#oc: double zero

[kikuwaters]

All three of these ocs of mine have one thing in common;

These are Reapers

On my drawing of Macabre (x) @wildweirdly asked "Is a reaper a job title sorta thing, or do people get born as one? Do you have to die first?"

I can't say how excited I am to be asked about my story and the world state! The answer is a complex however, so I'll detail it out under the cut :>

Souls and Realms

To start, I feel I need to explain the concept of souls and life paths in my story. Souls are who someone is at the core. The type of soul you have depends on the realm in which you came. There are three realms in total.

Beings of Earth have Mortal Souls Those of Holy realms (Heaven and Hell) have Holy Souls And there's a third, large realm called the Reaper Realm. Reapers do not have a traditional soul

The Point of a Soul

In my story, a soul is a highly complex thing. Nobodies life is predetermined and they have many branches to take. As such, their soul is comprised of three parts; their past, their present, and their many futures. When a mortal soul has reached it's final path, it's collected by a Reaper.

The Reaper does not cause death, they merely aid in helping the soul move to the next plane of existence (be it Heaven or Hell). How a reapers job works is a closely guarded secret that is not shared to mortal or holy beings.

Reapers can see a beings soul, and can understand when it's getting closer to their final path. Reapers do not collect Holy Souls. This is a job for a higher being, known as the Arch Reapers.

Where do the Mortal Reapers come from

While there are many reapers, it is a finite position. There is only a certain amount of reapers allowed at any given time, and they have a sort of.. quota of souls they have to assist before their job is done.

When a reapers job is fulfilled, they'll be able to pass on. To do so, they must choose a new reaper. This new reaper must be a mortal being and the last of their blood-line (no more family, no descendants, etc).

After the right candidate is found, the reaper trades souls with them.

This gives the reaper the ability to die and move on, but it strips the mortal of any life choices. The newly chosen reaper is unaware that this decision was made for them, and they are now on a set path. They must die, and when they do, they will be taken to the reaper realm to receive their new role.

TLDR;

Yes, reaper is a job title but it's also a state of being. You aren't born, you're chosen for the role, and yes you must die to begin.

Thank you for asking :> While Reapers show up in several of my stories, their role is most prominently focused on in my story Project Infinity

(banners by @.cafekitsune)

[hazelkjt]

"Surprise!"

---------- Perseverance's first Nameday with her new family, a surprise party she will never, ever forget.

[dragonoffantasyandreality]

-Hopeful Smiles of Humanity-

@uniwolfcorn @teapotteringabout @skymaiden32 @voidparadoxical @llamawrites @yarol2075 @knyee @janetm74 @the-original-sineater @thundergeek59 @riallasheng @katblu42 @mariashades @room-on-broom

[jalo-parker]

Ghost fans I swear I haven't forgotten about you.. the hermitcraft fixation just came back with a vengeance 😭

I'm still very much a fan of the band! It's just hard to draw all of my fixations at once, especially since I only post one drawing per week (I would post more but I want my posting to be consistent and if I drew more it definitely wouldn't be💀)

Zero (the one with tiny white horns and brown hair) is my ghoulsona :D

[fl4tlines]

Bad Things Happen Bingo – Addiction/Withdrawal @badthingshappenbingo ┆ Square #1

「✦」 OCs: Kay Edwards ⅋ Paris Elswood 「✧」 Content: Addiction ┆ Alcoholism ┆ Cursing ┆ Graphic Drug Use ┆Suicide Mention 「✦」 Word Count: 2,145 「✧」 Relevant Links: Masterlist ┆ .𖥔˚ ♫˚ 𖥔.

⛧ ‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿⛧ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❝ So you pour a little more; // And there's no one there to judge you; // At least that's what you tell yourself; // But don't you know, nobody drinks alone; // Every demon, every ghost from your past; // And every memory you've held back; // Follows you home. ❞ ⛧ ‿̩͙‿ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿⛧

“Can you sort?”

Paris held the phone to his ear as he spoke. The third number in as many minutes. He rubbed his forehead and shook his head at the answer from the other end of the phone.

“Seriously? Look – I can pay double.”

Another wince as he received his response.

“Yeah. Cash.”

“An 8-ball? No, just a sixteenth.”

Paris paced back and forth across the living room carpet, biting at some loose skin around his nail as he waited on an answer. 

“Mhm, yeah. Yeah. Great.”

He glanced upwards to the clock. Three in the morning. But it was an hour and… something slow. More like half four. He pressed his hand into his forehead again.

“Yeah. Got it. Double in cash. Same spot as yesterday?”

After receiving the confirmation, Paris hung up the phone and finished the last of a bottle of wine from the table. Cheap shit, Kay had told him. Rough. Muddy. Rotgut. Yeah, Kay liked to pretend he knew what he was talking about. Throwing around all the right buzzwords so people thought he had something worthwhile to contribute.

And Paris couldn’t help but find that endearing.

He grabbed a jacket on his way out of the door – one of Kay’s, khaki green with a fur lined hood. Still with a wad of cash in the pocket from yesterday. Now was a good time to be thankful Kay never wore it.

The moment he was out of the apartment, Paris pulled the hood up and made his way down the two flights of stairs in the dark. Wiring was busted. Again. Third time this week.

Chilled air hit him as he took the all too familiar route, head down as he walked briskly. At this point, he didn’t even have to look up. He could work on muscle memory alone for this. And then the last turn. Taking him down a street – an alley behind long since closed takeouts and a nightclub. With rusted security cameras surveilling it. Long since disconnected.

The usual ten minute wait ensued. Agony. Paris paced back and forth, picking at his nails as he waited. But it was always ten minutes waiting for this guy. Even when he did the forty minute drive in thirty. Paris should be used to this by now, but each moment passing was pressure in his chest. If Kay came home and he was gone, that was the relationship over. Done.

But, if he was home? Plausible deniability. Did that apply? An old stash. A slip up at a party. Peer pressure. Anything to shift the blame off of himself. After he had made the call. Gone in search of one more hit.

But it could be worse, he told himself. It could be heroin. Or meth. But he wasn’t an addict like that. He wasn’t. It was just cocaine. 

