you can’t accept what’s happening—your brain isn’t letting go of the futile hope that maybe Klaus or Itou will see what’s happening and they’ll do something, that maybe Chuuya got back and he can do something. You know they can’t. Logically, you know that they can’t use their abilities on Dazai, but you think maybe there’s a chance, that maybe you’ll get down there and Dazai will be—he’ll be okay.

Four.

Your heart races, the seconds stretching impossibly long as your feet carry you down the stairs with reckless speed. You leap down them three, four, five at a time, pain shooting up your shins to your knees with every jump, but you don’t let yourself lose momentum—you can’t because the moment you stop, you’ll fall apart. 

Three.

The whole world narrows, your heartbeat thrumming painfully loud in your ears. The seconds count down, mocking your attempts to hope against the inevitable, but still, your legs push forward, faster, harder. You know it’s futile, you do, but that tiny thread of hope, the denial your heart clings to, refuses to let go. 

Every time your eyes slide shut, you see him—you see his smile, you see the soft expression on his face, and you see him falling. You can still feel him, his hands on your waist, cradling your face, his lips brushing yours. He was in bed with you this morning, his body warm, curled up next to you, his breath against your skin in even puffs, and he was at peace. How did things go wrong so quickly?

You’ve barely eaten anything today, but you feel your stomach churning like you’re about to throw up. Each deep breath has you choking, your head feels dizzy because the air just isn’t getting to your lungs, but you can’t stop moving.

Two.

You could’ve done something different. You know it. If you hadn’t been so blind, you would’ve realized something was seriously wrong at the beach house. You knew it was some sort of goodbye, but this? You thought it was his way of indulging in one last day of pretending before he cut you off altogether, but you should’ve realized it was something deeper. The way he looked at you should’ve clued you in—he told you he was scared for what’s next, he tried to stay away because he knew he planned on dying. How didn’t you fucking realize? 

If you had more time, you could’ve convinced him. You know you could’ve; you saw the look on his face when you tried to convince him to leave with you, you saw the yearning. He wanted it, and if you had more time to persuade him, you would’ve been able to. If you’d realized back at the beach house what was going on, you would’ve convinced him to choose another option. This was your fault. 

One.

Your foot slips on the next step, and when you crash against the middle landing, pain shoots through your wrist and spreads—you don’t hear or see the impact of Dazai’s body hitting the ground, but you feel it. The pain in your wrist is sharp, a violent jolt, but it’s nothing compared to the agony that floods through you like a tidal wave. It’s like every bone in your body shattered the moment his body hit the ground, like his ribs, his spine, his skull fracturing on the pavement, is happening inside of you, too. 

You can’t hear anything above the terrible buzzing in your ears, you think you must be screaming because it feels like knives are dragging through the inside of your throat, and you can taste blood in the back of your mouth. You feel it all—the way his body must have crumpled, the way his breath must have left him in one final, shuddering exhale, you feel it all. 

A crushing weight slams into your chest, pressing down until you can’t move, can’t even breathe. The pain is unbearable—not just in your wrist, not just in your body, but everywhere. In your heart, in your soul. 

Dazai is gone, you know it.

You don’t know how long you lay there—it could’ve been seconds, minutes, you don’t know. You don’t think it could’ve been that long because it’s when you start to regain your hearing and the numbness in your body from the pain starts to fade, you realize that the whole building is shaking. The rumble vibrates your bones; first, a low, resonant hum, but it becomes violent quickly. 

Chuuya.

Chuuya felt Dazai’s death in the same way you did. Of course, he did. The three of you have always been bound together since the beginning. It was never just the two of them, and it was never just you and Dazai—whether it was a curse, a bond, or just fate, it didn’t matter. One way or another, the three of you have always been tied to each other. 

The thread that bound you together was woven of something that transcended logic and reason, something that all of you had become too dependent on, something that none of you could live without, and the loss of Dazai causes it to unravel, causes you to unravel, causes Chuuya to unravel.

It was always supposed to be the three of you together—there’s no world where one of you can just die, and the other two go on with their lives. Maybe Dazai knew that, and that’s what his incoherent ramblings were about back at the beach house, but if that’s the case, and he tried to push you and Chuuya away so the two of you could live on after his death, then he did a shit fucking job at it.

The metal of the building shrieks, and the very foundation trembles with the force of Chuuya’s grief and anger. You don’t know where he is, but he must be close, and he’s losing control. You need to get to him before that shitty corruption god wakes up inside of him to take advantage of his loss of control.

You push yourself up weakly, wrist screaming in protest, but you don’t care. You drag your body forward, forcing yourself to move, forcing yourself down the stairs, because you can’t lose them both—not in the same breath, not ever, you won’t survive it.

Your legs threaten to give out beneath you as you stagger down the stairs, breath ragged and body screaming for rest—you can hardly see in front of you, vision blurry with tears. It takes too long for you to get back down to the lobby. Your whole body is trembling, and you’re so unsteady on your feet that when you push open the door out of the stairwell, you almost topple right into the room.

You’re not thinking as you make your way forward. Distantly, you notice that you don’t see the Agency anymore, and you realize that the Flags, Itou, and Klaus are in the lobby dealing with the now waking subordinates who had been neutralized by the detectives, which means the Agency either left or was driven further into the building. You don’t care about any of that—your brain has you on a one-track mission to get to Chuuya before you lose him too, and you don’t consider what you might see stepping outside until you catch a glimpse of red from the corner of your eye through the window as you approach the door.

Is that—?

You don’t even have a chance to focus your gaze on what you’re looking at. 

Immediately, Itou is launching himself at you, only just now realizing in the chaos that you’ve finally arrived. He grabs your bicep hard and yanks you toward him, one hand flying up to cover your eyes as his other wraps around your waist, holding you close. The noise that escapes your lips is inhuman—animalistic, almost—something caught between a scream and a wail that rips from your throat before you can stop it. Every cell in your body screeches in protest, instinct demands that you tear yourself from Itou’s grip and look, but he holds you tight, fingers digging into your skin and hand firm over your eyes.

“Don’t,” he whispers, voice raw, desperate for you to listen. “You don’t want to see that.”

“Let me go, Itou,” you scream, thrashing against him, blind with grief, fury, denial. You know it happened. You felt it the moment it happened—the moment he hit the ground—but knowing and feeling is different than seeing. “Let me go to him, let me go!” 

“He fell forty stories,” Itou rasps, voice cracking. “You don’t want that to be your last memory of him.”

You fight, claw, kick—anything to get to him—but Itou doesn’t loosen his hold. He shifts, adjusting his grip so you can’t break free, keeping one hand over your eyes and the other locked around your waist, pinning your arms to your sides. 

“Please,” you choke out. “Please, I need to—”

“No,” he says again quietly. “There’s nothing you can do.”

A sob wracks through you, violent and gut-wrenching. You sag against him, body unable to take anymore as the weight of everything crashes into you at once, pressing down on your chest until you can’t breathe. When you stop fighting, Itou’s hand slides from your eyes to hold you more gently, but you don’t reopen them—you can see him, you can see Dazai bathed in the sunset, you can see the golden glow, his soft eyes, his smile. 

You try to breathe in but end up gagging over the air. Itou is quick to make sure your hair is out of your face before you vomit what little you have left in your stomach onto the ground. You hear Albatross and Iceman shouting for all of the lingering subordinates to clear out of the room. Klaus is somewhere in front of you, expression fraught as he watches you fall apart. Your chest heaves as you choke down another sob; your mind feels disconnected from your body, floating somewhere between numbness and agony, trapped between the image of Dazai in that golden light before he fell back over the edge and the knowledge of what’s left of him beyond this wall. 

“I should have—” The words crumble before you can finish them, dissolving into something incoherent. You should have known, you should have stopped him, you should have been faster—you’re always too slow. 

“You did everything you could.”

A lie. You know it’s a lie. 

Your hands tremble as you clutch at his sleeve, desperately trying to ground yourself, but all you can feel is the cold creeping in, the emptiness hollowing out your chest where his heart used to beat.

“I need to get to Chuuya,” you finally gasp. Your whole body is shaking, you can’t even bring yourself to sit up straight. “I need to—”

“Chuuya is gone.”

Your gaze lifts to focus on Piano Man, who looks grim as he steps into the headquarters with Kouyou, who can hardly even stand to look at you. Klaus dragged a table over to where you’d caught that glimpse of red, blocking your view of it.

“What do you mean?” Itou demands, arms still tight around you, hands running up and down your biceps to calm you down. “Yo, would you fucking—”

Piano Man doesn’t reply to him. Instead, his gaze focuses on you; there’s no trace of the whimsiness you’re used to as he takes a few steps forward to kneel in front of where you’re wide-eyed and shivering in Itou’s arms on the ground. His throat bobs as he swallows, and you can tell that he’s warring with himself before he finally speaks.

“You need to pull yourself together,” he finally says quietly. Itou tenses behind you, but you only stare at Piano Man, hardly registering what he’s saying. “The government sent a special ops squad to handle Chuuya. They sedated him and took him and are bringing him to a government facility to keep him imprisoned.”

“How the hell did the government react so quickly?” Klaus demands, voice shrill with nerves. “How does that make any sense?”

“We don’t know,” Piano Man answers flatly, keeping his gaze trained on you. He reaches out to hold your hands tightly as he focuses on you again. “You are boss now, and I am so fucking sorry it has to happen like this, but the Port Mafia is not in a good spot right now. Once word spreads about Dazai’s death and Chuuya’s imprisonment, we’ll have half of the criminal underworld on our doorstep. We need to get Chuuya back before that happens. Do you understand me?” 

Your mouth is dry as you stare at him. You don’t think you could respond if you wanted to. You see the frustration fly across his face, and Itou tenses again, ready to intervene if Piano Man acts out of line, but his shoulders only slump as he takes in a shaky breath.

“You know what happened to him when he was a kid,” Piano Man says tightly. “He is the strongest ability user in the world. Every second we waste, we give them the chance to do that to him again—and they will do it again because if they could find a way to replicate his ability or understand more about Arahabaki, they could make themselves the most dominant military power in the world. They will keep him locked up in whatever facility they bring him to, and they will experiment on him night and day, and he will not survive this happening to him again. It will break him. Do you understand me?” 

You nod, throat spasming as you swallow thickly.

“Okay,” Piano Man agrees after a moment. “Then pull yourself together. We need to get working.”

“Fucking hell, Piano Man,” Itou spits out. “She hasn’t even had the chance to process what just happened, let her fucking mourn, she just lost—”

“There is no time to mourn during transitions of power,” Piano Man says coldly. “She knows this better than anyone.”

The words cut through you deeper than a blade ever could have, and the silence that follows them is suffocating.

Your whole body begs for rest, for just one moment to grieve, to let the pain consume you—Dazai is dead, Chuuya is gone, and the weight of the Port Mafia is crashing down onto your shoulders before you’ve even had the chance to breathe. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of the crime lords of the Eastern Hemisphere catch wind of what happened here, and when they do, all bets are off.  

You swallow hard and force yourself to sit up. Itou moves with you, steadying you, hesitant to let go, but you shake him off. You need to do this on your own. Piano Man watches you, unreadable, waiting to see what you say.

“We need to consolidate power first,” you say. Your voice is weak, too shaky. “I need to talk to Mishima and Tolstoy. Goldoni too. We need two executives to replace—”

You can’t even finish the sentence. You can’t speak their names. Your throat tightens again as you try to swallow down the lump of grief threatening to choke you.

“We need two more executives,” you say instead. Itou shifts closer to you, trying to remind you that he’s here, that you’re not alone, but it still feels like you are. You feel hollow, empty, alone in a world where both Dazai and Chuuya are gone—it was always supposed to be the three of you. It was never supposed to be just one. “I’ll reach out to Mishima and Tolstoy. We—we have to move quickly.”

Your gaze tracks back over to where you’d gotten a glimpse of red before Itou pulled you away. Your voice is far away as you whisper, “We can’t leave him there.”

“I’ll handle it,” Itou promises quietly. 

You nod, taking in another deep breath, and at once, everyone gets to work. Everything around you is a blur, and you can’t tell if it’s a testament to how quickly everyone is moving into action or if it’s because of the tears that threaten to roll over your cheeks. You don’t let them—not now—you just need to keep it together a little while longer for Chuuya, and then, maybe, you can finally let yourself rest alongside Dazai.

———

Dazai Osamu is dead.

There’s no arguing with Chuuya about it because he’s gone, too. There’s no clashing with the Flags because they saw it happen. There’s no disagreeing with Itou and Klaus, because they were the ones who cleaned up his body. There’s no warring with yourself because you felt it the moment it happened.

Dazai is dead.

Dazai is dead.

You haven’t been in his office since it happened two weeks ago—you haven’t had the time. You haven’t stopped moving, haven’t stopped making decisions, and haven’t let yourself feel anything beyond the fear of knowing that one mistake could lead to everyone else’s deaths, too. You’ve been in Tokyo talking to Mishima, you went to Vladivostok so you could talk to Tolstoy face-to-face and tell him what happened yourself, you’re leaving for Rome tomorrow to talk to Goldoni, and you’ve been trying to solve things peacefully with the government to get Chuuya back. 

Everything is a mess—Mishima and Tolstoy are in conflict with Cao Xueqin, trying to buy you time to get Chuuya back before the Red Chamber is at your doorstep, and Goldoni is distracting the Guild, who evidently are preparing to come to Yokohama for Atsushi, but the government is refusing to hand Chuuya over. Atsushi and Kyouka are missing. The Agency has gone silent after causing all of this, and you don’t have time to deal with them either. 

You haven’t had any time to grieve him, but standing in the space he left behind, it hits you all at once.

Dazai is dead. 

“You’re such an asshole,” you breathe out to the empty room like he can hear you, staring at the desk he sat behind. “How could you just leave me with all of this?”

Everything is exactly as he left it. Papers stacked haphazardly, a pen resting at an odd angle, a half-empty cup of stagnant tea. It’s like he could walk through the door at any moment, like none of this ever happened—this is just another one of his games, sitting back with that infuriating smile, waiting to see how you’ll react so he can hold it over your head, mocking you for taking everything too seriously, teasing you for mourning him. 

You don’t even remember why you came up here—you had a reason for it, otherwise, you would’ve avoided it for as long as possible. Your fingers ghost over the edge of his desk, hovering above the polished wood hesitantly before you finally let your hand fall down against it, fingers dragging across the wood as you walk to the other side of the desk. 

You shouldn’t be here. You’ve avoided this room for a reason.

But instead of leaving, your legs decide to give out on you. You take in a breath that’s too ragged as you sit back in his chair, burying your face in your hands. The weight of his scarf around your neck is suffocating, a weight that you’re not strong enough to bear—it was the only thing Itou could salvage from his body, and as much as it makes you sick with grief, you can’t bring yourself to part from it. You swear you can almost still catch the faint scent of him on it, and if you close your eyes, you can pretend that it’s the weight of his arms draped around your shoulders as he hangs behind you, back pressed to your chest and chin on top of your head as he uses you as a shield to antagonize Chuuya without consequence. 

You need to get yourself together. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes up here looking for you, and you don’t want to be spiraling when they get here. Now isn’t the time to mourn—Chuuya is still out there, trapped, waiting for you, tortured with god knows what horrific experiments the government is performing on him. You have to get him back. You have to keep the Port Mafia from falling apart. You have to keep yourself from falling apart. Now isn’t the time for this.

You exhale shakily and rest your hands down on the arms of the chair to push yourself up so you can leave the office, but you pause when you see one of his desk drawers not fully closed. You press your lips together, hesitating, before reaching out to open it the rest of the way. 

Inside, neatly stacked and untouched, are documents, mission reports piled up, but your eyes aren’t drawn to that. They’re drawn to the single envelope sitting at the very top and the very familiar, small metal trinket sitting next to it.

It has your name scrawled across the front in Dazai’s handwriting. 

Your pulse roars in your ears, breath catching. 

Slowly, almost afraid that it will disappear if you touch it, you pick it up. The paper is thin beneath your fingers, fragile, like it's been sitting there for years instead of days. The weight of it in your hands is unbearable.

You don’t know if you should open it.

You shouldn’t open it.

You know you shouldn’t.

But your hands are already shaking as you slide a finger beneath the fold, breaking the seal with excruciating slowness. You hardly breathe as you pull it out of the envelope, swallowing at the address written on the back of the paper before you unfold it.

The handwriting is unmistakable. All across the page, you see characters crossed out and rewritten where water had blotted the ink. Dazai had been crying as he wrote it.

My sweet hime,

If you’re reading this, then everything has probably settled by now. I can already imagine the look on your face. Don’t frown too much—it’ll leave wrinkles.

Kidding. I wasn’t going to write anything. I thought a clean break would be easier for you. But after the day we spent yesterday, I realized I’d already ruined things enough. I figured a goodbye wouldn’t do more damage than anything else I’ve already done.

There was nothing you could’ve done differently to change what happened—I know that’s what you’re probably thinking. You’re going back through every moment, trying to find all of the places where you could have said something, done something to change my mind, but it wouldn’t have mattered. This was always how this was going to end. This plan had been set in motion long before you and I ever even met.

I wish I could’ve spared you from this. I really did try. I told myself for months leading up to our meeting that I wouldn’t let myself get close to you. There were so many plans that I made, so many ways I convinced myself that I could keep my distance. I wasn’t even supposed to go with Chuuya on the mission to pick you up, but when Mori dangled it in front of my face, I couldn’t stop myself.

Loving you was my biggest and only mistake. Not because you weren’t worth it but because I was never meant to have you. Not in this life. But you always made me weak. Reckless. I never think straight when you’re around, even when you’re not around, you’re always in the back of my mind. But I thought that knowing how things were going to end would be enough to keep me from slipping up. I thought I would be satisfied with admiring you from afar and knowing you would be okay when I was gone. I should’ve known better—I never should’ve let myself get close to you when we were younger, I should’ve been cruel from the beginning, I should’ve made you hate me.

But I was selfish. I let myself love you, and I let myself be loved by you, and now you’re alone dealing with the consequences of it.

I’m sorry.

Once I realized I let things go too far, I thought I would be able to make you hate me after I took over as boss. I thought if I could be cruel enough and cold enough that you would finally turn your back on me, but you are just too goddamn stubborn. You kept coming back again and again, and I was too much of a coward—too selfish—to push you away the way I should have.