It was easy to forget that he’d reassured Kay in exactly the same way about his drinking. The drinking could have been worse. Paris had it under control. It wasn’t cocaine. It could have been worse.

It still could be worse.

“Hey,” an unfamiliar voice broke Paris’ train of thought. Probably for the best.

“You’re not Aiden.”

“I should hope not,” the quick, scoffed, reply. “Cami.”

Paris only had the energy, and care, to give her a quick once over. Long, dark hair. Leather jacket. Skinny jeans. Unassuming. Unremarkable.

“Right, whatever. He spoke to you?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“I’ve got it. I can do $190.”

“$350.”

“Never had someone talk me up before. Suicidal or something?” Cami’s response was blunt, but she edged it off with a slight smile.

“I keep my word. I’m not screwing over Aiden. And I don’t need a dead hooker on my conscience.”

“Call girl. But it's your money.”

Paris rummaged in his – Kay’s – pocket and counted out the money in front of Cami, before handing it over to her, and replacing it with a small ziploc that she handed him.

“I can put you on to something better. Cheaper,” Cami looked Paris up and down. When he didn’t respond, she continued. “MCAT. You’ll be paying half. Same kick, better price tag.”

Paris thought about it for a few moments, eyes ever so slightly narrowed as he thought about the offer.

“Cheaper doesn’t matter. This is my last hit, I’m done.”

Cami seemed to do everything she could not to laugh in his face.

“I am. I’m done,” Paris repeated.

“You tell yourself that,” Cami pulled out a card and handed it to Paris, who paused before he took it. “Agency card, but just ask for me. I’ll get you sorted.”

“Listen – I – this is my last fix.”

“Doesn’t mean you won’t need the number.”

Paris pocketed the card. Taking it was far easier than trying to argue with her.

“Are we done?”

“Yeah, we’ll talk soon,” Cami had already decided.

“Yeah. Drive safe or whatever,” Paris muttered as he brushed past her and turned the corner out of the alley.

The walk home could have been therapeutic. A quieter version of the usual busy city. Almost lifeless at this time of night – just about to be revived by commuters on the way to a nine to five. And the bustle was beginning as Paris re-entered the apartment through the door which he had left unlocked. A neighbourhood like this? Even Paris would confess that was reckless. The late night pick up felt relatively safe in comparison.

He crashed down on the couch, still in his coat and emptied his pockets onto the table. Paris cursed under his breath, his life contained only to the mess scattered on the cracked glass surface. With his entire existence laid out like this – who was he kidding? With Kay on the verge of leaving him, the comfort he found here was temporary, but wasn’t everything?

Now wasn’t the time to be tearing himself down, right? He was doing better than he could be. And that must count for something. Rock bottom still seemed so far away.

He took one more look at the table before sinking his head into his hands and continuing to curse under his breath in a low mutter. This was fine. It was fine. Kay wasn’t even home. Wouldn’t be for hours.

Paris straightened his posture and tilted his head back, collapsing once again against the back of the couch. Breath through gritted teeth. It was fine. He had spoken it into existence. It would be fine. He was fine. One last fix wasn’t going to kill him. Not after everything else. This was mild. Quiet night in. Recovery.

Except he knew he was kidding himself there.

Roughly wiping away tears that had not yet fallen, he leant forward on the couch and picked up the clear ziploc. He hardly had time to think as he emptied some of the powdered contents onto the screen of his phone. But he left more than half in the bag. Because this was his last pick up. Because any more would prove he wasn’t recovering.

Paris got to his feet, almost tripping over a discarded hoodie on the floor as he skimmed the pile of DVDs next to the TV. He pulled out a dog-eared copy of Saw III. A movie Kay vehemently refused to rewatch. Written it off as shock value torture porn. Paris slotted the half empty ziploc bag behind the disk and tried to return it to the stack, knocking half of them to the floor in the process.

Compared to the rest of the apartment, the mess was minimal. He’d deal with it later. Before Kay got back.

One glance back at the table, and Paris’ initial focus returned. He stepped over the hoodie on the floor this time and stared down at the screen of his phone. This was just – it was just something to take his edge off. Push some of the itching thoughts back to where they belonged. Maybe the late night trip wasn’t a blaring warning sign. It was proof he had pushed back against the waves of intensity all day. ‘All day.’ After he had run out at five yesterday morning. After passing out in bed from pure exhaustion what must have been minutes before Kay woke. Dealing with the worst of a brutal comedown. 

If he’d lasted that long, maybe he could force through another few hours? Then Kay would be home and – Paris banished the idea quickly. Lasting this long was mere proof that he could quit whenever he wanted to. And that wasn’t tonight.

He took one of the loose bills from the table and pressed it over the powder on his phone screen, before taking Cami’s card in his other hand. Slightly too flimsy. But whatever. Paris slowly dragged the card across the top of the bill, breaking up any impurities in the substance. He removed the bill and tapped the card against the screen to target larger clumps, before replacing the bill.

He proceeded to repeat this several times before putting the bill to the side. Paris was methodical, focus drawn into the familiar routine. Even the action itself brought a warm sense of comfort. With continued precision, he separated the powder into several distinct lines. It contrasted the black of the phone screen in a way Paris would only be able to describe as satisfying. Clean.

Paris picked the twenty dollar bill back up from the table and rolled it up, tight and even. Like he had done it thousands of times before. And that probably wouldn’t be an exaggeration. He pressed a finger to each nostril and inhaled in quick succession before bringing the note to his nose. Paris leant forward and sharply exhaled, before inhaling with the end of the note pressed to the first line of powder.

Within moments, the sharp taste hit the back of his throat. Distinct bitter petrol. Familiar. A sign of a better emotional state on the horizon, no matter how brief the respite would be. Paris waited for a few minutes before he got up from the couch and took off his coat, hanging it back in the hall. A futile effort to hide his late night walk from Kay. Because Kay would know. No matter how careful Paris was.

Not that it mattered. It was a problem for later, Paris had already decided. Kay would understand, they could talk tomorrow. Kay would get back from work, they would talk. Paris vaguely remembered Kay saying he had a couple of days off. And they could make the most of those few days. A date. Movie. Drive out to a trail – a hike. Picnic, maybe. Paris smiled faintly to himself as he sat back on the couch.

It would be good. He’d get the apartment back into a reasonable state tonight, and they could have tomorrow. And the next day. His heart pounded in his chest – in his throat. This was fine. Good, even. What had he even been thinking before? Kay wouldn’t leave him. They weren’t on the verge of a catastrophic collapse. Kay wouldn’t hurt him like that.

The hours passed into the early morning. The earlier morning, as daylight began to emerge from the outside world into the apartment. Fractured rays of sun illuminated the mess of an apartment – somehow in a worse state than Paris had dared consider. The beginnings of a headache brought his attention back to the phone on the table.

He should text Kay. Apologise. Beg for some semblance of forgiveness. Swear to clean the apartment tomorrow. Convince Kay not to walk out on him. Because he would.

It wasn’t worth it to stick around.

It took everything Paris had to pick up the phone, dragging a finger across it to collect the last dusting of powder. He pressed it against his gums and unlocked the phone with his other hand, pulling up Kay’s contact.

A text would make everything worse. Paris dumped the phone back onto the table and stood up. Kay would be home soon, and Paris had to sleep this off before he got home. Just an hour. Two.

The only incriminating remnants from the night before were the card Cami had given him and the bills on the table. Plus a takeout box of fries. Still full. He hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of eating, despite the hunger pangs that had emerged through the night. How they were clawing at his stomach, only quelled by sheer nausea. Paris took the money and business card as he stumbled towards the bedroom – a combination of the drink, drugs and plain old sleep deprivation causing his unsteadiness. He tossed everything into the nightstand drawer and almost collapsed into his side of the bed. The thought of undressing – even so much as taking off his shoes – didn’t occur to him as he fell into a restless sleep.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ » next

[cookiebunny363]

Realistic portraits but I edited the hell out of pictures for tha cast. (This is for the rewritten cast I picture the OG cast much differently)

Zero (Part 1. Used Kento Yamazaki)

Ichiru (Part 1, used Tatsuya Fujiwara. The photo got all pixel-y when I tried to skin paler cuz albino so it’s all weird and smoothed over. Or maybe the uncanniness adds to Ichiru’s whole thing?)

Kaname (Used Gerard Way)(if that wasn’t obvio-)(I feel like how vampires’ red eyes would look realistically like either: the 28 days later rage zombies or like when a camera flash is in your eyes and they get all red)

Yuki (Part 1, used Meisa Kuroki)

Emi (used Tina Tamashiro. I honestly don’t see Emi looking too conventionally attractive but Tamashiro is closest to what I picture. Besides Bjork, but Bjork isn’t Asian. Though I suppose Emi would look good since for Toga I picture Tony Thornburg and for Babette/Emi’s mom it’s Charlize Theron)

[wid0wd-archived]

natalia was raised in a competitive environment, the other widows were her sisters in arm but she knew better than to actually form tight bonds with them - the exception was marina and even then she was specifically picked for the cuba mission to test if nat would go through with killing her for not wanting to go back to the red room. another sort of exception was anya, nat loved her dearly until headmistress beat into her that caring is weakness - after nat's first solo mission as a kid, anya stayed up to make sure she would come back safely; nat threatened to beat her unless she wouldn't stay out of her way.

natasha has a complicated relationship with the avengers. they are by all intents and purposes her chosen family, some of them she's known almost her whole life ( which is ... a very long time ) but they're so ingrained in their ways, they fail to see the bigger picture sometimes even when it's right in front of them. in bw2010 we find out she has a database hidden surgically between her organs, where she remotely stashes data about the team. the information get leaked, shit hits the fan. in bw2014 something similar happens again and hill outright tells the team to break contact with nat and don't speak about her to the press - whole time natasha is always working for them too.

it's so important to me how she keeps holding on to the avengers, even after leaving SHIELD she just can't let go of that part of her life ( that gives her more problems than anything but alas ) because she loves these people so so much. she died for them - different way in the comics but still. the wicked don't get mourned but she truly did and would continue to do anything to keep them together. even now in tb2025 she's utterly distraught at the fact that the avengers are "frozen" when it comes to this entire doom situation. and she's just one person but everybody counts on her to find solutions ... which she does, sort of. it's just not enough.

[impossible-rat-babies]

eyrie telling zero that they’re actively dying must have lead to a conversation that is like watching a car crash

[morerosess]

The pearl of the sea and the moon

[shaiyasstuff]

intimacy | rafayel

synopsis : He’s the perfect man for you, sweet, caring, a little aloof but he’s also very good at making you safe. However, he’s never initiated contact with you beyond just a kiss. One girl talk later, you find yourself wondering if it was time to give it a try. content : smut(well it’s more romance than actual smut), first time, no pull out, a little bit of awkward ness, rafayel x non-mc!reader, Shaiya is an OC, fluff, MDNI

You’ve been dating Rafayel for over a year now.

You first met him at the amusement park one evening, when you overheard a particularly dramatic sulk-fest about a missing cotton candy.

Apparently, some kid had “stolen” it from him.

You later found out his lady hunter friend had given it away.

Willingly and with a smile.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Out loud. Before you could slap a hand over your mouth, it was too late.

Two pairs of eyes landed on you.

One, vaguely confused and highly entertained.

The other, hopelessly love-struck.

He asked for your number five minutes later, pressured—or really, bullied—by his lady hunter friend, who gave him a not-so-subtle jab in the ribs and whispered something that sounded suspiciously like “grow a pair.”

The next day, he brought you to the sea.

Just a chill, no-pressure, totally-not-romantic beach date.

Until he asked you to be his girlfriend with all the nervous energy of a schoolboy confessing to his crush behind the gym.

And things just… took off.

You had café dates where you tried, and failed, to beat him at Kitty Cards.

You endured constant third-wheeling by his lady hunter friend, who took it upon herself to be your official ship captain—teasing the both of you mercilessly and often.

Despite the chaos, you were genuinely happy.

Life was good.

You had a boyfriend who was equal parts adorable and infuriating, and a new best friend who always had your back when said boyfriend decided to be a lovable idiot.