You were right back at the beach house—I was frustrated and angry that I couldn’t stop myself from seeking you out, and I was even more frustrated and angry that you kept coming, and I put you through four years of hell because of it. I’m sorry for that, too. I’m sorry for a lot of things that I know you’ll never forgive me for.

I wish I could explain more, I wanted to tell you everything. Do you know how many times I almost did? How many nights I almost turned to you and let it all spill out? I know you would have believed me, I know you would’ve shared the burden with me, but this was never supposed to be your price to pay. I wish I had done things differently because it became yours anyway, didn’t it?

I hope you hate me. I hope you find a way to curse my name and let me rot in the hell I’ve made for myself. I don’t deserve for you to mourn. I don’t deserve to be remembered by you at all. But I know you, and I know you’ll mourn, and I know you’ll blame yourself even after reading this, so I hope you just remember that this was something bigger than you and I and the ending was never going to change no matter what you did differently.

I love you. I’ve always loved you, I’ve always been yours. In this life and every other one. I’m sorry we couldn’t be happy in this one, but I promise I’ll make it up to you when we find each other again in the next. I’ll love you better in that one, the way you deserve, I’ll give you all of me, every piece I held back in this lifetime. And in the next, I promise I won’t make you say goodbye. We’ll live a quiet life—we’ll go to the countryside, and we’ll grow old, and we’ll be happy. Maybe we’ll even drag the slug along, force him to be our farmhand, give him a new flock of sheep to herd.

Now to business. 

Dark times are coming to Yokohama. I know you’re probably sick of me saying sorry, but I’m sorry that I’ve left you to deal with everything like this. There are foreign threats coming—the Guild, the Order of the Clocktower, and Fyodor Dostoevsky. All of the files below this envelope are full of information I’ve put together for you. Abilities, strategies they’ve used, how everything has gone down in different timelines—I’ve put it all together so you can figure out how you want to handle this. I left some suggestions, but it’s all very dependent on how things played out after everything settled. 

The Armed Detective Agency will be a valuable ally going forward. Don’t blame them for what I did—they were only pawns I used to get everything set up. Everything that happens today is what I’ve planned, my actions and theirs. They’ll help protect Yokohama from the coming storm, and you’ll stand a better chance working with them. 

I don’t think there’s anything else that needs to be said that’s not in the folders. Don’t underestimate Fyodor Dostoevsky. And I know you’re going to say ‘I spent many months with him when you sent me abroad blah blah blah’ but there’s so much more to him than you can ever imagine. You’ll understand when you read through everything. 

There’s no perfect way to end this letter. I could apologize a million times and it wouldn’t be enough. Just know I meant what I said before—I’ll find you again in the next life, and we’ll be happy. I’ll love you better. I won’t leave you behind.

Live well. I’ll always be with you. 

Yours always, 

Osamu

———

beast au fun facts:

i think i made it pretty clear, but for those of you who read wykyk, essentially ages 16-18 were what wykyk would’ve been if dazai wasn’t emotionally incompetent. he was obviously still a little bit hot and cold with her, but he was quite clear with how he felt about her from day one, which is why it was so hard for her to reconcile how rapidly everything changed. 

she finds mori at the address dazai left for her. the first thing she asks when she gets over the shock is if dazai is here too. she thinks maybe he too might’ve faked his death and is here with mori.

reader dies several weeks later. during the operation to break chuuya out of the government facility, they need all hands on deck. she stays behind in headquarters because it’s safest for her there. she ends up leaving headquarters to go visit dazai’s grave and is assassinated while she’s sitting at his grave. like with dazai, chuuya feels it when it happens but refuses to believe it until they find her body.  

this was unfortunately intentional on reader’s part. this is actually something she does or has tried to do in multiple universe: she uses her life(/death) as a weapon for the port mafia. we will see it (or attempts of it) in canonverse and civzai. her death triggers multiple powerful organizations coming to the assistance of the pm, and she knows this, so when the pm is backed into a corner and threatened on multiple fronts, she’ll manufacture a situation where she’ll be assassinated because she knows the only way the pm will come out of it intact is if they get help, and the quickest and most surefire way of getting that help is if she’s killed.

make no mistake: it IS a last-resort option when there’s really nothing else they can do. although, i'll also say that i don't think the pm WAS backed into the corner here, but our girl was ... very tired after losing dazai and everything that happened afterward. she only wanted to push through things long enough to rescue chuuya.

it does indeed work btw. after she dies, tolstoy & the three deaths wipe out cao xueqin before coming to yokohama to help with the guild and dostoevsky. the family engages the clocktower in open conflict to keep them out of yokohama.

the conflict takes about a year to come to an end, chuuya only lets himself die once everything is settled. pmtrio indeed became the price of a world where oda can live. 

this is the only universe where itou & klaus outlive her. this is also the only universe where they meet. idk if anyone guessed it, but the reason dazai sent her away after he took over was so she could meet klaus. 

dazai genuinely didn’t think that his death would ruin her and chuuya the way it did since he ensured that the flags, itou and klaus were all here for them. he was wrong

[navybrat817]

Hold You Tight: Part 2

Pairing: Club Owner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.

Part 1 | Series Masterlist | Part 3

Chapter Summary: You're anxious before your date.

Chapter Word Count: Over 3.1k

Chapter Warnings: DARK AU, stalking, coercion, threats (not against reader), creepy and unhinged behavior, flashback, possessiveness, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: More Hold You Tight! Hope you lovelies enjoy and thank you for the feedback so far! Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You loved working at the flower shop. Putting together beautiful arrangements and bringing joy to others made you happy. But today, the morning after that stranger showed up in your home, you weren’t fully alert as you went about your tasks. The air around you felt different, thicker. Flipping through the order book, you attempted to look busy instead of walking around in a haze.

Whenever you began to focus, your mind would drift back to Bucky Barnes and your upcoming date. You hadn’t told Addison or anyone else about it because what could you tell them? How could you explain your situation?

You hadn’t even slept in your own bed thanks to that man.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed seated on the couch once Bucky left your place. You’d have to move eventually, but you were replaying what happened in your head like a song on repeat and tried to make sense of it. A man broke into your home, but didn’t steal anything. Held you in his lap, but didn’t violate you.

No, that last part wasn’t true. That was exactly what he did. He violated your safety. And demanded a date with you.

You jerked when your phone dinged, but your heart only pounded faster when you saw a message from a new contact.

Bucky.

“I wish I could’ve stayed the night, but I’ll dream about you and count down the minutes until our date. Don’t forget about your gifts.”

He knew the date was on because how could you say no?

Your stomach dropped as you glanced down the hall. Wiping the remaining tears away, you got to your feet and cautiously made your way toward your bedroom. You weren’t expecting anyone to be there, but who knew what he did while you were at work? And what if he came back?

Would you scream for help or call the police?

“Just go in,” you whispered.

Pushing the door open with a shaky hand and flipping on the light, everything looked normal as you looked around and approached the bed. Everything except the garment and gift bag in the middle of it. They taunted you, daring you to look inside. At the very least, to read the small card on top of the bag.

You caught a small whiff of the cologne he wore as you picked it up and read the single statement.

“This is just the beginning, doll.”

The card slipped from your shaky hand. It would’ve been romantic under normal circumstances. You looked inside the gift bag next, but it did nothing to calm your nerves. Not only was it your favorite perfume as he stated, but it was the largest size available.

You unzipped the garment bag after and gasped at the sight of the dress. It was from a designer you admired, but could never afford. Simple yet beautiful in design, you had to stop yourself from running your hand over the fabric. Yes, it was a beautiful dress and it was just the right size.

But it came with strings attached.

“How?”

You half expected to see a blinking light when your eyes darted to the corners of your bedroom, but everything still looked ordinary. Nothing looked out of place. It didn’t stop your skin from crawling at the thought of him watching you. Because how did he know your size and the kind of perfume you liked? That you liked having a glass of wine when you took a bath? The password to your phone?

How did he know anything about you?

That was perhaps one of the most terrifying aspects about your ordeal: He was clearly powerful and connected, yet you didn’t know exactly what he was capable of or how far he’d go.

It took you a minute to type back a message to him. “Thank you for the gifts.”

A response came back almost immediately. Was he waiting by his phone for you? “Like I said, it’s just the beginning. I have another gift waiting for you, but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow for that one. It’s a surprise.”

You suddenly didn’t like surprises.

Could you accept gifts wrapped in pretty bows if it meant keeping those you cared about safe? Would you be a living doll to satisfy whatever craving he had that led him to you? At the very least, you’d have to play along for one night to try and get some answers.

“I’m sure it’ll be a nice surprise. Good night.” You sent, hoping he’d get the hint and leave you be.

“Sweet dreams.”

Grabbing a blanket, you made your way back to the living room and curled up in your oversized chair. There wouldn’t be any sweet dreams. Not tonight. Not with the way your mind raced.

Because who the hell was Bucky Barnes and why did he want you?

The bell over the door rang, pulling you from your thoughts and reminding you that you had a job to do. You blinked as a tall man with golden hair and bright blue eyes walked in. A new customer from what you gathered, and an intimidating one at that. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until you exhaled once he smiled in your direction.

“Hi,” you said, closing your book. “How can I help you?”

“I’m here to get some flowers for my girl,” he replied, the deep timbre gentle yet commanding. “No special occasion or anything. I just want to surprise her.”

A smile touched your lips. “That’s one of the best reasons to get someone flowers,” you said. You liked to imagine your future husband would get you flowers just because he felt like it. “Does she have a favorite?”

“Tulips,” he answered without hesitation. “Any color as long as they’re tulips.”

You stepped around the corner and led him to the premade arrangements. “We have this multicolored bouquet that she may like. Brightens the room and has an uplifting aroma.”

The gentleman reached out to touch one of the petals before he nodded. “She’ll love them,” he said more to himself than to you.

He sounded like a man in love.

“I’m sure she will,” you agreed, carefully carrying it to the counter so you could ring it up. Your skin prickled when you felt his eyes on you, but you told yourself to relax. This guy wasn’t like Bucky. You were paranoid after last night and he was likely watching just to make sure you didn’t drop the bouquet. “Will this be all for you?”

“Which one is your favorite?”

“My favorite?” You repeated as he waited for your response. The question surprised you, but you nodded to one of the recent arrangements you made. “It’s hard to choose a favorite, but I like stargazer lilies.”

You sometimes brought arrangements home for yourself since you couldn’t remember the last time anyone got you flowers.

“I’ll take those, too,” he said, going to get the vase himself. “I really appreciate your help.”

“It was nothing,” you smiled, ringing up the order. “And you made my job very easy, so thank you.”

“Your partner must feel very lucky to have you,” he said before you paused.

Biting your tongue, you stopped yourself from correcting him. You didn’t have a partner. A possible stalker? Yes.

His brows furrowed as he quietly paid. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

You shook your head and put your best customer service smile back on your face. “No apologies. I actually have a first date tonight. Maybe he’s the one,” you told him, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. “I hope your girl enjoys her flowers.”

He smiled back as he took the bouquets and receipt. “Me, too,” he said, something sparkling in his eye when he added, “Good luck on your date.”

The blonde left without another word, leaving you to grip the counter and wonder how the hell you were going to get through your evening.

You stood in front of your bedroom mirror hours later, admiring yourself in the dress. It fit you well. Beautifully, as much as you didn’t want to admit it. You spritzed yourself with the perfume too. Might as well use it since Bucky was likely expecting it.

The scent should’ve brought a smile to your face instead of tears to your eyes.

“Hey! Still on for hanging out tomorrow?” Addison messaged you as you checked the time on your phone.

You blinked the tears away and realized you hadn’t messaged her once today. You were afraid to. If you mentioned Bucky, it would tempt you to spill what happened since you hardly kept anything from your best friend. And if you told her what happened…

Bucky would know.

With a shudder, you messaged her back. “Yep! See you then.”

The tension in your body skyrocketed when your doorbell rang at 7pm, right down to the second. “Be right there!” You called, shoving your phone in your clutch before you took one last look in the mirror. What did it matter if you looked good or not? It was a forced date.

You exhaled as you opened the door and froze when you saw Bucky standing on the other side. You foolishly thought he wouldn’t show, but luck wasn’t on your side. The sharp, dark suit he wore and air of confidence he carried had your heart pounding in your chest. The glove covering his left hand somehow worked with the suit.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his gaze sweeping over you. Why did he look at you like you were something to be desired? “You are so beautiful.”

Butterflies filled your stomach despite your fear. If only he had approached you and asked you out like a normal guy. “Thanks,” you whispered, locking the door once you were in the hall.

Did he have your spare key or did he find a way to get a copy?

“I wore this suit to match your dress,” he said, giving you an expectant look.

The guy was actually fishing for a compliment. “And you look very handsome,” you said, a smile lighting up his face.

“Thanks.” He held his arm out, satisfaction filling his eyes when you took it. “I’m glad you said ’yes’ to this date.”

“I’m sure you would’ve found a way to convince me if I didn’t,” you told him, reminding yourself that accepting this kept your loved ones safe and sound.

“I would have,” he agreed, keeping you close as he led you outside to where a luxury car was waiting. The car likely cost more than what you made in a year. “But you saved me the trouble by agreeing like the good, smart girl I know you are.”

You didn’t thank him for the “compliment”.

Bucky didn’t wait for the driver to open the door, grabbing the handle and helping you inside himself. You slid across the seat and tried to keep your dress from riding up as he got in beside you. He didn’t allow you any breathing room as the glass partition went up and the car took off. You were alone with him.

He could do whatever he wanted.

“You can sit in my lap if you’d like,” he said to break the silence. “It’s nice and comfortable.”

“No thanks,” you said, glancing ahead at the glass when he took your hand. You’d been in his lap the night before and that was more than enough. “Doesn’t seem safe.”

“You can sit here after dinner then,” he suggested, smirking when you glanced out of the corner of your eye.

Your stomach turned at that. He mentioned it took everything in him not to drag you to bed. You believed him. How long would he hold out before he tried to make a move?

“Sorry I didn’t text you today. I didn’t want to bother or overwhelm you while you were working,” he continued, kissing each of your knuckles as you stared straight ahead again. “At least not right away.”

“How considerate of you,” you muttered.

He chuckled and pressed another kiss to your hand before he held it in his lap. You stiffened and for a moment you thought he’d put your palm to his crotch. You weren’t sure what to expect from him.

“Look. I want tonight to be good for both of us. I’m sure you have a lot of questions and I’ll do my best to give you answers,” he said, tucking a bit of hair behind his ear as he addressed the elephant in the room. “I know a lot about you, but I imagine you don’t know much about me.”

“No, I don’t,” you admitted. As tempted as you were to look up his name, you refrained and couldn’t put your finger on why. “If I ask you questions, will you lie to me?”

“I have no reason to lie.” He brought a gloved hand to your cheek and forced you to meet his gaze. Even in the dark of the car, you could see the want in his eyes. “I want you to trust me.”

Trust the man with zero respect for boundaries? Could you do that? “Addison’s bachelorette party was a month ago. Was that really the first time you saw me?”

“It was. Everything changed when I saw you,” he replied, moving his hand from your face down to your neck. Like he just had to touch you. “Though it didn’t take a month to track you down, it did give me time to do my research and find out everything I could about you. Where you live, where you work, your interests, your routine. I like to be thorough.”

You turned your head away when it began to spin, trying to understand how he sounded so casual in his admittance to stalking you. You also couldn’t keep looking into those blue eyes. They would drown you.

What you wanted to ask was if he was watching you in your home. But trapped in that small space with him, what if his answer freaked you out more? He said he wouldn’t hurt you, but would he keep that promise?

The question that came out instead was, “And you just decided during that time that you wanted me?”

Your eyes shut as his lips touched your ear. “I wanted you the moment I saw you,” he whispered, making you shiver at the feel of his breath. “And the more I learned about you, the more you pulled me in. I’m just a moth drawn to your flame. And you’re exactly who I want by my side.”

His words washed over you, wearing you down like a stone sinking in the water. It was too much. Too intense. “Where are we going?”

“Mmm. Our date.” You exhaled when his fingers brushed along your arm. “I thought about renting out a restaurant or taking you away to an island for our first date. Something intimate and private. Then I thought, what’s more intimate and private than my penthouse?”

“Your penthouse?” You asked, opening your eyes.

“Yeah, my home,” he smiled, either not noticing or caring when your eyes rounded. “It’s the best spot in town, of course. Can’t beat the view. And we don’t need any eavesdroppers now, do we?”

Your heart sank as you reached for your phone. People would at least be able to see you in a public place, but his home? That was like going into the heart of a lion’s den. It would be so easy to message Addison or Dana and ask for some sort of help without giving too many details. You could-

Bucky took the phone from your hand and tucked it in his jacket pocket. “You won’t need that tonight,” he stated, something in his calm tone telling you not to argue. “I have a chef preparing dinner and a dessert and I selected a nice bottle of wine for us to share. I also want to give you a tour after the meal since it’s going to be your home sooner or later.”

You choked on your next breath. “It’s what?”

“We’re here,” he smiled, terror gripping you when the car stopped in an underground parking garage. “You can ask me more questions inside.”

“Bucky, did you say this is going to be my home?” You pressed as he helped you out, having to rush to keep up with him as he pulled you to an elevator.

You hoped that wasn’t the gift he wanted to surprise you with tonight.

“Not right away, but yes. My place is a bit safer than yours and it’s close to my club and your shop. A win-win,” he said, scanning a key card before the doors opened. “Don’t look so surprised. Most couples live together.”

You refrained from telling him that you weren’t a couple. “I think that’s moving a bit too fast,” you said, your voice cracking as he pulled you inside, keeping you right beside him even though there was plenty of space to be apart. “This is only our first date,” you added, not wanting to upset him.

“That’s why I said it wouldn’t be right away,” he teased, pressing the button for the top floor as his other hand rubbed your hip. “But soon.”

You kept your breathing under control as the elevator climbed higher. The man had your future mapped out and you had only known him for a day. Was this some sick, elaborate game that he was playing to scare the hell out of you? Or had he convinced himself that this was romantic?