Then came the day it hit you.

Like a truck.

Or a surprise test.

You were lounging in your living room with Shaiya, legs tossed over your couch arm, when she peeked at you over a bag of chips and asked with a smirk, “So… have you two done it yet?”

You choked on your drink. “Excuse me?”

But before you could even mount a proper comeback, something clicked.

Wait.

Hold on.

In the ten months you'd been dating Rafayel, he hadn’t initiated anything even remotely intimate.

You gasped. “…No…”

The horror in your voice only made it worse.

That was all the invitation Shaiya needed. Your loveable—albeit infuriating—lady hunter friend burst into laughter, clutching her stomach as she doubled over.

“Don’t laugh!” you hissed, watching her wipe away tears from the corners of her eyes.

“I was just asking for fun,” she said with a smug grin. “You’re the one who took it seriously. That’s one point for me, zero for you.”

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “You’re right. He’s sweet. He’s an adorable puppy when we’re out and about, but I’ve never… thought of that.”

Her laughter softened, and so did her expression.

“Maybe it’ll happen soon. Don’t let it get you down.”

You threw her a half-hearted glare. “Now I’m insecure.”

That set her off again.

She laughed, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. “I’m sorry! But it’s part of my job, being your personal third wheel and emotional instigator. Besides,” she leaned in slightly, her tone more sincere now, “if I don’t talk to you about this, who else will?”

You paused. She wasn’t wrong.

There weren’t many women in your life you could talk to like this. And the old lady who sold potato sticks outside the café definitely didn’t count.

You let out a quiet sigh. “I just… never really thought about that.”

Your voice dropped as the weight of the thought settled.

Shaiya reached out and rubbed your shoulder gently. “Hey. I’m sorry if I went too far.”

You gave her a faint smile. “No, it’s not that. It’s just…”

Your words drifted off.

It wasn’t like you actually wanted Rafayel to be intimate with you.

Well. Maybe you did.

But it had never been the point.

You liked the playful arguments. The way he curled around you on the couch when you were sick or too tired to move.

The quiet comfort of simply existing beside him while he just… was.

And somehow, that had always felt like more than enough.

A knock tapped gently against the doorframe.

Both you and Shaiya looked up.

Rafayel stood there, casually leaning against the wood, his dusky purple hair slightly tousled, a paint-stained jacket slung over one shoulder.

His mismatched eyes flicked to you, then to Shaiya, one brow raising with practiced laziness.

“Well, well,” he said, voice smooth and low, “should I be worried, or flattered?”

Shaiya grinned. “You’re always worried and flattered.”

“I prefer revered, personally.” His gaze settled on you, softer now. “Everything alright?”

Your heart hiccuped.

You nodded quickly, too quickly. “Yeah. Just… girl talk.”

“Dangerous territory.” He stepped in, the scent of charcoal and citrus trailing after him. “I could feel the emotional tension from the hallway.”

Shaiya laughed. “I should go before I get accused of emotional arson.”

She rose and headed to the door, whispering as she passed you, “Think about what we said.” Then she tossed a wink at Rafayel. “Be gentle with her.”

He gave a mocking bow. “Always.”

When the door clicked shut, silence settled between you two.

Not uncomfortable, but charged.

Rafayel stayed near the door for a moment, watching you.

Then he crossed the room and lowered himself beside you with a graceful kind of stillness, the way he always moved when he wasn’t performing for the world.

“She meant well,” he said, voice barely above a murmur. “But she rattled you.”

You looked at your hands. “She just… made me think about things I wasn’t ready to think about.”

His fingers brushed yours. “Things like me?”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t push.

Instead, he leaned back slightly, eyes searching your face—not with judgment, but a quiet kind of curiosity, as if trying to see what you were protecting.

“I never expected you to be ready,” he said finally, “but I’m not going anywhere.”

There was no playful smirk now. No lazy swagger.

Just Rafayel, stripped of all the performative charm. Just him—deep and devastating and completely real.

And in that stillness, something shifted.

Maybe it was the way he didn’t demand anything. Or the way he offered the truth so gently.

But maybe—just maybe—you were starting to think about him after all.

“Well…” you began, turning to face him slowly, unsure where the words would land.

“I mean… we’ve kissed. A few times.”

He tilted his head, watching you with that same unreadable calm, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. “Yeah…?” he said. “That’s normal, isn’t it?”

You nodded too quickly, then froze, your thoughts catching up to you a beat too late.

The memory of those kisses—soft, fleeting, innocent—brushed through your mind.

But then your thoughts slipped further, imagining what could come next. What might come next.

And suddenly, your face burned.

You glanced away, unable to hold his gaze now.

The idea of anything more than those kisses… anything more than the safe rhythm you’d settled into with Rafayel…

It felt daunting.

Especially when you looked at him.

Your boyfriend, with his tousled hair and teasing grin, who always reminded you of an affectionate puppy curled too close to the fire.

It was hard to align that image with the heat curling in your stomach.

Hard to reconcile the softness he gave you with the weight of want.

Rafayel leaned in a little, not close enough to crowd you, but enough for his voice to dip lower.

“Are you scared?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “I don’t know.”

And that was the truth.

You weren’t scared of him. Not really.

You trusted him with your life.

It was the idea. The change.

The possibility of crossing that invisible line where intimacy stopped being soft and started becoming something raw, something deeper, something you couldn’t undo.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease.

He just nodded, like he understood.

“Then we don’t rush,” he said simply. “You tell me when you’re ready.”

And that, somehow, made your heart ache more than if he’d kissed you right then and there.

Because he meant it.

Because he saw you.

“I mean…” you trailed off again, glancing at him, your voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t you have… needs?”

The words hung in the air like fog—equal parts awkward, honest, and unintentionally hilarious.

You watched his expression shift, not in offense or surprise, but in that subtle way he always did when he was trying to read between your words.

There was no malice in your question. No pressure.

Just confusion.

Because it had started to gnaw at the edges of your thoughts—this quiet, growing need to understand him.

To repay him, even, in your own clumsy way.

For tying your shoelaces without being asked. For picking up the things you dropped when your hands were too full.

For tucking you in during thunder-heavy nights and crawling under the covers just to be near, to be warm, to be something steady when your world wasn’t.

For all the ways he took care of you without ever asking for anything in return.

And that’s what made it strange.

That he had never once initiated anything beyond a kiss.

Never reached for more.

Rafayel blinked slowly, his lips quirking—not into a smirk, but into something softer. Something unreadable.

“I have needs,” he said eventually, voice smooth, but not flippant. “But they’re not more important than you.”

You felt your breath catch.

“But… I want to make you happy,” you murmured. “Isn’t that part of it? Like… giving back?”

A shadow crossed his features, fleeting but there. He reached over, his fingers curling gently around yours.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said, and for once, there was no teasing in his tone. “I do those things because I want to. Not because I expect something in return.”

You looked down at your joined hands.

“I just… thought maybe you were waiting. Or holding back. For me.”

“I am,” he said, without hesitation. “But that’s not a burden. That’s a choice.”

He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, warm and unhurried.

“You’re not a debt to be paid. You’re a story I want to keep reading, one page at a time.”

Your cheeks flushed hot, your heart thrumming in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

It was the way he looked at you—like you were already enough.

And that, somehow, made you want him even more.

“But what if… I want to?”

Your voice was barely more than a breath, but it was enough to break the quiet between you.

You hesitantly lifted your gaze to him.

Rafayel’s expression softened immediately, as if the weight of your vulnerability wrapped around him like silk. Not fragile, but precious.

You felt nervous—tingly all over, your skin aware of every inch of space between you and him.

He was the first.

The first guy you’d let this close. The first who made it past the walls you didn’t even realize you’d built.

You’d never actually done it before.

Never crossed that invisible line with anyone.

And now, here you were—sitting beside the man who looked at you like you were made of starlight and sea glass. Like fire couldn’t burn him if it came from you.

“I…” You swallowed. “I’ve never done this. With anyone.”

Rafayel didn’t move at first. His gaze lingered on your face, absorbing every word you didn’t say.

Then, gently, he reached up—fingertips brushing the side of your cheek, slow and featherlight.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

You blinked. “For what?”

“For trusting me with that.”

Your breath caught.

He leaned in, close enough that his forehead almost touched yours, but stopped short. His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“If you’re ready, really ready… then I’ll be whatever you need. I’ll move at your pace. I’ll hold you. Kiss you. Worship every inch of you.”

A flush bloomed down your neck.

“But if there’s even a sliver of doubt,” he continued, thumb brushing your jaw, “then I won’t lay a finger on you. Because I want all of you. Not just your body.”

You nodded slowly, your heart thrumming in your chest like wings caught in wind.

Rafayel didn’t ask again. He didn’t rush.

He just waited.

And something about that—about him—made your fear melt into something warm.

Something that felt like love.

You stayed still, your breath mingling with his, your heartbeat loud in your ears.

Rafayel didn’t move any closer. He didn’t try to sway your decision.

He just stayed there—close enough to feel, but far enough to wait.

Your fingers twitched against your lap before finding his. You laced them together, slowly, tentatively, and he squeezed once. Firm. Steady.

“I don’t know what I’m ready for,” you whispered. “But I know I want you.”

His smile was soft, almost pained in how tender it looked on him. His eyes shimmered—not with fire this time, but something far more fragile.

“You already have me,” he said.

There was no heat behind his words. No hunger, no pressure. Just truth.

And for the first time, that truth didn’t feel daunting. It felt like a quiet, open sky.

You leaned into him, letting your forehead touch his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you like you were something precious, not breakable—but worth protecting.

His breath came slow, steady, and you felt it rise and fall beneath your cheek.

No more words were needed.

No promises, no decisions.

Just this—warm skin, slow breaths, the sound of his heart beneath your ear.

He held you like that until your nerves melted into calm. Until the tremble in your hands faded into stillness.

And outside, the night rolled on, untouched.

—•

When you woke the next morning, everything felt soft.

The light was dim, filtered through the curtains in streaks of pale gold.

The room was still, quiet, heavy with the warmth of sleep.

You blinked slowly, disoriented at first, until the familiar scent of smoke and citrus drifted through your senses.

You shifted slightly.

That was when you felt it.

Something firm, pressing lightly against your lower belly.

You froze.

Rafayel was still asleep, his arm draped around your waist, his breathing slow and even beside your ear. His body curled protectively around you, one leg tangled with yours, holding you in place as if even in dreams he couldn’t bear to let go.

And you realized, slowly, that you were still on the couch.

The two of you must’ve fallen asleep like that last night, somewhere between hushed confessions and shared stillness.

You swallowed.

You had never noticed things like this before. You’d always been so… innocent.

But after yesterday—after Shaiya’s teasing and the conversation that followed—you were suddenly aware.

Aware of the way Rafayel’s body was pressed to yours.

Of the heat between you.

Of every subtle shift in his breath when your thighs brushed.

You felt your heart stutter in your chest, a flush creeping up your neck.

Not from fear.

But from knowing.

From finally understanding the unspoken gravity that came with loving someone like this.

You tilted your head, just slightly, watching him. His hair had fallen over his eyes, his expression soft, almost boyish in sleep.

Still, there was something undeniably real about him like this.

Vulnerable.

Human.

And maybe a little bit yours.

You closed your eyes again, pressing your face gently against his collarbone.

You weren’t ready for everything.

But you were ready to hold this moment.

To feel.

To want.

And to slowly, carefully, let yourself fall.

You weren’t sure how to do it.

Your knowledge was limited to a blurry, awkward twenty-minute video from sex ed in high school, filled with sterile diagrams and uncomfortable silence.

Nothing about it had prepared you for this.

For the quiet rise and fall of Rafayel’s chest beneath your cheek.

For the weight of his arm still around your waist. For the strange, beautiful ache blooming low in your belly—tender, unexplainable, but insistent.

There was no plan. No clear thought.

Just a need.

Something stirring and restless and new.

You shifted carefully, your fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt as you tilted your head.

Your lips brushed his collarbone.

Featherlight.

A second kiss followed. Then another.

Each one just a little more deliberate. A little more brave.