“I hope you like it,” he said softly as you stepped out together and walked toward a man who stood by the door. He was just as large as Bucky, but didn’t dare make eye contact with you as he opened the door and let you in.

The spacious entrance opened up to a large living space with high ceilings and marble floors. It was admittedly gorgeous and you hadn’t seen the rest of the place yet. But that wasn’t what caught your attention. It was the flowers in the middle of the table a few feet in front of you.

The coy smile on Bucky’s face made your blood freeze when you faced him. “Those are your favorite, aren’t they?” He asked.

They weren’t just your favorite flowers.

It was the same arrangement of stargazer lilies you sold to the blonde gentleman earlier today.

“I told you, doll. I know everything about you,” he began as the clutch fell from your hand and the door shut with a heavy thud. “And I have eyes and ears everywhere.”

Zero chill, lovelies. What's the surprise he has for you? How will this date go? And did you like the appearance from the man in the shop? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[vunblr]

Foundations (#5)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+. Slight Angst. Fluff. Possible Smut in the future. Neurological Damage. Depiction of Symptoms (Bucky).

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

Word Count: 7.3.k.

note1: In this universe Steve didn't leave, Tony doesn't know that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, and everything is relatively ok.

note2: This is one of the works I'm submitting for the @avengers-assemble-bingo event for Bucky's 108th birthday, running throughout March. The prompt was "Mutual Pining". Card number 4B-016.

Previous Chapter

Bucky hadn’t meant to come out.

But the tension in his back was unbearable, a deep, twisting ache left behind by the force of the seizure. He had managed to sleep for a few hours, but the pain had dragged him back to consciousness, leaving him restless. At times like this, it was easier to sleep without the prosthesis since its weight made things worse. So, as he often did on rough nights, he had detached it before lying down, giving his body some relief.

He hadn’t bothered to put it back on.

Because as far as he knew, he was alone.

He padded sleepily toward the kitchen, wearing only a pair of loose grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. He pressed his hand idly against the stiff muscles of his back as he rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the discomfort. He was still half-asleep when he reached for the light switch, flipping it on.

That was when he saw her.

Sitting on his couch, curled up in his blanket, a mug of tea in her hands.

She had woken up to the sound of the storm outside. Not wanting to leave in the middle of the night, she had quietly made herself a cup of tea, maneuvering through the darkened apartment with only the glow of the streetlamps to guide her. She hadn’t turned on the lights, there was no need.

She’d been sipping her tea absentmindedly, lost in thought, when the sudden brightness filled the room, momentarily blinding her.

And then there he was.

Standing in the doorway, tired and rumpled, hair slightly tousled from sleep, his bare torso illuminated under the dim light, the ridges of old scars and muscle casting shadows across his skin.

And, most notably, without his arm.

Her eyes flicked to the space at his left shoulder.

Bucky realized too late. Saw the exact moment she noticed, the way her gaze briefly lingered before snapping up to meet his.

His entire body tensed.

“…You’re still here,” he muttered, voice still rough with sleep.

She swallowed, slowly lowering the mug from her lips. “Yeah. Didn’t feel right to leave Thomas alone after what happened, so I put him to bed and stayed a little longer. But… I ended up crashing on the couch.”

The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy.

Then, without quite meeting his gaze, she lifted the mug slightly. “Tea? Water’s still hot.”

Bucky hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

She could feel his discomfort, the tension rolling off him at being seen like this; so vulnerable, standing half-dressed in his own kitchen, missing a limb. She sighed softly, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here.”

He exhaled, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I understand why you stayed. And I’m… grateful for that.”

Something about the way he said it made her chest feel a little tighter.

She approached carefully, offering him the cup, forcing her eyes to stay on his face and not drop to his bare torso, the lean muscle, the sharp angles of his collarbone, the scars tracing his skin. She could not think about that right now.

And yet, somehow, her half-asleep brain completely bypassed the normal route of conversation and went straight for-

“Do you always take off the prosthesis to sleep?”

Bucky’s entire frame went rigid. His jaw tensed, and for a second, his expression was unreadable. Too controlled, too neutral, like he was deciding whether to let her question slide or shut her out entirely.

“No,” he said at last. Then, as if preparing for some awkward moment regarding the topic, he added, “If it bothers you, I can-”

“No!” she cut in quickly, horrified. “My God, that’s not why I asked.”

His brows knit together slightly, like he wasn’t sure whether to believe her.

She swallowed, shifting the cup between her hands. “It was just… curiosity. I’ve heard a lot of amputees take theirs off because the artificial limb feels heavy or uncomfortable when they sleep.” Her voice softened slightly as she gestured toward the missing arm. “And since… you know.”

Bucky exhaled, raking a hand through his already messy hair, and she absolutely did not think about how unfairly attractive that was.

“This isn’t a regular prosthesis,” he admitted after a pause. “You’ve seen how it works. It’s… different. Feels natural most of the time. But the strength it has… it strains my back sometimes. Puts too much tension on the muscles that support it.” He rolled his shoulder slightly, exhaling through his nose. “Nights like tonight, it’s just easier to take it off.”

She nodded slowly, watching the subtle tightness in his stance, the weight he seemed to be holding in his posture.

“So you’re in pain right now,” she said, less a question and more of a realization.

There was no point in denying it.

Bucky just let out a quiet grunt, taking the cup from her hands.

She tilted her head slightly, watching the way he rolled his shoulder again, trying to ease the stiffness. “Do you want to take a hot shower before I leave? It might help.”

“Leave?” Bucky’s brows furrowed as he looked at her like she had lost her mind. “At this hour? With this storm?”

She blinked at his tone, then shrugged. “Well, I don’t want to impose. You seem fine now, and maybe you wanted your privacy back.”

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re not imposing.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. Then, as if the mere idea of her stepping outside in this weather offended him, he added, “And what kind of man would I be if I let you go unaccompanied in the middle of the night, with the skies falling down?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, slightly thrown by the sharp conviction in his voice.

“Right,” she murmured, taking a sip of her tea to hide the sudden warmth in her face. “Guess I’m staying, then.”

Before he could reply, the apartment was swallowed by sudden darkness as everything went out at once -the light, the subtle sound of the fridge- leaving only the sound of rain slamming against the windows.

Bucky muttered a sharp curse under his breath, setting his tea down on the counter with a soft clink. “Great. Happens every time the rain’s this heavy,” he grumbled, running a hand through his hair. “The wiring in this place is older than I am.”

She blinked at the unexpected shift, adjusting her eyes to the dim glow leaking in from the storm outside.

"Do you have candles?" she asked, glancing instinctively toward the kitchen. The small emergency light on the wall stayed stubbornly dark after a few attempts to make it work.

Bucky sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Probably. Somewhere. I think.”

She arched a brow, amused despite herself. “You think?”

He pushed off the counter, moving stiffly toward the cabinets. “I’ll check.”

“Don’t bother,” she said casually behind him. “I’ve been through every cabinet in there while cooking and organizing, and there are no candles.

He sighed and moved toward the fridge. Reaching up, Bucky grabbed something off the top -a small flashlight- and flicked it on, casting a cone of light that cut through the dark.

“Ah, that’s unfair,” she teased, tilting her head. “I don’t even reach up there.”

Bucky smirked faintly, glancing over his shoulder at her. “That’s ‘cause I had to hide it. Thomas keeps draining the batteries playing astronaut or secret agent.”

She let out a soft laugh, watching him as he limped slightly back toward the living room, shining the light ahead of him.

“Alright,” he said, pausing by the TV. “Check the last drawer in the rack.”

“The junk drawer?” she asked, moving carefully across the room.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, aiming the flashlight so it illuminated the drawer.

She crouched in front of it and pulled it open, and the soft beam caught on a chaotic mix of odds and ends: some tools, a broken pair of sunglasses, loose screws, a tangle of string, batteries, and other forgotten bits of life.

“Wow,” she chuckled. “You weren’t kidding. Miscellaneous indeed.”

From behind her, Bucky gave a soft huff. "Told you."

He shifted his weight against the wall, metal-free shoulder leaning slightly as he adjusted the beam of light.

"Pull some stuff out," he added after a beat. "It’s probably packed too full, you won’t see anything unless you move things around."

She hummed her agreement and started to carefully take out the tangled mess. Batteries, some pliers, a random cable that looked way too short to belong to anything useful, she placed all of it on the floor beside her, trying to keep some kind of order.

Reaching deeper, her fingers brushed against a small rectangular box near the back. It felt like a matchbox, finally, something useful.

“Aha!” she said with a small grin, tugging it free. “At least we have-”

Her words died on her lips the second she looked at it.

It was not a matchbox.

It was a sealed box of condoms.

Correction. A sealed box of XL condoms.

Her face went up in flames instantly, lips parting in silent shock.

Behind her, Bucky’s brow furrowed slightly at her sudden pause. He leaned forward to get a better look. The moment the saw the box in her hands, his eyes widened just a fraction, and before either of them could say a word, he reached out in one smooth motion, snatching the box and tucking it hastily into the pocket of his sweatpants.

“Uh…” he mumbled, avoiding her gaze like it burned. “Forgot those were in there.”

She pressed her lips together to hold back any kind of reaction, her cheeks absolutely burning. “Right…” she murmured, ducking her head and diving back into the drawer as if she could erase the awkwardness by force of will.

As she resumed rummaging -now definitely avoiding eye contact- Bucky shifted his weight, glancing toward her for a moment before letting out a quiet sigh. He clamped the flashlight between his teeth to free his hand. With the beam of light now bobbing faintly as he held it in his mouth, he discreetly slid the box of condoms back out of his pocket and turned it over in his fingers.

Expired. Two years ago.

He huffed a dry, almost soundless laugh through his nose. Not that he was surprised.

Quickly, he slipped it back in his pocket and took the flashlight from his mouth just as she straightened, holding up an opened package of candles with a triumphant little smile, though her eyes didn’t quite meet his.

"Here."

“Thanks,” he murmured, accepting them, brushing his fingers against hers just briefly, enough to make something sharp and tense spark in the space between them.

She quickly busied herself, gathering all the other junk and stuffing it back into the drawer, sliding it shut like she could shove down the thick tension in the air.

After lighting two candles -one set on the kitchen counter, the other on the dining table- they each grabbed their now-lukewarm tea and sat for a moment, a truce in the dim space.

She wrapped her hands around her mug and turned slightly to look at him, studying his tired profile in the glow. That’s when it hit her.

"You haven't eaten," she said softly. "You went straight to bed after the seizure."

Bucky was mid-sip, and when she said it, he paused, lowering the cup slightly. He was already shaking his head, about to downplay it like always.

“I’m fine-”

"I can reheat the gnocchi in a pot with a pinch of water," she offered gently, like it wasn’t a big deal. "They’ll be perfectly edible in a couple of minutes."

His jaw worked as though he wanted to argue, but in the end, he sighed, nodding once. He couldn’t say no to that.

"I’ll help," he muttered, already rising from his chair.

She arched a brow but didn’t stop him. "Alright. You can set the table."

As she pulled the tupperware out of the fridge and started rummaging for a pot, Bucky moved carefully toward the cabinets, grabbing plates and cutlery with one hand. It took a little longer than usual, he had to take multiple trips to set everything down, maneuvering around her, sometimes a little too close.

They brushed against each other a few times as they both navigated the small kitchen, her reaching over him for a spoon, him moving around her to get place mats for the plates. Neither said a word, though both felt it.

Every brief contact felt warmer than it should have, charged in a way that made her chest tight and Bucky’s gaze drop away.

“Do you want water or more tea?” she asked as she stirred the gnocchi in the pot, now steaming slightly.

“Water’s good,” he said quietly, moving to grab a glass.

His fingers brushed hers when she handed him a second one to help, and for a moment, they paused, not quite looking at each other but not pulling away either.

"Table’s ready," he mumbled eventually, breaking the moment, and went to set the glasses down.

“Alright,” she said softly, a small smile curving her lips. "Dinner’s served."

Bucky looked over at her as she turned around, and for a moment, as she walked toward the table with the pot in hand, all he could think about was how normal this felt, how easy, how… dangerous.

Because this? This was something he could get used to. And that scared the hell out of him.

As she get to the table to set the pot down, her eyes caught something that made her pause. There were two plates on the table.

Her brows lifted slightly in surprise. “You set one for me too?”

Bucky shifted in his chair, running his hand through his hair. He shrugged, glancing toward the candle flame rather than at her.

“I just thought… maybe you’d wanna join me. Like a late snack or something,” he murmured, almost shyly. “Felt weird to eat alone.”

Her heart did an odd little flip at that.

“Alright,” she said gently, giving him a small smile as she sat down. “A snack it is.” She served herself a small portion, careful to take less since it was clear he needed it more.

They settled into their chairs, and as she picked at her plate, she watched him out through her lashes, curious to see what he’d think.

He took a bite, chewing slowly at first, and then something in his expression shifted, and his eyes widened slightly as the flavor hit him.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, like he hadn’t expected it to be that good.

A smile tugged at her lips as she watched him, and sure enough, after that first bite, he didn’t hesitate, digging in faster now, like once the first swallow settled, his body realized just how hungry it was.

Still, halfway through, he slowed for a second, glancing up at her. “They’re really good,” he said quietly, making eye contact like it mattered to him that she knew he meant it.

Her smile grew. “Good,” she murmured, almost to herself. “I’m glad.”

For a few moments, they just ate quietly, with the candlelight flickering between them, and somehow, it felt less like nanny and employer, and more like something else entirely.

Bucky grabbed a forkful, savoring another bite before glancing at her, trying to sound casual. "Are these… much trouble to make?"

She couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. Ah, there it was, a subtle way of asking if she might make them again sometime.

"Not really," she replied, secretly amused. "I actually make them once a month. They’re pretty cheap to do, too."

Bucky quirked a brow, leaning back a little in his chair, clearly surprised.

"Really? Huh. I bought a package once, about this size," he gestured to the plate with his fork, making a face, "and… let’s just say it definitely didn’t taste like this, and the price wasn’t cheap."

She chuckled, setting her fork down for a moment. "That’s because those barely count as real gnocchi; they use a paste with more flour and additives than anything else and then freeze them to death. This?" She gestured toward the food between them. "Potatoes, egg, flour… oh, and cornstarch."

His brows lifted slightly as if filing that information away like a secret recipe.

"And the time you use to make them," she added. "Which, if you have practice, isn’t that much."

He hummed thoughtfully, glancing down at his plate, idly nudging a piece of gnocchi with his fork.

 "If you want…" she started, casually, "I could teach you how to make them,  someday."

His eyes flicked up to meet hers, surprised, blinking like he hadn’t expected that offer.

She smiled a little, giving a small shrug like it was nothing, even though, to him, it felt like something. "It might be a nice activity to do with Thomas. He’d probably love that."

Bucky stared at her a second longer, as if processing it, and then something warm, -maybe even a little hopeful- lit up behind his tired eyes.

"Yeah," he said, clearing his throat as if to play it off, though the faintest smile tugged at his lips. "Yeah, that would be great. I’m not great in the kitchen, but if it makes the kid happy…"

She chuckled, sipping her water. "Still, if you don’t feel like getting flour all over your kitchen, I can always make them for you two again. Just let me know in advance."

Bucky nodded slowly, but there was something softer, more thoughtful in the way he looked at her now. Because the truth was, as much as he liked the idea of cooking with Thomas, the thought of her in his kitchen, making dinner like she belonged there, like this was something they always did… yeah, he liked that a little too much.

Even if he knew she’d eventually leave. Even if he knew when she walked out the door, he’d sit at this same table with Thomas, and the apartment would feel too quiet again. That was always when the little bubble of domesticity burst, and he remembered he was only playing house in his own head.

"Want a second serving?" Her voice broke through the fog of his thoughts, pulling him back.

He glanced down at his empty plate, surprised to see it already cleared, then back up at her.

A slow, almost sheepish smile curved his lips. "Yeah… I’d like that." She stood up to grab the pot, and he watched her move.

Maybe pretending for a little longer wasn’t the worst thing.

They talked while he ate, and the conversation flowed easily between bites, like slipping into a comfortable pair of shoes neither of them realized they owned. He asked about some of the kids she used to teach, and she told him a story about a girl who had insisted on wearing fairy wings for a whole month, claiming it was part of her "emotional growth."

Bucky listened, and his eyes occasionally crinkled in that rare way when he was amused, and though he didn’t speak as much, he looked... content.

When he finally finished, pushing his plate back with a satisfied sigh, she stood to collect everything without asking, moving toward the sink to wash up. He didn’t stop her, maybe because he knew it would take him longer with one hand, or maybe because, at that moment, it was nice to have her there doing something so normal in his kitchen.

He leaned back slightly, watching her roll up her sleeves, methodically washing each thing like… like this was just another evening for them.

But then she yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her wrist, and something in him shifted. It wasn’t unusual for him to be awake at that hour -he was used to restless nights, to wandering through the dark- but her? She wasn’t supposed to be part of that quiet, lonely world.

Before he could stop himself, his mouth was already moving:

"Want to sleep in my bed?"

She froze mid-scrub, and her fingers went still in the water. Slowly, she turned her head toward him, raising her brows slightly as if questioning if she had heard correctly.

He straightened a bit, realizing exactly how that sounded, and cleared his throat. “Not with me,” he clarified quickly, shaking his head as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean… You look exhausted, and I’m probably not getting any more sleep tonight anyway.”

"I-" she started, hesitating and twisting the kitchen towel in her fingers. "Are you sure?" The offer was tempting -God, she was tired- but part of her questioned the propriety of the situation. Sleeping in her boss’s bed? Even with the best intentions, it felt intimate.

Bucky leaned slightly in his chair, watching her carefully, and gave a soft shrug. "'S fine for me," he said quietly. "I wouldn’t have offered if it wasn’t."

She bit her lip, still unsure, and he must have picked up on it because he added, almost awkwardly, "You can... hum, lock the door if you want."

That made her chuckle softly. "I don’t think that’ll be necessary," she said with a playful lift of her brow. "I’m not exactly afraid that the Winter Soldier’s gonna take advantage of me."

His lips twitched at that, but something in his gaze sharpened.

"It’s just... the bed is intimate, and-" she tried to explain, but he cut her off gently.

"I don’t mind you there."

They stared at each other for a heartbeat.