You felt it when he stirred.

The faint hitch in his breath.

The way his muscles tensed slightly beneath you, as though part of him was trying not to move.

But he didn’t stop you.

He stayed still. Waiting.

You kissed your way higher, barely skimming skin, heart hammering in your chest. It wasn’t about knowing what to do.

It was about feeling.

Rafayel shifted, just enough for his hand to find the small of your back.

Not pulling you closer—just resting there.

Warm. Grounding.

His voice came low and rough with sleep.

“…Y/N?”

You froze, your lips hovering near his throat. Embarrassment flooded your chest.

“Sorry,” you whispered, already pulling back. “I didn’t mean—”

His hand tightened just slightly, not to stop you, but to hold the moment in place.

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmured. “Just… tell me what you want.”

You looked at him.

Really looked at him.

Hair tousled, eyes still hazy with sleep, voice like smoldering embers.

He looked breathtaking like this.

And vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before—waiting for your answer, for your choice.

“I don’t know how,” you admitted softly.

His gaze didn’t waver.

“Then we’ll learn together.”

There was no urgency in him. No hunger that would push past your hesitation.

Only patience. Only care.

And in that silence between your heartbeat and his, you realized this was what it meant to be ready.

Not to know everything.

But to want to share the unknown—with him.

Rafayel’s touch was warm against your back, his fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles as if he were trying to calm not just your nerves, but his own.

You felt the way your heart stammered against your ribs.

You weren’t sure what you were doing, but you knew one thing.

You wanted him.

Not just in the way people talked about behind closed doors, not just out of curiosity or some shallow idea of closeness.

You wanted this.

This softness.

This warmth.

The reverence in his voice.

The way he looked at you like you were something sacred.

You tilted your head, brushing another kiss over his collarbone.

He exhaled slowly, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek.

Your eyes met.

And even though your chest felt tight and your fingers trembled, you whispered, “I want to.”

His expression softened.

Not with desire—but with something deeper.

Something tender.

“Are you sure?” he murmured.

You nodded. “I don’t know how. But I want it to be with you.”

Upon hearing that, there was a subtle flicker of something in his eyes.

Something that resembled desire.

Rafayel leaned in and kissed you, slow and full of meaning, as if he’d waited forever to be told that.

His lips moved against yours with care, slow and deliberate, as if he was memorizing the shape of your mouth with every kiss.

He gave you space to breathe between them, never rushing, never pushing.

But then, something shifted.

A warmth, low and unfamiliar, unfurled beneath your belly—soft at first, then insistent.

You found yourself leaning into him, seeking more, like your body was moving on its own.

And when you exhaled a quiet moan into his mouth, you felt it.

The way his body tensed against yours.

Rafayel pulled back, barely, his forehead resting against yours as he fought for breath.

“I can’t hold back,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “not if you sound like that.”

His eyes met yours, no longer just soft with affection.

They burned now.

Still full of love, but threaded with something deeper—raw need, and desire so carefully restrained it made your chest ache.

You could see it in the way his jaw tightened. In the subtle tremor in his arm as he held himself still.

You reached up, brushing your thumb gently along his cheek.

And with a soft, trembling smile, you whispered, “Then don’t.”

His lips found yours again—this time with hunger.

There was no hesitation now, no careful pauses between kisses. Just heat. Intention.

You startled slightly at the sudden intensity, but his hands were already there, grounding you, guiding you—and soon enough, you melted into him.

The kiss deepened, breath hitching between the spaces where your mouths met.

Soft, involuntary sounds slipped from your throat—quiet, breathy mewls that you couldn’t have held back even if you tried.

And that was all it took.

Whatever restraint Rafayel had left unraveled, unraveling with the delicate curve of your waist beneath his palms, the way your fingers clutched at his shirt like you needed more of him.

His hands roamed now—reverent, searching, hungry. Not to claim, but to feel.

Desire poured off of him, thick and tangible, warm enough to set your skin alight beneath his touch.

And through it all, he still moved with care, even in his urgency.

As if your body was a canvas, and he wanted to memorize it with every brush of his hands.

Every kiss tasted like longing.

Every breath felt borrowed from something sacred.

And still, you wanted more.

When his fingers found the hem of your shirt, he stilled.

The heat between you didn’t fade, but his hands—once so eager—held still now, trembling faintly as his eyes rose to meet yours.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

It was written all over him.

The reverence. The restraint.

The barely contained desire he kept shackled beneath every careful breath.

You nodded.

Just once. But it was enough.

His jaw tensed, and he exhaled slowly, as though the motion alone steadied him. Then, with hands that betrayed nothing of the fire he felt, he lifted your shirt—inch by inch, never rushing, never daring to look away from your face.

As if watching for the moment you might change your mind.

But you didn’t.

You let him undress you with that quiet devotion, every movement full of patience, full of care.

His touch never once felt greedy.

Only awed.

As though this was something sacred. As though you were.

And in that silence between heartbeats, you realized—he wasn’t just touching your skin.

He was memorizing you.

His lips found your collarbone, warm and open, pressing kisses that trailed lower with aching slowness.

Each one was deliberate. Soft. Reverent.

You gasped, the sound catching somewhere between surprise and surrender, as a moan slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

It was a sensation unlike anything you’d ever known—foreign, yes, but raw and deeply, inexplicably real.

His mouth moved against your skin like he was learning it, worshiping it. Like this was something sacred to him, something he didn’t dare rush.

Your breath came shallow now, fingers curling gently into the fabric of his shirt, the weight of his body a comforting warmth above yours.

Rafayel paused only to look up at you again, his lips brushing just below your throat, his voice low and rough with restraint.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, as if the words weren’t for you, but something he needed to say aloud. Something he needed you to know.

And with every kiss that followed, you believed him a little more.

You let yourself explore him with trembling hands—fingertips grazing along his collarbone, then gliding lower, over the firm lines of his chest and the warmth of his skin.

He felt solid beneath your touch, alive and real in a way that sent shivers across your spine.

Your palms traveled along the curve of his back, tracing the dips of muscle, the heat of him burning beneath your skin.

Rafayel inhaled sharply, his hands catching yours in his own, gripping them tightly.

Not to stop you.

But to hold you.

As if anchoring himself.

As if grounding you both in this fragile, precious space between hesitation and surrender.

His fingers wove through yours, then slowly guided your hands back to him, encouraging, wordless, wanting.

He made you feel safe even in your uncertainty—made you forget the quiet fear of not knowing what came next.

Because with him, it wasn’t about perfection.

It was about presence.

And the way his body reacted to yours—the slight tremble in his breath, the way his muscles tensed when your touch lingered—made something ache sweetly within you.

His mouth returned to your throat, kisses hotter now, lingering longer, trailing lower.

When his lips closed gently around your skin and sucked, your breath hitched, a soft sound leaving you without permission.

The friction of your bare skin against his, the growing heat, the mounting need between your legs—it was all overwhelming in the most beautiful way.

And when his hands slid down your sides, drawing you flush against him, every inch of you humming, you let yourself stop thinking.

You just felt.

You moaned again, breath catching sharply, when his fingers found your nipple—already sensitive, already aching for more.

The contact sent a jolt through your body, a sharp gasp slipping from your lips before you could stop it.

Rafayel’s eyes darkened at the sound, and in one swift, practiced motion, he unclasped your bra, letting the fabric fall away.

Then came the heat of his mouth.

Warm. Wet.

You almost cried out at the sudden sensation—his tongue swirling, lips pulling gently around the peak of your breast.

It was overwhelming, the way he worshipped you, the way his mouth moved with such purpose and reverence that your spine arched off the couch.

You felt his hands on your hips, steadying you, holding you in place as he continued—slow, focused, unrelenting in the way he tasted you.

Your hands threaded through his hair, desperate for something to hold onto as your body writhed beneath his.

Every flick of his tongue sent sparks scattering through you, every subtle graze of his teeth made your thighs clench, the heat building between them unbearable.

And through it all, he never rushed.

He took his time—worshipping you like you were the only thing that existed.

And in that moment, in his arms, beneath his mouth, you felt like you were.

“R–Rafayel…” you whimpered, your voice trembling with need.

Your fingers tangled into his lilac waves, clutching them tightly as your body instinctively arched into his mouth. You pulled him closer, unable to help yourself, craving more of his warmth—his weight, his worship.

He growled low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin like thunder.

The way his name spilled from your lips—it undid him.

His tongue returned to your nipple, this time slower, more deliberate, tracing teasing circles before flicking softly across the sensitive tip.

The sensation sent your breath stuttering, your moans spilling freely now, raw and unrestrained.

You could feel him pressing against you, his arousal impossible to ignore—thick and straining against his jeans, the heat of it pressing right into the growing ache between your thighs.

Even through the layers of fabric, the pressure made your body tremble, made you more aware of how badly you wanted him—every inch of him.

Your legs shifted instinctively, parting just enough to invite him closer, to let him settle between them.

He rose slowly, lips trailing up your body, peppering your skin with kisses as he came to hover over you. His breath was ragged now, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with desire, but still watching you—checking, searching, waiting for your consent.

His voice, when it came, was rough and strained.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours. “Anything, and it’s yours.”

“You,” you breathed, barely able to form the word. “I want you.”

And with that, whatever thin thread of restraint Rafayel had been clinging to snapped.

He surged forward, capturing your lips in a kiss that was nothing like before—sloppy, desperate, filled with the kind of need that had been simmering far too long beneath the surface.

You gasped into his mouth, startled and breathless, but welcoming it—welcoming him.

His hands fumbled at the button of his jeans, the motion rushed, clumsy in a way that made your heart stutter. This wasn’t polished or perfect. This was real.

Raw.

Human.

And it made your chest ache with affection, even as your body burned for more.

He kissed you through it—deep and unrelenting—and when your lips parted on a shaky breath, he took the invitation without hesitation.

His tongue slid against yours, slow and claiming, exploring you like he had all the time in the world.

You whimpered beneath him, hips lifting instinctively as your thighs framed his waist, inviting him closer, pulling him in.

The heat of his body pressed into yours, every inch of him now impossibly close, and still it didn’t feel like enough.

You wanted all of him.

Not just the weight, the warmth, the passion.

You wanted the connection.

The kind that set fire to your body and soothed your soul all at once.

And Rafayel—he gave it.

Every kiss. Every touch. Every breath.

All of it, only ever for you.

He pulled away from the kiss, breathless, lips swollen and eyes dark with heat.

“I have to prepare you,” he murmured, voice husky and low. “Is that okay?”

You couldn’t find your voice, so you nodded—your body already trembling with anticipation.

Rafayel’s hands moved with care, helping you out of your underwear.

Every movement was gentle, reverent, his touch lingering as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you like this.

You nearly cried out when you felt it.

Hot. Wet. Unbelievably intimate.

His tongue pressed firmly against your core, slow and purposeful, and your back arched instinctively off the couch.

Your toes curled, thighs snapping shut on instinct, but his strong hands were already there, holding you open, steady, as he groaned into you.

The sound vibrated through your skin, deep and raw, sending another wave of pleasure crashing through you.

“So… sweet,” he breathed between licks, his voice thick with hunger and awe.

He devoured you slowly, like he had all the time in the world, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered.

Each stroke of his tongue was deliberate—teasing, tasting, coaxing soft, helpless sounds from your throat that only seemed to spur him on.

And all the while, his grip never loosened.

Like he needed to keep you close. Like he wanted you to fall apart in his hands.

And slowly, piece by piece, you did.

The sounds—wet, lewd, unrestrained—filled the quiet of your living room, echoing off the walls like a secret you were no longer trying to hide.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Not when he was between your thighs like this.

Not when Rafayel, your purple-haired boyfriend who always held you like you were something fragile, was now tasting you like you were something divine.

He buried himself between your legs with single-minded devotion, tongue gliding through your folds, slow at first, then firmer—more confident—as he found the places that made you gasp and twitch beneath his hold.

Your fingers dug into the cushions, your hips rolling into his mouth without thought, chasing every flick and swirl of his tongue.