"You’re here almost every day," he went on, trying to make her understand. "Taking care of my son. You cook for us, do our laundry, inventory the pantry, sometimes clean…" He let out a small, tired breath, holding her gaze. "Hell, you practically manage the whole household. How can I not offer you my bed to sleep in?"

Something in her chest clenched at the way he said it. Not just the words, but the way he looked at her, like she had become something more than just an employee, without either of them fully realizing it.

That was what convinced her.

Her fingers finally relaxed around the towel, and she gave him a small smile. "Alright," she murmured. "Thanks, Bucky."

He nodded, glancing away like it wasn’t a big deal, but his jaw worked a little, as though the moment had stirred more in him than he was ready to admit.

----

She slipped quietly into his room, closing the door behind her with a soft click, with her heart still beating a little faster than it should. The room was dim, lit only by the faint, silvery glow of the streetlights sneaking through the curtains. It was simple but warm, like the rest of the apartment.

She hesitated briefly before pulling off her pants, folding them neatly on a chair by the corner, leaving herself in her T-shirt and underwear. Then, she slid under the covers.

As she settled, shifting slightly to find a comfortable spot, she realized -of course- that the whole bed smelled like him. A mix of soap, leather, and that unique scent she’d come to recognize as Bucky.

Her stupid body tingled in response, betraying her before her brain could even react. She turned her face into the pillow, nuzzling it without thinking, breathing him in before she could stop herself.

God, what a creep.

What would he say if he knew? What would this poor man possibly think if he ever found out his nanny was lying in his bed, clinging to his pillow like some lovesick teenager?

And worse, what if he knew she couldn't stop thinking about that stupid box of condoms? Correction. Stupid box of XL condoms.

She groaned softly, burying her face deeper in the pillow, feeling her cheeks burn.

For fuck’s sake, she scolded herself.

But it was hard to get a grip when working there didn’t even feel like a job anymore. Because it wasn’t just about Thomas, as much as she loved the kid. It was the little things: quiet conversations over some beverage, the three of them going to the grocery store together, the way Bucky watched her sometimes like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

And now she was here. In his bed.

She swallowed thickly, shifting again under the blanket, trying to will her thoughts into silence.

----

Bucky had already been up for a while by the time she woke up, and when she shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes, she found breakfast already laid out.

Simple, just toast with cream cheese and jam, a black coffee for him and -he remembered- a milk coffee for her. Thomas was happily munching on cereal, swinging his legs under the table, with drinkable yogurt in one hand.

She blinked, still waking up, and instinctively offered, “Need any help?”

Bucky shook his head, sliding another piece of toast onto her plate. “Nah, just sit and eat.”

So she did, and the moment she sat down, The child beamed at her, absolutely thrilled to find her still there in the morning, and on a Saturday, no less.

“What are we doing today?” he asked excitedly, gripping his spoon with his little hands.

She smiled, stretching a little. “Well, I stayed because of the storm,” she explained. “But I’ll be leaving after breakfast.”

Thomas’s face fell, and his bottom lip jutted out slightly. “Can’t you stay?”

Bucky glanced up at that, but before he could interject, she was already speaking.

“No, buddy,” she said gently. “I have things to do at home, my real home.”

The kid frowned, clearly unhappy with that answer. He chewed on his lip, thinking for a moment before pressing, “And when you finish? Can you come eat dinner with us?”

Bucky was about to step in to remind Thomas that she had her own life outside of them, but before he could open his mouth, she beat him to it, again.

“Sorry, Thomas,” she said, offering a small, apologetic smile. “Today’s Saturday, and I have plans for tonight.”

That, however, caught Bucky’s interest.

Not that he had any right to ask, but-

“With who?” Thomas piped up.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering, “Uh- some friends.”

Bucky took a slow sip of his coffee, feigning complete disinterest, though his grip on the mug tightened slightly.

“Boys or girls?” Thomas pressed, utterly unbothered by social boundaries.

“Girls,” she said firmly, shooting the kid an amused look.

That settled fine with Bucky. Not that he cared. Not that he should care.

Thomas, however, was not done. “And where are you going? Is it a birthday? A party?”

“Not a party, kiddo,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “We’re just going to a pub.”

Thomas frowned in thought. “What do you do there?”

Damn, Bucky thought, hiding a smirk behind his coffee. The kid was relentless this morning.

She blinked, clearly not expecting this much morning interrogation, and struggled to keep up with his rapid-fire curiosity.

“Uh… we drink, chat, dance a little… that kind of stuff.”

Bucky set down his mug a little, fixing his gaze on her over the rim.

Dancing.

Thomas furrowed his brows, clearly trying to grasp the concept. “Oh, so there’s music then. And all the people there dance?”

“Some do, some don’t,” she answered, reaching for her coffee.

The kid chewed on his spoon thoughtfully. “So you dance with your friends, but there’s other people, all dancing there next to you?”

She hesitated, sensing where this was going. “Um… there’s a space to dance, and everybody who wants to dance, well… they just go there and do it. Sometimes I dance with my friends, and sometimes people ask you to.”

Thomas blinked. “Do you know them?”

“Um… no,” she admitted, suddenly regretting the direction of this conversation. “You just… you meet them while dancing or- or later.”

Bucky took a slow sip of his coffee, watching this unfold with a blank expression, but she felt his attention sharpen at that answer.

Fuck.

Thomas frowned, clearly confused now. “But Daddy says you’re not supposed to talk to strangers or take things from them. But it’s okay to dance with them?”

She nearly choked on her coffee.

“Well-” she cleared her throat, scrambling for an explanation, “it’s okay if you’re an adult and you’re in that particular scenario.”

Thomas tilted his head, still piecing things together. “So… if a man you don’t kno-”

“Honey,” she cut in smoothly, offering him a small, patient smile, “finish your cereal, please, before it gets all mushy.”

“Okay…” the kid mumbled, clearly unsatisfied by the abrupt end to his interrogation.

Bucky didn’t say anything at first, swirling the coffee in his mug, staring at the dark liquid like it might have the answers he was looking for.

But then, before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.

“So, a girls’ night?”

She nodded, lifting her mug to her lips. “Yeah, it’s been a while since we dressed up nice and, um… socialized.”

His grip on the cup tightened slightly, though his expression remained unreadable.

“The three of us work with kids,” she continued, swirling her coffee absently. “And, well… sometimes it’s nice to change the jumpers for a dress and just… have some fun.”

Have some fun.

Right. Of course.

She had a life outside of this apartment.

Outside of him.

She wasn’t his. She wasn’t theirs.

And yet, sitting there at the breakfast table, where she had been just the night before, where Thomas had lit up when he saw her, like she was part of their little world, Bucky was reminded, again, that this wasn’t real.

That, at the end of the day, she walked out that door, and she went back to a life he wasn’t part of.

Maybe she’d meet someone tonight. Maybe she’d dance with a stranger. Maybe-

He swallowed, setting his mug down with a quiet thud.

“I see.”

She cleared her throat, shifting slightly in her seat as the silence stretched between them. Something about the way he said "I see" unsettled her, like a door had quietly closed, and she wasn’t sure why.

So she tried to bridge the gap.

“Is your back still bothering you?” she asked, keeping her tone light, like it was just casual concern. “Or your head? You mentioned a headache last night.”

His fingers flexed slightly around the ceramic, a small shift, barely noticeable. “Back’s fine. Just a headache.”

She nodded, setting her mug down. “I have some lavender oil in my bag,” she offered. “If you want, I could rub some pressure points on your temples and neck. Might help.”

Bucky froze.

For a second, he thought about refusing. About keeping that blurred line drawn, that careful space between them almost intact.

But then there was that other part of him. The part that had gotten used to her voice threading through his apartment, the sound of her shuffling around the kitchen, the scent of whatever she wore floating faintly in the space even after she left, the simple, human comfort she brought into a life that had been built on surviving instead of living. The part of him that leaned, that craved, even when it had no right to.

The part of him that wanted to pretend a little longer.

He wetted his lips, flexing his fingers against his knee like he could still convince himself to turn it down.

God, he was so fucking tired of wanting things he couldn’t have.

“…Yeah,” he murmured, rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind.”

She smiled softly. “I wouldn’t have offered if I did.”

And damn if that didn’t make his chest ache in a way he couldn’t name.

As she stood up and walked toward her bag to rummage for the little bottle of lavender oil, she took a breath.

Why was she doing this?

Why did she feel this need to take care of him, to soften whatever storm she felt churning behind his tired eyes, especially after catching that strange shift in him when she mentioned going out?

To prove what, exactly?

To reassure whom?

Her fingers fumbled slightly over the zipper, and she felt the tension in her chest growing tighter the more she thought about it.

Bucky was her boss.

God, she was projecting her own feelings on him, wasn’t she? Projecting something onto the soft edges of this makeshift little life they’d built together without ever daring to admit what it really was. Maybe he didn’t give a fuck if she went out or not and she perceived a shift in his demeanor because she wanted to.

She swallowed hard, biting the inside of her cheek as she finally wrapped her fingers around the small bottle.

Maybe that’s why she had said yes when her friends suggested going out tonight.

Because this, this everyday routine, was killing her. Feeding her crush, her whatever-this-was, letting it grow wild and dangerous in a space where nothing could ever really happen.

She was setting herself up to get hurt.

And now here she was, oil in hand, about to soothe his headache like they were anything more than two people stuck in an arrangement that worked well enough until someone crossed a line.

She blew out a soft breath, composing herself before turning around, pasting on a gentle smile she didn’t quite feel. “Alright,” she said quietly, holding up the little bottle between her fingers. “Let’s see if this helps.”

And as she moved back toward him, her heart ached because part of her already knew it wouldn’t fix the thing she wanted to soothe.

“Oh, do you have a hair tie? This could get messy,” she said, pausing as she realized only then that his long hair might get in the way.

“I’ll get it!” Thomas chimed in enthusiastically before either of them could react.

Bucky huffed a quiet breath through his nose, and before he could say anything, Thomas was already running off toward the bathroom.

She let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head, but her heart was thumping a little faster than she liked to admit.

A moment later, the kid returned, holding out a black hair tie like it was treasure.

“Here!”

“Oh.” She took it gently. Right. Now she had to… Okay. “Thank you, sweetheart.” She ruffled his hair gently before stepping behind Bucky.

From her position at his back, she caught the way he straightened a little, squaring his shoulders like he was bracing for something.

"Alright, hold still," she murmured.

Then, carefully, she lifted her hands to his hair, gently combing through the thick strands with her fingers to smooth them out before gathering them to tie back.

The moment her hands slid into his hair, she felt him tense and freeze for a second. But before she could ask, she caught the smallest sound, a sharp inhale, like he was stopping himself from groaning. Her fingers hesitated, hovering just for a heartbeat, but when he didn’t pull away, she went on.

God, she thought, when was the last time someone touched him like this?

Her fingers were soft -so soft- and his scalp prickled under her touch. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him like that, careful, patient, almost tenderly.

He knew she felt him tense. She paused, just for a second, like she wasn’t sure if she should keep going.

But he forced himself to breathe, to let her. He let out a long, controlled breath as she worked, and his body slowly started to relax under her gentle hands.

She focused on the task, careful not to pull too hard, smoothing down stray strands with her fingertips. She couldn't see his face, which somehow made it easier. When she finally gathered the strands and tied them back in a loose ponytail, her fingers touched him for a second longer than they should have.

“There,” she whispered, almost more to herself. "Not too tight."

His head dipped in acknowledgment, but he didn’t speak.

“Okay now,” she murmured gently, stepping in closer behind him, grazing his neck with her fingertips, starting to work into the knots at the base of his skull, and Bucky let out a slow breath, closing his eyes for a moment.

God, it felt good. He told himself it was just for the headache.

But as her hands moved up to his temples, rubbing slow, careful circles, he knew part of him wanted this for reasons that had nothing to do with pain relief.

His body had been wrecked after the seizure, just like always. It was like every muscle had been pulled to its limit, every fiber burning and sore, leaving him feeling like he’d gone through a war. His back, his neck, and even his jaw felt locked up and raw. But as her hands worked carefully along the tight muscles at the base of his skull, and her thumbs pressed firm but slow into the knots, the pain eased. Not gone, but slipping into something bearable, and God, that alone felt like a miracle.

What would he give to have this every time his goddamn brain decided to remind him how broken he was?

Her thumbs circled up to his temples, rubbing with gentle pressure, and a low hiss slipped through his teeth before he could stop it.

He felt her pause, just briefly, and he almost kicked himself, until she kept going, as if she understood that it wasn’t pain that made him react, but relief. A soft hum escaped his throat next, and he hated how good it felt, how vulnerable it made him feel to want it so much.

And of course, because his brain besides being a mess, was a goddamn traitor, another thought slithered in his mind.

How would it feel to have her hands on other parts of his body?

Not working at the knots in his neck. Not relieving his tension. But in a softer, slower, and more exploring way instead of fixing him. He swallowed hard, shifting slightly in his seat, hoping she wouldn’t notice the way his breath hitched. His hands curled into fists against his thighs, trying to keep himself composed, trying to stay focused on the innocence of the act.

"Feeling better?" she asked softly, still working her fingers gently behind his ears, tracing small, careful circles.

Bucky swallowed, with eyes half-lidded, trying to keep his voice even. "Yeah," he managed. "The ice-pickers behind my eyes seem to have disappeared. All is... numb now." He let out a soft, breathless chuckle, like he couldn't believe how much lighter his head felt.

"I'm glad," she murmured, as her hands slowly slid down the sides of his neck, expertly seeking out the tension that was still tight in his shoulders.

She let her thumbs dip lower, pressing just between his shoulder blades, and-

He moaned.

Low, guttural, and completely unfiltered, the sound slipped from his throat before he could stop it. The moment it left his lips, Bucky's eyes snapped open, and the shame heated his face as his back tensed again.

Fuck.

He felt pathetic, but there was a part of him, buried deep, that thrummed with how good it felt to let go, even just a little.

Behind him, she stilled for a fraction of a second.

She had definitely heard that.

He could feel his ears burning, and before he could gather himself enough to speak, her hands moved again, smooth and calm, as if nothing had happened.

She bit her lip so hard it almost hurt, thanking every higher power he couldn’t see her face right now. Because that sound? That sound had gone straight from her ears to her southern region, sending a jolt of heat through her body so fast it left her breathless.

She swallowed thickly, schooling her features before sliding her hands back up to tend a different spot. But then, guided by purely innocent intentions, she casually, carefully, returned to that same spot between his shoulder blades. Just to... make sure she worked out the tension. Of course.

Her fingers circled there again, pressing slow and deep-

And he didn’t disappoint.

Another low, breathy sound rumbled out of him, not as loud as before but just as raw.

She had to bite her lip harder, pressing her thighs together instinctively as she kept going, pretending not to notice. Maybe if-

"Can we go to the park when you feel alright, Daddy?" Thomas' small voice cut through the thick air between them like a pin to a balloon, breaking the invisible thread that had been pulling tighter and tighter.

Bucky stiffened slightly under her hands, and she froze, suddenly reminded that the child was there. Sitting on the couch, surrounded by toys, watching them like it was just another normal day.

Her face burned as a wave of mortification crashed over her. How had she let herself forget?

Bucky cleared his throat, answering with a soft voice, but there was something on it, like he was pulling himself back together. “Sure, kiddo. I’m all yours today. Wanna… wanna go visit Uncle Steve too?”

Thomas beamed. “Yay! Can we buy chocolate cake too?”

Bucky chuckled. “Yeah. We can do that.”

Taking the cue, she let her hands slide gently away from his skin. “There you go,” she said quietly, more composed than she felt, heading straight to the kitchen sink to wash the oil from her palms. The water ran warm, but her skin felt flushed for other reasons entirely.

She needed to stop imagining things that weren’t meant to be there.

Bucky was her boss. Thomas’ dad.

And if she didn’t want to fall harder, to make this nice domestic fantasy crack open and hurt, she needed to start expanding her social circle, like she had promised herself. Even if she didn’t want to. Even if she’d rather stay right here, tangled up in something that wasn’t hers to want.

She dried her hands slowly, hearing Bucky’s voice behind her as he started chatting casually with Thomas again, like nothing had happened.

“Well, I should... I should get going,” she said, folding the towel neatly over the sink. “Still have groceries to buy and...” Her voice trailed off as she smoothed her palms down her thighs, like she wasn’t quite sure how to finish that sentence.

"Of course," Bucky replied quietly, already pushing himself up from the chair, rolling his shoulders.

She glanced toward the living room area where her jacket and bag rested over the arm of the couch and moved to gather them. Just as she was slipping on her jacket, Thomas looked up from where he was playing and chirped, "Have fun dancing!"

Right.

She blinked, forcing a smile as she bent slightly to ruffle his hair. "Thank you, dear. I will."

Bucky was already at the apartment door when she turned around, opening it wordlessly, filling the doorway with his frame. She walked over, adjusting her bag on her shoulder, and he stepped aside to let her pass first, ever the gentleman.

They walked side by side in silence to the elevator, neither of them quite knowing what to say.

As they reached the building entrance, she turned to him, giving a small, polite smile, holding onto the strap of her bag like a lifeline. “Have fun at the park with Thomas,” she said softly.

He hesitated, tapping his fingers against the doorframe before he forced himself to meet her eyes briefly.

"Yeah... and you-" he cleared his throat, darting his gaze away for a second before returning, almost reluctant. "Have fun tonight. Just... be careful."

"Always."

And with that, she turned and walked away, feeling his eyes on her back until the door clicked shut behind her.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @lazyneonrabbitt @that-daughter-of-hephaestus @sebastians-love @vicmc624 @lucylovexx @ethereal-witch24 @wannabakewithsomebody @unicornqueen05 @ddrewcameron @danzer8705 @mcira@technicallytinyheart@put-trash-here@chinggay85-blog@tulippix@dumblani @chuiisi @calwitch @civilbucky @neyr100 @tanyaherondale @theflowerswillbloom @stars4birdie @soberbabes @greatmistakes @littlesuniee @casey1-2007 @escapefromrealitylol

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[millers-angel]

I need more about this fic (beach trip). Please give us more chapters, more drama, more smut.

beach trip — second night.

dbf!joel miller x f!reader

thanks to everyone who read the first part! <3 first of all, the dry humping part is because of that damn picture, look how bulky he is, anyone would be lucky to dry hump him. this is mostly smut! summary: the day after losing your virginity to your dad's best friend, you just want more, no matter if other people are around, but also you sneak to joel's room in the middle of the night. warnings: dry humping in public, use of pet names, masturbation, oral (m receiving), unprotected sex (reader isn't on birth control), praising kink, creampie. wc: 5.5k

You were taking a sunbath by the beach, on those bed-like lounge chairs. Dad and Joel were most likely at the bar, but you... you have your mind somewhere else.

You haven't stopped thinking about last night, it was... a lot. You've been thinking about tonight, about sneaking to Joel's room when you're sure dad is not gonna interrupt.

You haven't stopped thinking about last night, about the way Joel touched you, how he made you feel things you never even knew you could. It didn’t matter that he’d been an idiot before with that guy at the bar—he more than made up for it. Besides, he proved something you’d been dying to know: he wanted you, at least in that way.

Joel was always so quiet, so reserved, but last night... last night he was anything but that. He showed you a different side of him, one that made you weak and your body ache to feel him again.

You were trying to think of something else, the beach, how nice the weather was even, but then it was just him again.

"Hey," to your surprise, it was him, Joel, sitting next to you in the chair.

"Hey," you fixed your hair nervously, as if he could read your mind. "Where's dad?"

He nodded at the direction he came from. "Found some folks who played cards... so he will be busy for a bit," you both chuckled.

"Oh, well..." you played with your feet. "You didn't want to join them?"

He made a face. "Not really," he sighed. "Also, your dad asked me to keep an eye on you."

You scoffed, crossing your own arms. “He thinks I can’t take care of myself?”

Joel chuckled, his gaze full of amusement. “Wow, and here I thought you wouldn’t complain.”

Your cheeks flushed. It was embarrassing how much you actually wanted to be around him. How you’d been waiting for a chance to sneak away together again. But you wouldn’t admit that, not out loud.

“I’m not complaining,” you mumbled, trying to sound nonchalant.

His grin was wide. “Sure doesn’t sound like it,” he teased. “Actin’ like you didn’t like it last night.”

Your heart skipped, your mouth opening and closing as you tried to come up with something to say. But nothing came out, not when the memory of his hands on you was so fresh, so vivid.

"Are you sore, though?" he asked.

"Do I look sore?" you teased back.

Joel’s eyes trailed over you, slower this time, taking his time as he looked you up and down. You were stretched out on the lounge chair, your sun-kissed skin glowing under the light. The two-piece swimsuit shaped every curve perfectly, leaving just enough to his imagination, although he has already seen it. His gaze locked on the way the fabric sat on your hips, how it pressed on your breasts, how your slopes pump perfectly for him.

“You look…” His voice was low, almost a murmur. “You look good.” His eyes darkened, going back up to meet yours, but not before taking one more long look at you. “Too good.”

Your heart skipped a beat, heat blooming across your cheeks and between your legs. You swallowed, suddenly self-counscious of how little you were wearing, how exposed you felt under his gaze—and how much you liked it.

But you couldn’t help yourself—you looked at him the same way.

He was wearing swim trunks, low on his hips. Your eyes swayed, just for a moment, stopping at the way he was bulky on the crotch, your mouth went dry. You knew you shouldn’t look, but you couldn’t help it.

When you looked back up, his eyes were on you, his lips curling into that lazy, knowing smirk. “Caught you starin’, sweet girl.”

Your face went hot, and you quickly looked away. “Was not,” you mumbled, but you could still feel his eyes on you.

He leaned in just a little, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Liar.”

You huffed. "So what? You were doin' the same thing, old man."

“Old man, huh?” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “You keep callin’ me that and you're gonna end up on your knees.”

You swallowed. "Why would I even get on my knees for?" You knew what he meant, but you wanted to play with him.

He chuckled, his gaze dropped to your lips, staying there before his eyes met yours. He leaned in, his face close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin. "You're a little tease, aren't you, angel?"

"Yeah? What you're gonna do about it?"

His grin widened. There it was—the bratty virgin he talked about last night. Sure, you weren’t a virgin anymore, but that defiance was still there, alive and kicking. It made him chuckle.

He liked that about you. Hell, he liked everything about you.

"What am I gonna do? I just told you, I'm gonna get you on your knees."

Your breath hitched, your eyes searching his for some sign of hesitation, but all you saw was hunger, raw and unapologetic. Your heart raced. You were dangerously close now, his face inches from yours but your eyes never left his.

His hand slid up, resting on your inner thigh, fingers curling just slightly. His touch was gentle. “You keep lookin’ at me like that,” his voice dropped to a rough whisper, “and I’m not gonna be able to stop myself.”

"Too bad we're in public," you teased, taking a step back from him.

His eyes darkened, his jaw clenching as you stepped away. But before you could take another breath, he closed the distance, his hand catching your waist, pulling you against him. His mouth was on yours, rough and demanding, lips firm as his fingers dug into your skin.

You gasped, but he swallowed the sound, his tongue teasing yours, his other hand slipping to the back of your neck to hold you there. When he finally pulled away, his eyes were wild, his breathing heavy. “Public or not, you keep pushin’ me, and I won’t care who’s watchin’.”

You bit your lip decided to be brave enough to test him. Your lips pressed against his again, not rough as he had been, but gentle, the softness of your lips makes him weak, needy.

Your hand dropped to his lap, going up to his crotch, feeling the shape of his dick over the fabric of his trunks. He broke the kiss immediately.

He looked around and there was almost anyone on the beach—not close at least, just people taking sunbaths near the shore.

His gaze darkened and you just laughed, as if you've won, which you're far from doing.

"I need you to go to the shore and come back, then you sit on my lap." His voice was commanding, not playful.

"What?"

"If you don't want that then we can just fuck here, right now."

You blinked and stood up, walking slowly to the shore as he asked you to, slightly letting your feet get damped with water. You turned around before walking to him.

He had shifted in his seat, now lounging on the bed-like beach chair with his legs slightly apart, looking relaxed but undeniably masculine. His arms were draped casually, his posture lazy yet somehow commanding, his eyes fixed on you.

You sighed and made your way to him, kinda nervous, what does he has in mind? Fucking? No, it would be dangerous.

But you did as he said and when you got to him, you sat on his lap. His arms wrapped you immediately.

"Now you're gonna cum, sweet girl." He said leaving sloppy kisses on your back.

"What?" You gulped. "How?"

"You're gonna move these," his hands shifted to your hips and patted them. "But slow... unless you want to make a scene, or worse."

You could fight with him on that, maybe tell him he was a pervert for doing something like that in public, but the truth is... you want it as much as he does.

You nodded and started doing as he said. Slowly swaying your hips on his bulge. There it was, you could feel it in your core, bricked up and throbbing, pleading to come out.

You weren't an expert, in fact, you've done this only once with a guy and it was nothing like this. You had no idea if you were moving good—you weren't, but it felt good. It looked adorable to him, the way you let your body guide you.

One of his hands shifted from your hips to your chest, he let it rest on your breast, cupping it, squeezing it just a little, making you feel good, making you shiver.

You were muffling moans, trying not to do anything that might attract atention, but you were failing.

"Better keep it quiet." He said against your ear.

You let your butt fell a little too hard on his crotch, making him groan. "Better keep it quiet," you teased, looking at him over your shoulder.

His hand curled on your hair, pulling it a little. He thrusts his hips up, meeting your movements, his movements becoming more frenzied as he chases his own pleasure.

"Joel—" you whimpered.

You can feel it in your core, you're all wet, sensitive. Joel smirks, feeling your body shudder against him.

"You're so responsive," he says, his voice low and rough. "It drives me fucking crazy."

He tightens his grip on your hips, guiding your movements as you continue to grind against him, his own body trembling with need.

"Does it feel good?" You asked softly.

You could feel his cock twitching, he must be glazing inside his trunks, just as you are. He groaned and pulled your hair in response. His thrusts became faster, more needy than before.

His hand dropped your hair to come to your inner thighs, spreading your legs just enough to make his way to your crotch, finding your clit over your swimsuit.

You couldn't help to moan when he started drawing circles on it, he could feel how warm and wet you were, how swollen and flushed your poor little pussy must be. The idea drove him crazy enough to come, but he didn't—yet.

Your movements went more frentic too. Now either of you could hide what you were doing, and couldn't care less about the people nearby too. You were too lost in each other, like two cavemen driven by raw instinct, seeking nothing but pleasure.

Your walls throbbed and your whole body was twitching, it felt too good. Joel's fingers work faster, his touch becoming more firm as he circles your clit, his other hand holding you steady so you can grind against him even more.

He was in pain, he needed to come, but he wanted you to do it first. He can feel your softness over the clothes, he can feel how wet you are for him, how needy you are.

"I'm gonna—"

"Yeah, that it. Come f'me." He growled on your ear.

He pressed his fingers too hard on your clit and one moment to the other, your hips movements went low, but that didn't stop him to keep playing with your clit, as he creamed his trunks.

You both were panting, trying to catch your breaths. You didn't move from his lap, just let your body go limp over him. He chuckled and moved you to the chair, laying you back down gently. His eyes met yours, a satisfied grin on his face.

“That was…” you started, still catching your breath, “I liked that.”

His fingers brushed a stray hair from your face. “Yeah?” He leaned in, his lips ghosting over yours. “Me too, angel. More than you know.”

"Did you finish?" you asked, barely confused.

He laughed. "I did,"

You bit your lip. "Can I see?"

"What?"

"Yeah, I mean, I wanna see how it looks," You swallowed. "If that's okay."

His gaze was filled with amusment, and this time, he looked around before lifting his trunks. You moved your head immediately to take a peep of him.

Your gaze darkened when you saw the mess you made. His pubes were all covered in cum, so was his length, his tip all flushed and swollen.

Your hand moved, wanting to touch him, but he held your wrist and fixed his trunks before you could go any further.

"You need it that bad?"

Your heart raced, his words sinking in. You looked up at him, cheeks warming as you whispered, “I want to do it again.”

He laughed softly, a deep, rumbling sound that made your stomach flutter. “Oh, I know.” His voice low and rough, “But not here. Not where anyone can see you like this.”

You shivered at his possessive tone, a heat sparking inside you all over again. “Tonight?” you asked, a little breathless.

“Yeah,” he promised, his thumb tracing your jawline. “Tonight.”

The day passed slowly. You spent the afternoon with your dad and Joel, watching the sunset from the beach, the sky painted in shades of pink and orange as the waves lapped at the shore. It was peaceful, dad's arm around your shoulders as he talked about old memories, laughing at his own jokes. You missed moments like this—simple, carefree.

Later, the three of you went to dinner. The restaurant was lively, filled with laughter and clinking glasses. Joel sat across from you, occasionally meeting your eyes with a knowing look that made your heart race. You tried to act normal, joining the conversation, laughing at dad’s stories, but you couldn’t ignore the way Joel’s leg brushed against yours under the table.

After dinner, as you all headed back to your rooms, your dad stopped you, his hand on your shoulder. “Hey, the bar’s having live music tonight,” he said. “If you wanna go, have some fun.”

You smiled. “I’ll think about it.”

Joel’s voice was casual, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. “Thought I saw you there last night... with some guy.”

You held back a laugh, thinking about how shameless he could be. “Yeah? It was boring, though,” you said, your eyes meeting his for a split second before you looked away. “Probably won’t go again.”

Your dad nodded, giving you a warm smile. “Well, up to you. It’s your vacation, kiddo. Goodnight.” He gave you a quick hug before walking to his room.

“Goodnight, daddy,” you called after him, your heart fluttering as Joel stayed a moment longer, his gaze lingering before he turned away.

You stood there for a moment, the night air cool against your skin, knowing exactly where you’d be once your dad fell asleep.

You went back to your room, closing the door quietly behind you. The events of the day replayed in your mind as you turned on the shower, letting the warm water wash away the sand and salt. You took your time, the anticipation building with every passing second.

Once you were out, you slipped into a pair of shorts and an oversized shirt. It wasn’t anything sexy—not like you had planned on doing anything during this trip. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a flutter in your chest at the thought of where you were headed.

You waited, listening carefully, making sure your dad’s room was silent. Then, heart pounding, you slipped out of your room, moving quickly down the hall. You barely breathed as you ran to Joel’s door, the cool tiles cold under your feet.

You knocked once, and the door opened almost immediately. His hand shot out, grabbing your waist as he pulled you inside, the door clicking shut behind you.

His lips were on yours before you could speak, rough and desperate, his hands on your hips, pressing you against him. You gasped, fingers curling in his shirt, and he groaned, his mouth moving hungrily over yours.

“Couldn't wait, huh?” he whispered against your lips, his voice low, teasing.

Your heart raced, your knees weakening as his hands tightened on your waist. “Neither could you,” you shot back, and he laughed, his mouth crashing against yours again.

Your breath hitched when his hands moved lower, gripping the back of your thighs. Before you could react, he lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist. You clung to him.

He laid you down on the bed, his body pressing over yours, his weight warm and familiar. His eyes were dark, trailing you as he leaned in, his lips brushing your jaw, your neck.

You shivered, your heart pounding as his mouth moved lower, his hands sliding under your shirt, his touch sending sparks down your spine.

“Still thinkin’ about last night?” he murmured, his voice rough against your skin.

Your fingers tightened on his shoulders, your breath catching as his mouth found yours again. “Yeah… and tonight.”

His laugh was deep, his lips curving against yours before he kissed you harder, his hands exploring, his body pressing closer. “Good.”

"You promised I could touch you tonight."

Oh, so you really meant it, he thought.

"We're gonna talk first, sweet girl." He clicked his tongue.

You nodded, shifting your position in bed to sit on your knees.

“Have you ever touched a man… like that?” You sighed and shook your head. “Before last night, have you ever seen someone’s dick?”

Your cheeks flushed. “I mean, not in person,”

“What?” He frowned, confused.

“Just… just in videos.” It was more embarrassing than you thought, it should be a common thing, right? But it felt embarrassing to admit.

His smile made you feel even worse. “You’re a filthy little thing, huh?”

You rolled your eyes. “Forget it,”

“There it is, the stubborn virgin,” he seemed delighted.

“I’m not a virgin anymore.”

“You act like one,” he shrugged. “So if you watched those videos, I’m assuming you touch yourself,”

“No, I actually watch them for fun, Joel,” your tone laced with sarcasm.

“Show me,” his gaze went dark. “I wanna see how you touch yourself.”

You chuckled. “Why?”

His fingers played with the hem of your shirt before taking it off. “Because I wanna see it,” He could feel it, you were wearing nothing under it, your nipples went hard when they felt the cold breeze.

“Am I gonna touch you after?”

He nodded. “You’re gonna get on your knees after you show me how you touch yourself.”

You took a deep breath and he got rid of your shorts, leaving you bare on the bed. Your hands instinctively covering your private parts.

“You get naked too,” you murmured.

That’s fair. He took off his shirt, hair messy once it went over his head and the shirt fall to the floor, followed by his pants and boxers.

Your mouth went dry and your toes curled up on the sheet.

He chuckled and drew your knees apart, making you flush. “Now touch yourself,”

One kiss. It had been one kiss and a little touch from his side and you were already wet. Your pussy was puffy, flushed and slick with juices.

You take a deep breath and close your eyes, you’re dying of the embarrassment, you've never done something like this. You spread your legs just a little more, ready to stroke your swollen and aching clit.

Once your fingers brushed it, you can't help to moan at your own touch. You draw circles around it. You let his name escape from your mouth once or twice, it's involuntary, but it has an effect on him.

He was delighted with the view, what a treasure his friend brought to earth. She was perfect. Your little fingers trying their best to get you pleasure.

"Get your fingers inside that pretty little hole." His voice makes you shiver.

You nod as you can and get a finger inside. It makes you whimper, even if it’s not as thick as his, it feels good. Your hips bucking at your own pace.

He was delighted hearing your little moans, seeing how your fingers comes out slick and the sound they make.

You feel his hand in your thigh, you open your eyes to look at him.

"Now let's try my fingers," he says. "Is that okay?" he asks.

"Y-yes," you say. "Please.”

He trail his fingers all over your pussy lips, his thumb stays in your clit and draw circles around it adding a little press every time he touched it. You can't help to whimper.

He tease your cunt with his index finger. "P-please, Joel," you say almost begging.

He slides a finger inside, slowly. Your back arches. You bite your lip to stifle a moan. "How does it feel?" he groans.

"F-fucking good," your voice laced with pleasure.

He doesn't stop rubbing your clit as he moves his index finger. "You’re fucking tight," he mumbles. "You have a pretty little thing in here." he made you spread your legs more to take a better look of your pussy.

"Is it okay of we try two fingers?" you nod.

He goes for the second finger and this time, you start to hear your own juices as he gets his fingers inside and out. "She needs to be touched so bad." he says groaning and you nod.

You lean your head against the headboard, parting your lips, letting moans escape from your mouth.

"Joel—" you cry out.

"Yeah?" he asks as he stops moving his fingers.

"Don't—" you feel like you're about to come. "Don't stop."

"Poor baby," his voice low, teasing. "She needs to come, doesn't she?" You nod.

He starts rubbing your clit again, moving his fingers inside you a little faster than before.

You grasp the pillow and say his mame over and over as your cunt throbs in his fingers. "'s okay," he says. "You're doing good," he sounds so... soft. "You can let it go."

And you do when he gives you the word, his hand is all wet and sticky because of you.

"Joel—" You feel the bed a little wet too. You can't stop heavily breathing. He rubs your head and kiss your forehead.

You were a little embarrassed, never shown yourself like this to anyone. And maybe—just maybe, he could feel your embarrassment because he cupped your cheek.

“You did it amazing, angel.”

You licked your lips and trailed him, searching for something in his eyes, and it wasn’t hard to find. His gaze was all dark, it took you seconds to look down to his crotch, seeing him all bricked up.

“It’s my turn now.”

He chuckled and you stood up, walking to his side of the bed, kneeling in front of him. Just as he said, he would get you on your knees.

He was amused watching the scene, you were between his thighs, eager to touch him and waiting for his orders.

You rested your head on his inner thigh, looking up to him. His hand cupped your cheek.

“You don’t have to.” He said, since you just had an orgasm, maybe you need more time.

You frowned. “You don’t want to?”

“I do, but—“

“I want it too, you promised, Joel.”

His grin grew wider and he held his cock, stroking it a little. You could see a drop of precum leaking from the tip, his thumb swirling around it, it sent tingles to your core.

“Go ahead, touch me.”

You bit your lip and just as last night, your first instinct was to touch his tip, and still had the same effect on him, but this time, he didn’t stop you.

Your finger trailed his length, his cock twitching at your touch. You’ve never seen anything like this, it was… huge, everything about it. His balls even. You fisted him, doing what you’ve seen in the videos, your hand pumping him.

He hissed, you were being too harsh all at once, he was sensitive. Your skin smooth and soft against his, it was too much. You were too much, without even trying.

You leaned your head, eager to taste him. But you raised your gaze first, as if asking him if it was okay, which he responded with his hand guiding you to his dick. Fingers digging on your scalp.

Your lips brushed his tip and you could feel how warm he was before wrapping your lips around him. He grunted, he ain’t lasting, not with you being like this.

You swirled your tongue on his tip, the white fluid tastes… salty, but not bad. You like it. You decided to go further and bury yourself on his cock.

It was too much, it made you gag. “Hey,” he said softly. “You okay?”

You nodded and this time you did it slower, trying to figure out how far can you get. Then you started to go in and out on him, with his help. He was guiding your head.

His cock twitches on your mouth, you can feel his pubes beneath your chin.

Your palm lies on his belly and pull his hairs. "Taking this cock so good." he groans. "That's it, you want it all, don't you?"

He has both hands on your head, pushing you deep down, but still, you can't get it all in your mouth.

"You’re too big," you mumble and as soon as you finished the sentence, he flipped you over.

You're on your back again. He's pumping himself, you're not breaking eye contact, you love hearing the slapping sounds he makes, mixed with his whimpers.

He's imagining your pretty face glazed in cum. But not today, he needs to fuck you to cum.

Without any warning, he slams his cock inside you, making you whine. It feels too good to complain about him not wearing a condom, about going raw.

But you have to. “Joel,” you said in a moan. “The condom,”

“Fuck it,” he grunted. “I need you like this.”

And who were you to complain? You were too lost in the sensation. You were craving this again, the way he thrusts, the way his cock fills you every time.

You’re grasping to his arm but he held your wrist to the pillow, intertwining your hands.

Your legs were pushing him down at you. Your bodies melted against each other, becoming one.

“Fucking tight,” he groaned on your ear.

He thrusted harder, making you let go off his hands to dig your nails on his back, dragging them all over it, no matter if you leave scratches, he couldn’t care less.

At some point, he couldn’t help himself, being as tough as he would be normally. You seemed to enjoy it, by the way your moans filled the room, by the way your walls throbs.

“Such a good girl,” he said softly.

Your body stiffened, he knows the orgasm is already in your belly, you're just holding it, but you don't want this to stop. You look adorable being all aroused, being fucked.

You curl your toes. "It's okay, you don't need to hold it," he assures. "I want you to come."

You shake your head and press your lips against his, pulling him down furiously. Tasting him, exploring his mouth as you reach the orgasm.

God knows how much he held it, but your walls were choking him, the way your body was shaking beneath him, he lost it.

He didn’t even have time to pull out, he came inside you. And for a moment he didn’t even care, he would love to be the one to get you all round, carrying his child.

You didn’t seem to care either, not in the moment. It was pure pleasure, you’ve never felt anything like that—being filled, feeling something bubbling inside you.

It made you see the stars.

You sticked together for a couple of seconds, just panting. He pressed his lips against your forehead and then you looked for his lips.

He pressed your foreheads together before pulling out, a loud pop sound, then he left you empty.

"Stay still," he asked holding your knees, spreading them apart.

It was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, your pussy was leaking his cum. He's gonna get hard again to that view. But instead, he dip two fingers in your cunt, making you wince.

"I'm sorry," he said and you nodded.

He got out as much as he could, his fingers all sticky, coating in white. You were watching what he was doing, licking your lips without even noticing.

"Hungry, angel?" he asked, tone teasing.

You breathed. "I... I just—"

Before you could finish, his fingers were over your lips, and you opened your mouth like a fool, letting him make you taste his cum.

You sucked his fingers clean, hollowing your cheeks. You were too naughty for your own good.

"Good girl." His voice laced with amusement.

He wiped down the rest and then collapsed beside you on the bed, his body sinking into the mattress. You turned over, lying on your stomach, your head facing him. Silence settled between you, the only sound coming from the distant crash of the ocean waves outside.

Your mind now was in a war, thinking about the consequences of what just happened. You thought about protection, about the risks... but the thought didn’t last long. It drifted away as easily as it came. You were here, with him, and that was all that mattered.

You closed your eyes for a moment before murmuring, “You’re gonna have to put me on birth control.”

He laughed, low and rough, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Oh, so you’re already planning on sneakin’ into my room again?”

You bit your lip, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “Maybe... if you’re lucky.”

His eyes darkened, his fingers brushing along your spine, teasingly slow. “Angel, luck’s got nothin’ to do with it. You’ll be back.”

You laughed, soft and warm, letting the sound melt between you two. Then, you leaned in to press your lips against his cheek, taking him by surprise. He looked at you, eyes softening as he cupped your face.

"When we get back home?" your eyes lighted up. "How are we gonna do? I was thinking maybe you could—I don't know, maybe teach me how to drive?"

He chuckled. "Is that your plan to keep seeing me?"

You shrugged. "Dad promised he would teach me but he never did, so maybe his friend can take his place."

He laughed, amused, you're adorable sometimes. “What am I gonna do with you?”

You shrugged, a playful grin on your lips. “I don’t know... enjoy me?”

His laugh was deep, sending a flutter through your chest. "Okay, we'll see about that."

"And the birth control."

He grinned, his hand slipping on your stomach, his fingers warm against your skin. “I wouldn’t mind gettin’ you all round for me,” he teased, his voice low as he pressed a light kiss to your cheek.

Your face went hot, a rush of warmth spreading through you. You grabbed his hand, holding it against your belly as you looked up at him, a playful glint in your eyes. “Yeah? I bet you’d like that, huh?”

He chuckled, his nose brushing yours. "Maybe."

You closed your eyes, a small, satisfied smile still lingering as you relaxed beside him, of course you were joking, you knew your dad would kill him if that happens, Joel would get you on birth control. The sound of the waves outside lulled you, and before you knew it, sleep pulled you under.

Tangled in his sheets, you looked like an angel, even with your back bare and hair sprawled across the pillow. He watched you for a moment, shaking his head. You looked so innocent, but an hour ago, you were anything but that.

—

The next morning, you sat at breakfast, the sun warming your face. You were sipping your juice when your dad looked at you curiously. “So, did you end up going to the bar last night?”

You kept your expression neutral, shrugging casually. “Nope, didn’t go.”

He shook his head, clicking his tongue. “You know, you need to loosen up a little. Quit bein’ so shy all the time.”

You nearly choked on your juice. You glanced at Joel, who was fighting back a grin, his eyes filled with amusement. If only your dad knew you still have a part of his friend bubbling inside you. If only your dad knew his daughter was fucking the man sitting right next to him.

Your face went hot, and you pulled your knees up onto the chair, hugging them to hide your smile. You managed to mumble, “I’ll, uh... work on that,” trying not to burst into laughter.

Your dad’s eyes dropped to your legs, his brows knitting together. “Jesus, kid, look at your knees. That ocean’s been rough on you, huh? Must’ve taken quite a beating.” He shook his head, his tone teasing. “You gotta be more careful.”

You bit your lip, your eyes sliding to Joel, who was pretending to be very focused on his coffee. Careful... right. You swallowed a laugh, heat pooling low as you remembered just how you got those bruises. If only your dad knew how much you’d enjoyed getting them.

[mojavebluez]

Bleed - the salesman x fem!reader

Chapter 2

"What can I say?" His mouth curls into a soulless smile. "I like watching girls bleed."

summary - days after your first encounter, the two of you meet again, exactly as promised. This time, he’s eager for you to get to know him better. You play a game of two truths and a lie - with a twist: for every lie you miss, he gets to make you bleed.

tags - knifeplay, age gap, praise kink, degradation kink, blood as lube, bdsm, non-con, sadomasochism, sub!reader, dom!salesman, creampie, unprotected sex

a/n - thanks for the love on part 1! This is one of my first times writing nsfw stuff so I’m so grateful for the positive feedback :))

Series masterlist

4.3k words

———————————————————————

The days leading up to Friday were painfully slow. Your mind was plagued by thoughts of him, mostly denial about the entire situation. You were conflicted. The memory of him, so tall and utterly imposing - it sometimes made your heart skip, sometimes made it sink. You got the feeling you were only seeing a small part of him, a sample of his entire character. It filled you with dread. And excitement.

Friday came and there was no sign of him. You spent your whole day twiddling your thumbs and glancing out windows, searching for any sign of him. Occasionally, you would see a man in a suit walking past, and frantically stand up to see if it was him. But it was never him. You had memorised the curve of his back after nights of reminiscing, the exact slope of his jaw. It was ironic, really: with this information you could easily go to the police and explain the situation. You never did, though, and he must have known you wouldn't. That card - incredibly incriminating evidence, really - was just another symbol of the power he held over you.

On the way home, the reality of the situation becomes very real indeed. If you ran away, would he know where to find you? If you stayed at a friend's place for the night, or even in a hotel, would he seek you out? No. You aren't the sort of person to back out of something. Not now you're so close to finding out who this man really is.

You knock on the door of your apartment, expecting one of your parents to let you in. Usually, it stays locked during the day. But when you bring your hand to the door, it opens at your touch. You glance around. Then, step inside. The entire apartment is dark, every shutter closed and every light off. You don't turn them on, too afraid of what you might find if you do. Carefully, you search the place, trying to make your footsteps as silent as possible. But there's no sign of your parents.

Finally, you open your mouth to call their names. From behind, a hand claps over your face, muffling your voice. Your eyes widen in realisation, and you grab at the hand, attempting to pull it off. You recognise the smell of him. Something musky and expensive, though slightly metallic. The smell brings you to your senses, and your adrenaline kicks in. You scream against his hand, scratching at his fingers and kicking out your legs in an attempt to break free from his hold. He doesn't waver, just pulls another arm around you, holding you even firmer in place than before.

Eventually, you grow tired, and decide to do something you don't really want to. You bite his hand as hard as you can. He makes a pained noise and rips his hand away, staggering backwards. You jump forward, away from his hold, then turn to face him. He holds the wrist of his injured hand, studying it with a frustrated expression. When he looks up at you, eyes burning, fear sinks in.

You step backwards, anticipating his response. "I'm- I'm sorry, I didn't know-"

"Now, now," he shakes his head, a false smile on his face, "what did you do that for, sweetheart?"

You blink frantically, assessing your options. The only way out is the door, and in order to escape you would have to pass him, but he could grab you with ease. After a moment, he decides for you. He moves towards you, gripping your upper arm and wrenching your body toward him. His fingers easily curl around your entire arm. Your head rushes with regret. An assault like that can't go unpunished with him. You know it.

He pulls you through your own apartment and into the dining room, an action which indicates he already knows his way around. He pulls out a chair at the head of the table and pushes you into it. He wastes no time. Already set on the table are coils of binding; he grabs them and instantly starts tying your ankles. He then pulls your arms behind you with painful force, binding your wrists.

"I was really hoping we wouldn't have to do this," he says bitterly whilst tying the ropes.

"How did you get in here?" You ask him, tears thick in your throat. "Where are my parents?"

"Questions I can answer later. Be patient," he stands back once he finishes, and dusts off his hands like an artist that has just finished a project.

"Please-" you begin to say, but he cuts you off with a palm raised in the air. A ring of purple, angry teeth marks are imbedded in his skin.

"You talk far too much. Do I have to keep you quiet?" He lowers his hand carefully.

You press your lips together and shake your head frantically. That would only make the situation worse. He smiles approvingly, then lowers himself to his haunches, studying you from head to toe in a clinical manner. You feel scrutinised under his cold gaze.

"Need I remind you," he stands up, "you called me. I come here out of my own kindness, and this is how I am repaid?" He raises his hand again, showing the teeth marks. Then, he tuts and shakes his head as though he is greatly disappointed.

"I said I'm sorry," you watch him carefully, fighting back tears. His level voice seems more terrifying to you than any sort of outright aggression. When he is in control, he knows just how to make you scream.

He leans back against the wall and folds his arms. "I had something else planned for this little rendezvous, but I'm not sure it will suffice after that outburst. Something else, I think."

You watch him ponder. Everything about him is still a mystery to you. Why did he choose you? There are so many other girls. You scan him from head to toe, almost sizing him up. He wears a different suit this time: dark navy and paired with a black tie. His shoes are perfectly polished, and his hair is slicked back into its usual style. Memories of him rush past, flushed and sweating after practically violating you. That was someone else. You wonder if you will meet that man again tonight.

He seems to decide on something. "Well, I know so much about you, but you know nothing about me. It seems unfair, don't you think?"

"Everything about this seems unfair," you say bitterly, pulling at your ropes for effect.

"You're right, of course. But that's just the dynamic you'll have to get used to, sweetheart," his lips curl as he says the word. Nothing about him is sweet.

You eye him as he moves toward you and pulls out a chair. He sets it opposite you, closer than he was sitting last time. You instinctively shrink backwards as he lowers himself into the chair, leaning his elbows on his knees so he can be level with your eyes. "I have a proposition."

"What is it?" You say quietly, searching his eyes. Nothing.

"A game," his eye sparkles.

"Another one?" You whisper, breaking eye contact.

"Don't worry," he leans backwards, smirking, "no guns involved this time."

"How lucky for me," you say through gritted teeth.

"You're a very lucky girl," he smiles. "Something else - you probably played it in school."

You struggled to think of a school game that involved being tied down to a chair. "Peekaboo?"

"Funny," he doesn't laugh, "no, not that." He holds up two hands. On one hand, he raises his index finger, and on the other, he raises two more fingers. "Any guesses?"

You watch the gesture, thinking. Then it comes to you. "Two truths and a lie?"

His mouth breaks into a wide smile. "Good girl."

"But that's not fair," you say, voice raised, "I don't know anything about you! How am I supposed to win?"

"I'll make it easy for you," he clasps his hands together like a games-master on a TV show. "Round one, are you ready?"

You nod.

"Your parents are dead. Your parents are alive. Or your parents are in this apartment, right now."

Your eyes fly open. The mention of them was completely unexpected. You feel your heart rate pick up as you think of an answer. You so desperately want them to be alive - but would he even say it if they were? You decide to go for the most simple option: after all, you searched the whole place and saw no sign of them.

"You're lying. They aren't in this apartment." You say stoically, meeting his eyes.

He smirks. "Correct. So, dead or alive?"

"That's not how you play. I already found the lie-"

He darts out a hand and grips your thigh, making you cry out. "In case you haven't noticed," he squeezes your leg, "I don't play by the rules. Answer me."

Tears make your vision blurry. "They're alive," you choke, nearly sobbing, "that's the lie."

He pauses for a moment, not letting go of your thigh. "Incorrect."

"So they are alive? Oh-"

"You were wrong. You know what that means?" He dips a hand into his blazer pocket, pulling something out. You squint into the darkness, then freeze when you realise what it is.

"Oh god, no-" your whole body begins to tremble.

"Shh," he brings the blade towards your inner thigh, the metal reflecting your smooth skin, "if you try to win, this won't have to happen."

"I didn't know! You tricked me!" You whimper as he pushes back the material of your skirt and brings the blade to your thigh. There was no way for you to win that round, and he knows it. Once again, he uses you as a tool to show his own deception. He can’t be trusted.

"I'm shocked at how cruel you think I am," he says with fake surprise.

He presses the blade to your skin and you scream a bloodcurdling noise. Red-hot pain seeps from your thigh as he draws a deep line in your skin. You thrash around in the chair, but it only makes the pain worse. He makes a tutting noise, the noise an adult might make when a child falls and grazes their knee. When he raises the blade again, you look down to see a dripping line, like a crimson tally mark. One.

Your chest heaves as you try to console the pain. He pulls a cloth from his breast pocket and wipes the knife with one swipe. You meet his eyes and find that familiar mist clouding them again. He's finally hurt you now, and the cracks are beginning to show.

"Now you know the punishment for failure," he sets the blade on the table, raising his chin with a superior expression.

"I'm sorry- it hurts-" the words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. You are only aware of the pain flooding your thigh. How deep did he go?

"I've barely touched you," he tilts his head, moving your thigh to assess the injury. "You're so fragile."

You just stare at him, chewing your lip in an attempt to distract from the pain.

He smirks. "Round two, are you ready?"

You hold eye contact, hoping he can see the utter hatred in your eyes. Like it would make any difference. He takes your silence as a sign to continue, and leans back, thinking. "I work as a messenger. I work in an office. Or I am a mass murderer. Which is the lie?" He says it with an amused smirk on his face, as though he already knows what you are going to pick.

You console yourself and try to think of an answer. Judging by his smug expression, he said must have said the last one as a joke - though, you wouldn't put it past him. "The last one. It's a lie."

His smile falls. His expression turns dark. "Wrong. Again."

Realisation falls on you like a ton of bricks. Slowly, as if it pains him to do so, he grabs the knife off the table. You scream again, tears falling too fast for you to stop them. You pull at the ropes, arching your entire body to escape his grasp, managing to shuffle the chair a few inches. It doesn't help. He grabs the bottom of the chair and wrenches you forwards with one hand, close enough that his knee is planted firmly between your legs.

"The more you scream, the deeper I go." He says, lip curling and his voice husky. You watch helplessly as he brings the blade back down, holding your legs back with his knee. The knife, now stained with the product of your failure, meets your skin. The pain is easier to handle this time, though still just as awful as before. Another thick, seeping line beside the last. Two marks. Two losses.

You hang your head, body heaving with sobs. He makes that same pitying noise, using one finger to lift your chin. You watch him through your eyelashes as he brings the blade to his mouth, running his tongue along the flat edge. Your blood stains his mouth and drips from his tongue. He makes a small, pleased noise, then sets the blade back down, now clean.

Unmistakable arousal clouds his eyes. You're really giving him a show this time. He leans back in his chair, adjusting his trousers. "You're on a bit of a losing streak, aren't you?" His voice is breathy as he rakes his eyes from your wounds to your face, savouring every inch.

"What is it, huh?" You speak up, voice broken. "What's your angle? Why are you doing this?" Desperation seeps into your words and you search his face for any sign of remorse.

"What can I say?" His mouth curls into a soulless smile. "I like watching girls bleed."

Your mouth falls open. Hopelessness overwhelms you. There it is. The confession. If he doesn't kill you tonight, he will leave you a bloody mess on this chair, alone and stained and scarred.

The game resumes for several rounds more. Each loss is marked with another line, and you feel yourself growing more distant with every tally mark. His dick pushes harder against his trousers every time he makes you bleed or scream, reminding you of your last meeting. He held out that time, however, and seemed satisfied just by making you cum. But not this time. You knew something was different.

By your fifth loss, he strikes a final line across your thigh, and you feel yourself getting faint. Blood pools on the seat of your chair, dripping from your leg so thickly you can barely distinguish the individual lines. His breath picks up, mouth open wide as you scream once more, leg trembling.

"Fuck it," he grunts. Suddenly, he rips off his blazer and throws it onto the table. It slides away to the other end, and you watch him, terrified at every movement he makes and his plan for you.

It's not what you expect. He bends down, ripping away the binding at your ankles so roughly that it hurts. Then, he moves behind you and tears off the rope at your wrists, too. You freeze for a moment, registering your freedom. You attempt to move, but wince when the pain in your leg overwhelms you. Instead, you rub your wrists, marvelling at the ring of purple bruises on each arm.

He moves back toward his chair, breath fast and heavy, then grabs your waist. He lifts you with ease. You cry out as he hooks two hands beneath your knees and pulls your legs around his torso. Scared that you might fall, you wrap your arms around his neck, holding on. He falls back into his chair and you realise the purpose of his hold on you. Your legs straddle his hips, and blood flows from your thigh to stain the fabric of his trousers.

"Fuck," he swear again, looking down at the mess. He releases his hold on you to unbutton his trousers, ripping down his zip quicker than you can see. You whimper, knowing what is to come. The pressure of your leg on his makes the pain worse and the room begins to spin.

You watch helplessly, loosening your grasp on him. His cock springs from his trousers, already hard and dripping with precum. Veins span from the base to his swollen tip. "Look what you've done," he tuts, watching the blood from your leg stain his hands. "Look at the mess you've made."

You sob quietly and watch as he runs a hand down his cock, painting it with your blood. You make a strangled noise when he swipes a finger over the deep slashes on your thigh. He sucks in his breath sharply. "I need to fuck you." He mumbles it so quietly you almost don't hear.

Your head falls back as he lifts you up, lining up his cock with your entrance. He moves your panties aside with one finger, already wet with your own arousal. More and more blood drips onto him and he grunts, gasping slightly as he eases himself inside you. You cry out at the size of him. He's bigger than the gun. Much bigger. He's barely inside you, but the blood on his cock makes it easier for him to slip inside.

"You're so tight," he grunts, gripping your waist with one hand and your thigh with the other. He's barely halfway inside you before he pulls out and rams himself back into you, using the hand on your waist to lift you up. You have no choice but to take him. Your walls tighten around him, and you squeeze your legs together, trying your hardest to fight the discomfort.

Tears fall from your eyes. Your senses are heightened in your last moments of clarity - you feel like you might faint. Somehow, the blood keeps pouring, turning his suit trousers black.

"Don't you dare fucking pass out," he says, gritting his teeth. He squeezes your thigh and you cry out, the pain too much to bear. Your body feels weak.

Still, he fucks you harder, slamming his cock inside you with every thrust. Somehow he goes deeper until you're sure he must be hitting some vital organ. You've never been fucked like this before. You almost forget the pain he just caused you as you buck your hips against him, desperate to take him even deeper.

"Such a whore. You want it, huh?" He squeezes your ass, lifting you so that you bounce on his lap. Pleasure builds in you, a jarring contrast to the utter agony you felt almost moments ago.

His head falls back hangs off the chair as he thrusts in and out of you. You lift a hand to his face, desperate for something to hold onto, not noticing your fingers are still marked with your own blood. He sees and grips your wrist, sticking a finger into his mouth. He sucks them clean.

"You taste even better than you look," he smirks. He can't hold the expression for long. His eyes roll back slightly when you move your hips over him, making wide circles. You press a hand to his chest, grabbing a fistful of his shirt, and he lets you keep your grip there, too distracted by the hypnotic movements of your hips. You notice that blood drips from the corner of his mouth, instinctively, you lean in and swipe it off with your tongue. He chuckles darkly.

"You're forgetting yourself," he says, slowing his pace. You make a desperate whimper, raising your hips again to continue the rhythm.

"I'm going to need more motivation than that," he mumbles, bringing his mouth to your collarbone. You slow down, unsure of his intentions.

Still inside you, he parts his lips and sucks at the skin of your neck. He applies intense pressure, sending shocks through your body and you cry out, dropping your head over his shoulder.

"That's it," he says, laughing breathily into your ear.

He doesn't stop despite the fact you wince away from him. He plants firm, harsh marks along your neck, leaving a dark line of bruises to your collarbone. Every time you make a noise, he presses harder, until you're biting your lip just to suppress your whimpers. Then, once he's satisfied, he plants two hands on each thigh, ramming his cock back into you. He grunts loudly with every thrust.

He's rougher this time. The flow of blood slows, but still makes his cock glisten red as he pumps in and out of you. The sound of your skin slapping together fills the room, along with his grunts and your faint whimpers. His increase in pace makes the warmth in your stomach more intense, and you feel yourself on the brink of release. You arch your back, gripping onto his shoulder to keep yourself steady.

He notices you nearing your orgasm and uses his last burst of energy to make you ride him even harder. His hips buck up and down until his cock fills you entirely. You grip onto his tie, finally reaching your climax. You nearly scream as you cum with him still inside you, intense warmth and euphoria rushing through your entire body. He does the same, gasping for breath as he cums inside you, still bouncing your ass on his lap whilst you ride it out.

Your entire body goes limp. You collapse over him, taking in lungfuls of air. The euphoria is quickly replaced by exhaustion and pain. Your entire leg feels sore despite the blood no longer flowing as freely as it did before. He slows to a stop, then pulls his cock out of you. It's still stained red and dripping with his cum, and he grunts at the sight of your cunt, glistening with your own blood and his cum. He has complete control of you now.

"You're fucking crazy," he says, panting. He swipes two fingers over the wounds on your thigh, making you wince as he wipes the last of the blood away. He leans back for a moment as he comes down from his high, pressing a hand to his forehead. Strands of black hair fall over his eyes, damp with sweat.

"Let's take care of these cuts, shall we?" He says, too gently for it to be genuine. He lifts you up, straddling each leg on his waist. He lowers you onto the table, letting your legs dangle over the edge.

He makes a gesture that suggests he will be right back, and leaves the room in the direction of your bathroom. His clear knowledge of the layout of your home is concerning, but you can't find the energy to care. You close your eyes, letting your head hang, trying to suppress the dull thudding pain in your leg.

He returns after a few minutes, holding a medical kit and looking a lot more composed. The lusting look in his eyes has disappeared, replaced by emptiness, and his tie - which you managed to almost pull off earlier - is centred again. Blood still spatters his shirt, and his hair glistens as though he has dampened it and swept it back. You almost feel flattered that he tries to look so presentable for you.

He moves before you, lowering onto one knee. He kneels between your legs and parts your legs gently. Too gently. You wonder for a moment if you're dreaming. If you passed out back there and this was just some fantasy you invented to console yourself. But no. He opens the box and lifts out some alcohol wipes. Absently, you lay a hand on his head, stirring the dark waves. He doesn't look up. Just brings a wipe to your wounds, wiping away the blood. It stings so badly that you grip his hair as tightly as you can. You feel the urge to cry again.

Before you even register it, he places a large plaster over the wounds and pats the site gently, as if congratulating you. He stands up and plants a soft kiss on your forehead. You don't even meet his eyes. Your vision is cloudy. Exhaustion threatens to overwhelm you, and you're dangerously close to passing out altogether.

You have a faint memory of him lifting you and carrying you to your bedroom. You recall grabbing his arm after he lowered you onto your bed. Then asking, "when will I see you again?"

You couldn't make out his face. His voice was low and gentle. "Call me."

Then he left.

—

You woke up to the sound of the front door opening. Jolting out of bed, you rush to the hallway, hoping against hope. It's your parents. They greet you, smiling, and ask how your day was. You can barely find the words to respond. Your entire body aches, and you nurse the wounds at your neck and wrists to find they're covered by a hoodie you don't remember wearing.

They apologise for leaving and ask if you got their message. You say no. Then you leave in the direction of the dining room to confirm some faint suspicion. The room is completely normal. No blood. No ropes. No knife. Not even a chair is out of place. You press a hand to your forehead.

Later that night, you stare at the plaster on your thigh, the only evidence that the entire situation happened. You peel it back and your head rushes with adrenaline. Five slashes. Still there. You collapse back onto your bed, ignoring the pain that is almost a comfort by now - at least it proves the whole thing was, in fact, real.

Your phone rings. Every normal, human part of you fights back the urge to pick up. But, of course, you do.

The human part of you is long gone by now.

[sitepathos]

From Gold to Mold

Chapter 12: The Fight (Warning: this chapter will feature blood and violence. Proceed at your own risk)

“Look at all this,” you whisper as you take in the sights of the Strip, all the various casinos and hotels lighting up the night sky. “I returned to Nevada four years ago and I’ve never been here before. What the hell was I thinking?”

(You were trying to set up your new life, which was the responsible thing to do back then. But, we agree, coming here sooner would not have been unwelcome. This city seems to be a source of endless entertainment.)

You had finished the DLC for Salvage Rights earlier today and to celebrate both its release and its positive reception, you decided to treat yourself by going to Sin City and indulging in its various casinos and restaurants; you have the knowledge and experience of countless gamblers from Gotham, so you should be able to play blackjack and poker with the best of them.

You thought you were prepared to handle and glitz and glamor Vegas has to offer, but seeing it with your own eyes has left you speechless. The lights have you mesmerized and you’re loving it! Everywhere you look, there’s something beckoning you, like a moth to a flame and right now, you don’t care if you get burned.

“Hey, look over there,” you say, stopping to look at something above you in the distance.

The sight is a towering building proudly bearing the name “Caesar’s Palace” in lights. During your brief research for your trip to the Strip, you read Caesar’s Palace is one of the most popular casinos in the city and is also a popular destination for dining.

(You did say you wanted the “full Vegas experience.” Going to one of the largest establishments in the city would be a step in the right direction.)

When you first thought of this little excursion, you wanted to have fun, but didn’t want to get trapped in the larger ones and lose all the money you brought in with you, instead opting to stay in the smaller casinos. “Keep it simple, keep it safe,” you said a few hours ago.

Now, the lights of the massive casino before you has ensnared you and is luring you towards it like an angler fish does with its prey.

“Ave, true to Caesar,” you say as you begin the trek towards the towering monolith.

If the outside was mesmerizing, then the inside is absolutely enthralling! As expected of a place named after a Greek emperor, the interior looks like a palace plucked from the Greek Empire, complete with marble and gold, making you feel like royalty.

(We take it we are going to play here?)

“Damn right,” you say as you enter the casino part of the resort, taking in the seemingly endless rows to slot machines, card tables, and other various gambling set ups.

As you look at each slot machine and table, you’re flooded with information from the Megamycete’s archives on what you want to see when playing slot machines and when is the best time to stand when playing blackjack. While Gotham doesn’t have shit on Vegas, it did have a passable gambling scene, which attracted many expert gamblers to that City of the Damned.

With your newfound knowledge in hand, you exchange the thousand bucks you brought with you for chips and make your way to a roulette table with only one other person.

“Good evening, sir,” the dealer greets you as you situate yourself of the other side of the table, away from the other player. “Will you be joining us?”

“Deal me in,” you respond, pushing a few chips on the table to test the waters. You may know the basics from playing Fallout New Vegas, but this is real life with real money being risked and this time you don’t have a maxed out Luck stat to cheat the system with.

A few hands in and you can say for sure you love gambling. Sure, you’ve lost a few rounds, ruining a couple hot streaks, but right now, you have more money than you came in with.

“Fifteen, odd, black,” the dealer says when the ball finally stops spinning before giving you the pot, much to your delight.

“Goddamn it,” the other man exclaims, shoving himself away from the table and storming off, hopefully towards the exit as tonight has not been his night.

“I apologize for that display,” the deal says as he readies the spinner for the next round. “Will you be playing another round?”

“Definitely,” you respond, sliding three-hundred dollars worth of chips onto red.

“Have room for one more,” a masculine voice rings out next to you.

You tense up when the voice registers in your head and you look to your right to see Bruce fucking Wayne, looking down at you with that fake ass smile he gives the idiots of Gotham. Your anger only intensifies when he places a thousand dollars worth of chips into the pot.

What the hell is he doing here?

(How dare he,) the Megamycete practically growls. (This is a night meant for you to enjoy yourself and he intrudes upon it, and in your city no less.)

“Welcome, Mr. Wayne,” the dealer says as he spins the spinner after the bastard places his bet.

“Hello, Y/N,” he says to you, his focus on you and not the spinner. “I have to say, I don’t peg you as the gambling type.”

You say nothing, not wanting to give him any sort of satisfaction, and focus on the game.

“It’s a very dangerous habit if you’re not careful,” he chides you as the baller begins to slow down. “And coming to a place like Vegas? It’s not safe for someone like you. You should be back home, where you belong.”

You know the “home” he’s referring to isn’t your house in Goodsprings, but Wayne Manor in Gotham and it’s taking all your willpower not to pimp smack the shit out of him right now. This was meant to be a night for you to have fun in Vegas and you’re not gonna let him ruin that like he did the night you won your award.

“Gotham has plenty of high-end casinos where you can play all the games you want. I could take you to each of them and make sure you get the VIP treatment.”

“Vegas is far safer than Gotham,” you retort. “Here, the biggest threat you face is losing your money when you don’t know when to quit. In Gotham, you have nut jobs running around killing people on a nightly basis and the biggest nut job of them all beating the crap out of them.” You give him a mocking look, knowing something that would get under his skin. “No one in their right mind would live in that cesspit of a city. If you ask me, that place should be nuked to hell.”

While he manages to hide it well, you can see just the faintest of winces and you let your smirk show. For whatever reason, he thinks Gotham is the best place on the planet and is worth protecting. You learned about Gotham’s seedy history from its early days as a colony established in 1635 and you can say for certain that area is cursed. If you had your way, a giant wall would be built around Gotham and everyone inside would be left to kill each other and rot in that cursed city, especially the Waynes.

“Gotham has its flaws, sure,” he responds. “But I’m able to look past its dark side and see a bright future for both the city and everyone that calls it home. As you know, Wayne Enterprises has been the vanguard of breathing new life into the city.”

“Oh, that reminds me, I heard WE’s stock has practically become worthless in the last few days. Rumor has it all major stockholders are demanding for you to step down as CEO.”

“I’ve been in tight spots before and I’ve always come out on top. This will be no different. I’m sure things will turn back around in no time.”

“Six, even, black,” the dealer announces, bringing you back to the game. “Congratulations, Mister Wayne.”

You roll your eyes as the pot goes to the son of a bitch. You mentally shake your head and place your chips on the table for the next round.

“Maybe you should step down,” you say as the dealer begins the round. “I was stuck in that manor of yours for over a decade and I know it’s a mess. You should really get your house in order before you go around ‘fixing’ Gotham.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my family,” he growls. “It’s perfect the way it is.”

“No one’s buying that story anymore, Mister Wayne. I take it you haven’t read Lois Lane’s latest article?”

“Of course I have,” he says, glaring at you and it makes you want to laugh knowing how you’re testing his limits. “How could you say those things about your family?”

“You’re not my family,” you snap. “You all made it quite clear I wasn’t a part of it over and over. The only family I’ve ever had was Momma and she was taken from me.”

The anger in his eyes fade and he was silent for a moment. “I know we made mistakes during your time with us and we’re sorry about that.”

“It’s too little, too late, Mister Wayne.”

“Twenty-four, even, black,” the dealer states, clearly more interested in your conversation than the game.

You can’t help but smile as the chips make their way back to you and you place a bet of five-hundred for the next round. Of course, Bruce doesn’t go way and instead places another bet.

“Please, Y/N, come home,” he pleads as the spinner is spun. “We all miss you. Especially Alfred.”

“He’s welcome to visit me whenever he wants. The rest of you can go to hell.”

“Like it or not, they’re your siblings, Y/N,” he growls, getting closer to you. “And I’m your father. You will show them, and me, the respect that entails.”

“Respect is earned, not given,” you retort, getting close and looking up at him. He may terrify Gotham’s criminally insane, but you know you’re better than him in every way, so you’re not scared. “And don’t get it mixed up, you’re a sperm donor, not my father. God knows you never acted like it.” You lean close so that your face is mere inches away from his. “If you want, we can take this outside, Mister Wayne. Just remember what happened last time things got physical between us.”

“Now, now, gentlemen,” the dealer says. “Let’s keep this friendly. We’re all here to have fun, right?”

(Listen to him, Y/N. Do not let him ruin your first trip to Vegas. There will be plenty of time to put him in his place after we have had our fun.)

You continue to stare at him and direct all your anger and hatred towards him until he finally concedes and backs off and you do the same, just in time for the ball to finally stop.

“Nineteen, odd, red,” the dealer says as he slides the chips to you.

“I just want to make things right,” he says as he places his bet. “I know I treated you wrong and I want to fix that. So we can be father and son.”

You roll your eyes at the pathetic words and even more pathetic look as you place your bet and the deal begins the round. “You’re not sorry, Mister Wayne, you just feel guilty. Whatever conscious you have in your twisted little soul is making you feel bad and you can’t stand it, so that’s why you’re humiliating yourself trying to earn something I can never and will never give you: my forgiveness.”

He winces enough for both you and the dealer to see, but you find yourself taking no joy in fracturing his mask. This was supposed to be a night of fun and games, but he had to come all the way from Gotham and ruin it. It’s actually made you despise him even more, a task you thought impossible until now.

“Twelve, even, red,” the dealer states as he slides the chips towards Bruce.

It’s then you notice that you and him have almost the same amount of chips and the sight of it ignites an inferno of competition, which fuels your desire to assert your superiority over this pathetic creature before you.

(We are with you,) the Megamycete states firmly. (Show this interloper his place!)

“Tell me what you want, Y/N,” he says as you place all your chips on red, your mother’s favorite color, glaring at him as you do. It’s then he does the same thing, but places his chips on black, the color of the Bat.

How predictable.

With both your bets placed, the dealer spins the roulette, signaling the final round between you two. When that little ball stops spinning, one of you will take all and the other will lose all.

“Please, there must be something I can give you to show you I’m sincere. And you of all people should price is no object for me. Just name it and it’s yours.”

(How pathetic! He thinks all those years of abuse and neglect can be erased by buying you some insignificant trinket? Does he think you some whore that can be bought? Show him how wrong he is, Y/N!)

“You want to know what I want, Mister Wayne,” you ask, malice dripping with your every word, as the ball begins to slow down and clatter around. “I want you to know that I hate you more than anything else on this world; I want it to rattle around in your head for the rest of your life, from when you’re around your collection of misfits to when you lay your head down at night, that there’s no word or phrase in any language that has ever existed or ever will exist on this planet that can fully express how much animosity and hatred I have for you.”

It’s then that you get in his personal space has he had done with you earlier and use the mold so you can stretch your body ever so slightly so your face is almost touching him and stare into those eyes you’ve come to despise so much and they stare back at you, full of hurt and shock.

In the background, you can hear the ball beginning to slow down, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care about the game. Right now, all that matters is conveying just how much you hate Bruce Wayne.

“I want you to grow old and die knowing that, in the end, I was the one that rejected you.”

His response? Nothing but the widening of his eyes and stepping back, as if you had struck him.

“Seven, odd, red,” the dealer says, obviously shocked at what you just said.

You say nothing as you gather your chips and walk away, leaving Bruce Wayne behind to reflect on your words.

As you walk, you notice your heart is beating enough to burst out for your chest and your face is molten hot, even without touching it. In the moment, you had no idea how your words affected you as much as they apparently did that bastard.

(Perhaps we should return home,) the Megamycete suggests. (The night has been ruined and you need to rest after that interaction. We can always return another night for entertainment.)

As much as you hate to admit it, it’s right; after that display, you’re not in the mood to see what else you can get up to in your first night in Vegas. Being around him has brought back much of the anger you thought you had finally buried after moving back to Goodsprings and getting your life together and it’s killed any desire for gambling, dining, and everything in between.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice sounding weak even to you. “Let’s go home.”

You quickly cash in your chips and pocket the check the cashier gives you before making your way towards the exit. From there, you walk around until you find an alleyway tucked into an isolated and desolate part of the city to sprout mold armor and wings before taking off into the night sky.

“You know, the city looks even more breathtaking from up here,” you remark as you enter the vast expanse of the Mojave.

(Indeed. Maybe when we return, we will earn enough money from playing games that we can stay in the highest level of the tallest hotel of the city and see it again.)

“Yeah,” you respond with a throaty chuckle. “That’d be nice.”

You look down at the desert beneath you when you feel something hit your wings, slicing through and severing them, leaving you to fall to the ground. You shout as you harden your armor just in time as you impact with the sand, creating a deep crater.

(Are you alright,) it asks as you climb your way out.

“Yeah,” you respond with a groan. “What the hell happened?”

You get your answer once you make your way to the top and see Bruce, donned in his Batman gear, looking down at you.

“Are you alright,” he asks, as if he wasn’t the cause of the incident.

You dismiss your mold helm and look at him square in his eye slits, taking a deep breath and exhaling before saying, ever so calmly, “I’m going to kill you now.”

And with your intentions declared, you summon a new pair of wings and launch yourself towards the bastard and before he can react, you grab him by the face with one hand and propel the both of you backwards, using to wings to fly as you forcibly shove his head into the sand and push him forward, creating a trail in your wake.

His hands fly to yours and attempt to free himself from your grasp, but you don’t give him the chance and throw him towards a nearby rock formation as hard as you can.

He can only flail around like a rag doll as he flies through the air and lands on the rock formation with a satisfying crash, sending debris and sand flying in all directions.

Unfortunately, it’s not enough to keep him down as he’s quickly back on his feet. He reaches into his utility belt and throws a batarang at you and you respond by creating a similar object out of mold and send it flying towards it, the two of them hitting each other and falling to the ground.

Of course, he’s quick to act and before you can see it, he’s thrown something at you and you’re trapped in some kind of cable.

“What the hell,” you exclaim as you try to break free of the wire, but find yourself unable to.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he says as he closes the gap between the two of you. “But you’re coming home and I’m gonna find a way to get rid of this thing inside you.”

You’re already pissed, but the way he says something so batshit crazy with a tone similar to one that you’d use to calm a startled animal enrages you even more.

How he can still be so determined to drag you back to Gotham when you’ve made it abundantly clear that you hate him and his family after everything they’ve done to you is nothing short of astounding.

(He seeks to separate us,) the Megamycete practically hisses. (Do not let him! Kill him, Y/N! Kill him!)

Your rage towards the man before you explodes like a blast furnace and you reduce your body to a murder of crows and fly towards Bruce at top speed.

He raises his arms to protect his face and you use your mold hardened beaks and talons to slice into his suit, leaving at least two dozen bloody cuts all over his body.

(Good! Hurt him even more! Bleed him dry!)

Your murder of crows fly around him, forcing him into a defensive posture, and you gather them all so you can reform into your armored form right behind him. He realizes what’s happened, but he can only turn around to face you when you grab his wrist as hard as you can, and wave him around in the air and slam him into the rock below you over and over, taking pleasure in the sounds of rock breaking with every hit.

It’s then you slam him into the rock and summon a mold sword. When he looks up at you and realizes what’s about to happen, he raises his hand just in time for your sword to go through his hand and the tip of your sword pierce the hardened Bat symbol on his chest; you know the symbol is the strongest part of his suit so it can protect whatever he has beating in his chest, but you’re determined, so it begins to crack and crumble as you drive the sword deeper in.

He tries to say something, but the damage you’ve done to him takes its toll as he can only gurgle something as blood begins to seep from the corner of his mouth.

You dismiss your helm as you lean down towards him, a vicious, bloodthirsty grin etched across your face, and the sword goes down just a little more.

“Let’s get rid of this, shall we,” you mock, grabbing his cowl, ignoring the shock the suit gives you in response. “I want to see the life fade from your eyes!”

And with that declaration, you rip the cowl off him, exposing his face, marred with bloody cuts and bruises, before you.

When you look into his eyes, you can see past the look of struggle is fear and terror.

(He knows this is the end! Finish him! Put an end to the Bat!)

“Goodbye, Mister Wayne!”

Just then, you see something fly past you and it’s then you realize the arm holding your sword has been sliced through. Bruce takes advantage of the situation and kicks you a few feet away from him and he backflips so he can put even more distance between the two of you.

You quickly collect yourself to see the source of the disruption: Dick and Cass, donned in their vigilante gear.

“You ok, B,” Dick asks as Bruce joins them.

“I’m fine,” he grunts out. “What are you doing here?”

“Alfred told us you were coming here and we knew something like this was going to happen. We all wanted to come, but we knew we couldn’t all leave Gotham, so we drew straws.”

The way he sounds so joyful pisses you off even more. How dare he! You were so close to putting an end to him and Dick had to come and ruin it!

(You should rip his limbs off! Strip him of his wings and cast him into the dam!)

Cass looks at you and you instantly know she’s analyzing you, determining possible strengths and weaknesses. When she sees that you’re missing a limb, her eyes widen.

“Oh,” Dick exclaims when he follows her gaze. “I’m so sorry, baby bird! I didn’t mean to do that! I just wanted to get you off of Bruce!”

You look down to find the severed appendage lying near your foot and go to pick it pick it up. While Dick is spouting endless apologies and pleas for you to stay calm, you merely place the limb where it once was and it begins to stitch itself back together. Once your arm is reattached, you fix your gaze back to them to find that they’re starring at you in shock at what just happened.

“Oh,” Dick manages to spit out after a few seconds of silence.

“This is between me and him,” you say as you take a few steps towards them. “Fuck off.”

“You need to stop this, baby bird,” Dick retorts. “We’re family, you shouldn’t be doing this!”

“You’re kidding, right,” you say with a mocking chuckle. “You people are constantly fighting with one another! If you’re not giving each other black eyes, you’re either breaking bones or slitting throats! You’re all a bunch of emotionally constipated psychopaths who belong in padded cells with the rest of Arkham’s lunatics! And I want nothing to do with any of you! So, for the last time, leave me the fuck alone!”

The only answer you get is the three of them getting into combat postures, indicating they’re ready to go on the attack.

“I give you the chance to walk away, and this is the thanks I get,” you sigh.

From the bottom of your feet, you command two mold tendrils to burrow into the sand below and snake their way over to them and once in place, you order them to burst out from beneath them; such a tactic would spell the end for normal people, but the Waynes are anything but normal, so they somehow knew you were up to something and scatter just as the tendrils emerge.

Still, you put them on the defense by ordering the tendrils to lash out at them, separating them from one another and forcing them to put all their focus on the tendrils while Bruce and Dick are dodging the lashing tendrils, you make your way to the nearest vigilante: Cass.

Just as you near her, she turns around and counters the slash of your mold sword with a blade of her own. You quickly realize that the few dozen people that possess any type of sword fighting prowess pale in comparison to Cass’ and decide to swap to hand-to-hand combat by punching her in gut when your blades were clashed together, sending her flying several feet.

She quickly recovers by the time you close the gap and she not only evades most of your punches, but she manages to give you a few.

What the hell, she shouldn’t be winning.

(Her fighting style is more advanced than anything we possess in our archives,) the Megamycete responds, sounding shameful. (We are unable to find a successful counter to her assault.)

Of course, it makes sense now! While Gotham may have attracted a few dozen experts in fighting over the centuries, Bruce has been trained by masters in every form of combat, including Ra’s Al Ghul, whose lifespan makes the Megamycete seem infantile in comparison. And he’s no doubt taught all of them his fighting style.

Just then, you feel something hit your back and explode, sending you flying. When you recover, you see Bruce and Dick have cut your tendrils and are now heading towards Cass to reinforce her.

(Their armories also seem to be more than we can handle,) it says as it repairs the damage done to your armor. (We have hardened your armor as much as we can, but it seems their tools will be able to penetrate our defenses.)

Shit, so that leaves you vulnerable to their fighting styles and their gadgets.

“Alright,” you mutter to yourself as you ready yourself. “We’ll just have to rely on the one thing none of them have ever had: powers.”

You repeat what you had done before and disperse your body into a murder of crows and send them flying around the Bats, causing them to huddle together and raise their arms in an attempt to protect themselves. You have enough crows continue to fly around them to keep them distracted while the rest of them form together to form your body, but with the addition of four, oversized spider-like legs extruding from your back.

You allow yourself to fall to the ground, the legs pointed down to form four very sharp stabbing implements. They look up just in time to see what’s about to happen, so they force their way through the swarm just as you land where they once stood. The remaining crows reintegrate into your body as you make your way towards them, jabbing your spider limbs in an attempt to stab any of them.

Dick and Cass have narrow frames, so they’re harder to hit, but Bruce’s more bulkier body makes him a more feasible target, so you shift your focus to him. After a few failed slashes, you manage to land a decent hit that causes him to fail onto his back. He tries to reach for his utility belt, but you use two of your limbs to pierce his shoulders and he lets out a pained yell s he struggles in vain to free himself from beneath you.

He looks up at you, a painful expression etched on his face, while you summon two small tendrils from your back, ready to deal the final blow.

“If I can’t rip out your non-existent heart, I’ll just have to settle for your head!”

But, just as you’re about to make good on your declaration, you feel something attach itself onto your back, throwing you off balance.

“Y/N, don’t,” a voice says from behind and it’s then you realize it’s not something on your back, but someone.

Specifically, Dick.

“Get off me, circus freak,” you snarl as you begin to struggle with him.

Deeming Dick the bigger threat, you shift your focus from Bruce to shaking off the acrobat any way you can, flailing around and reaching out to grab him so you can finally finish him off; while you want to kill Bruce more than anything right now, you want him to suffer before you shed his blood.

Making him watch as you rip his golden child’s head off while he’s powerless to stop it? Yes, that’ll do the trick.

It’s then you feel something at your spider feet and when you manage to look down while holding Dick at bay to see Cass, batarang in hand, cutting the feet pinning Bruce to the desert floor in an attempt to free him.

(She attempts to free the bastard,) the Megamycete hisses. (Kill her! Kill her now!)

But in typical fashion, Dick butts in where he’s not wanted and hurls himself towards you, latching onto your upper body, forcing you to brace your back spider legs to prevent you from tumbling down.

You watch in pure frustration as Cass slices off the parts of your legs pinning Bruce down and before you can react, the two of them hurl themselves onto you, joining Dick in trying to wrestle you to the ground.

You grab Dick with one hand and Cass with the other and just as you ready to summon a tendril to deal with Bruce and stabs you with some type of syringe, making you howl in pain at the sensation; instead of injecting you with something, you feel your blood being drained from you.

“Enough,” you hiss, hurling the two smaller vigilantes as far as you can before grabbing Bruce by both his shoulders and pulling him up so that the two of you are eye-to-eye.

It’s at this point your rage reaches its apex; this was suppose to be a night of fun out on the Strip, but the man before you not only had to ruin it by showing up, but now he’s come full circle on his batshit craziness by blasting you out of the sky and try to apprehend you like you’re one of the crazies from Arkham.

And to make matters worse, he had to bring two of his children, Dick being one of them! While you will always hate Bruce with every fiber of your being and Damian being an extremely close second, you’ve always had a strong resentment towards the eldest Wayne son. While the bastard will always say he loves all his children equally (minus you, of course), you know Dick will always be number one in Bruce’s heart due to him being the first child and being a capable Gotham socialite and vigilante.

And to add insult to injury, everyone always says Dick is everything an eldest brother should be: reliable, responsible, and doting. For years, you could nothing but cry as you saw him going out of his way to help and hang out with the other Wayne children, no matter how loudly they tried to reject it. Watching such the love and affection you craved be handed out so willingly and carefree to anyone but you made you think you would never be loved by anyone other than your deceased Momma.

You let out an inhuman howl in Bruce’s face as you shove your head into his right shoulder and latch onto it with your teeth with enough force to rival a hydraulic press. He lets out a pained yell and attempts to pull you off by your hair, but you apply more force until you eventually pierce through the armor, followed by the skin, then the muscle, and finally bone.

You pull your head back, bits of bone and flesh dangling from your teeth. You look to see his right arm practically dangling from just the barest of flesh and blood oozing from it like a waterfall. You shift your gaze from your handiwork to Bruce’s face to see the most delicious expression of pain etched on it and his complexion is pale and clammy.

At this point, you’re a crazed animal, chomping at the bit to go in for the kill on the wounded prey before you and rip it apart until it’s unrecognizable.

(Yes,) the Megamycete roars, its voice a symphony of bloodthirsty cheers. (Do it! Exact your vengeance upon him!)

Before you do anything, you feel something hit your back and explode, but unlike the first one, this one sends some sort of freezing gases scattering across your body, sending feelings of burning as your armor and spider legs rapidly freeze.

You howl in pain as you drop Bruce so you can slap at the affected areas, trying to find some way to relieve yourself of the freezing feeling.

(Hurts,) the Megamycete hisses. (Hurts!)

You rid yourself of your armor and spider legs by ripping it off your body, the frozen mold constructs shattering upon impact with the ground.

It’s then you realize you’re exposed and quickly turn around, ready to defend yourself when you see the three of them flying away on the Batwing at top speed. You could go after them, but after the fight with the Bats and their freezing grenade, you can only fall to your knees, trying to catch your breath.

(We had no idea we possessed such a vulnerability to the cold,) the Megamycete says, its voice sounding weak. (The winters of Gotham drove us to a state of near hibernation, but this is the first time we have ever had a reaction like that.)

“And now you know,” you manage to gasp out. “And so do they.”

You can only watch as the vehicle flies away as fast as it can, carrying three of the Bats away where they will no doubt share what’s happened here with the others, which will no doubt lead to even more encounters like this in the future.

“Shit.”

In the Batwing, Bruce knows Dick is talking to hi, his words quick and high pitched as he tries to dress his wound, but right now, he can’t bring himself to take his focus off the syringe filled with your blood.

When he set out for Vegas, he was determined to find a way to provoke you into showing him your powers and obtain a blood sample so he could perform more tests, but he didn’t think he’d discover a major weakness in your defenses.

While he hated to see the cryo grenade caused you so much pain, he can’t help but rejoice at the knowledge that there’s a crack in your armor and if he approaches it at the right angle, he can have you home far sooner than he anticipated.

And when you’re back home, he can find a way to get that damn thing out of you and return you to normal. And when that’s done, he can begin to make things right with you.

He grips the syringe harder, seeing the key to making his daily whole once again within your blood.

Tag List: @lunaluz432 @type-ink @bat1212 @eyeless-kun @deathbynarcisstick @orbitingtraveler @1s3v3n1 @nosyrobin @roseytheteacup @bunbunboysworld @kitty-from-daaaa-voidddd @feral-childs-word @phoenixgurl030 @soriansick @hellcatsworld @bellethesleepypotato @prettyboys247 @marsmabe @exactlynumberonekryptonite @paolexsstuff @fantasyhopperhea @c0l1fl0r @ellaprime7 @starryperson @kore-of-the-underworld @kiarst @vanessa-boo @moxiemy @ratchetprime211 @greatwhisperspaper @tatsuri-zomushiki @bunbunbread @starsdotalk @luna57765 @solelifauna @jsprien213 @diejager @lizz-lrm @v0idl1nq @chericia @wizzerreblogs @tinybrie @lilyalone @thickasthievingtoads @creativechaosx @randomlyappearingartist @ferchu0406 @kik1010 @butterflycardigann @1-800-crazy