He groaned again, the sound low and hungry, vibrating against your sensitive skin as he mouthed at you like he was drunk on the taste of you.

And maybe he was.

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you open wider, grounding you while your legs trembled around his shoulders.

You felt exposed, undone, utterly vulnerable.

But with him—there was no shame.

Only heat.

Only want.

Only the slow, steady build of something that was about to consume you whole.

Something coiled deep under your belly—tight and burning, like a knot drawn taut with every languid stroke of his tongue.

Your breath came in shaky gasps, the tension building faster than you could keep up with. Your body trembled, hips rising instinctively to meet his mouth, to chase the feeling you were terrified and desperate to reach.

Your fingers found his hair, sinking into the soft lilac strands, gripping tight as your body began to shake.

“R–Rafayel,” you gasped, your voice high and breathless.

He growled softly at the sound, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through you as he doubled down, tongue flicking and pressing with deliberate, perfect rhythm.

The coil inside you tightened to the breaking point.

You were unraveling beneath him, your entire body flushed, teetering at the edge of something you had no words for—only feeling.

“Just let it go,” he cooed gently.

Rafayel’s hands never left you, his grip firm on your hips as he kept you grounded, held you open, guided you through it.

You felt yourself shatter.

Quietly.

Completely.

With his name on your lips and his mouth still worshipping you like you were something holy.

You were still shaking, the aftershocks rippling through your limbs like waves on a trembling shore.

Before you could catch your breath, his lips were on yours again—urgent, hungry, claiming.

You could taste yourself on his tongue, warm and heady, as he kissed you with a passion that made your head spin.

Your moan was muffled by his mouth, your mind hazy and dazed from the high you had barely begun to come down from.

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as you felt him slide into you, slow but unrelenting.

You broke the kiss with a choked cry, the stretch overwhelming, unfamiliar, real.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, not exactly, but from the intensity of it all.

The sensation. The closeness. The raw, unfiltered reality of finally becoming one with him.

Rafayel stilled immediately, his hands cradling your face as he leaned in close, lips brushing your temple.

“Shh… it’s okay,” he whispered, over and over, each word a soft litany, a promise.

“I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

He kissed the tears before they could fall, his forehead resting gently against yours.

His voice was low, trembling with restraint. “Just breathe… we’ll go slow. You’re safe.”

And with those words—his warmth, his love wrapping around you like silk—you let yourself relax into him.

Let yourself feel.

Because no matter how overwhelming this moment was.

You weren’t alone.

You had him.

All of him.

You rolled your hips slowly, cautiously at first, adjusting to the stretch of him inside you. The ache was still there—sharp at the edges—but with every slow grind, it dulled, softened, giving way to something deeper.

Something hotter.

You gasped softly as your body relaxed around him, the pain melting into a slow-burning pleasure that made your skin tingle and your breath catch.

Rafayel groaned above you, his jaw clenched, chest rising and falling as he fought to hold himself still beneath your careful rhythm.

His fingers gripped your waist, firm but reverent, like he was anchoring himself with you.

“God,” he hissed through his teeth, voice low and wrecked, “you’re so warm… so tight.”

The words sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly.

He dipped his head, lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “You feel like heaven.”

You whimpered, your thighs trembling around his hips as you moved again, grinding just enough to feel every inch of him drag deliciously along your walls.

He shuddered, his breath stuttering as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, mouthing at your skin, kissing and biting gently as your pace gradually built.

Each movement became easier, slicker, the room filled with the obscene, wet sounds of your bodies moving together.

You moaned louder this time, your hands running over the planes of his back, nails dragging lightly as your hips met his again and again.

The friction, the fullness, the stretch—it overwhelmed you in the best way, your body burning, trembling, needing.

Rafayel lifted his head, eyes meeting yours, completely undone.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, thrusting into you with a slow, deep roll of his hips. “So perfect around me.”

You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders as the pleasure began to spiral inside you again, tighter this time, urgent and all-consuming.

And as he began to move faster, matching your rhythm, all you could do was hold on—moaning his name like a prayer, unraveling piece by piece beneath him.

“Let me,” he whispered, voice rough with desire.

His hands slid firmly to your hips, holding you in place as to still you, then began to move.

The first thrust was slow, deep, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you.

You gasped, fingers tightening in his hair, your head falling back as your body trembled from the sensation.

He set the rhythm carefully at first, hips rolling into you with steady, deliberate strokes. Each one made your breath catch, your core fluttering around him with need.

He moaned into your ear, low and broken, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

“God… you feel so good,” he groaned, pace beginning to build.

You moaned as he picked up speed, your voice rising with every thrust—soft gasps giving way to louder, breathless cries as pleasure rippled through your body in waves.

Your walls clamped around him, clenching with every stroke, the friction maddening, perfect.

“R–Rafayel,” you choked out, your body rocking with his, overwhelmed by how full you felt, how completely he claimed every part of you.

He answered you with a kiss—hot, desperate—his mouth crashing into yours to swallow the sounds spilling from your lips.

You kissed him back, open-mouthed and hungry, moaning into him as his thrusts grew deeper, harder, the slap of skin echoing with every movement.

His hands roamed your body—palms sliding up your back, thumbs brushing the swell of your breasts—never stopping, never breaking the rhythm as he lost himself in you.

You felt it building again, that heat coiling low in your belly, unbearable and perfect, and with every breathless grind of his hips, it drew tighter, closer.

He felt it too, in the way you pulsed around him, in the way your cries turned into sobs of pleasure against his mouth.

And still, he didn’t stop. He gave.

All of him.

Your body tightened around him, trembling with the rising pressure that coiled low and hot inside you, each thrust sending sparks down your spine.

Rafayel groaned against your mouth, hips moving harder now, more desperate, his rhythm faltering just slightly with the intensity.

“Fuck—” he breathed, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were wild with heat, pupils blown, flushed skin glowing under the low light. “You feel… so good around me. So fucking perfect.”

You cried out, voice breaking as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot deep inside you that made your vision blur.

Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, your body clinging to him as if you could pull him even deeper, never wanting to let him go.

He grunted through gritted teeth, his control unraveling.

“Don’t hold back, cutie,” he whispered, his voice ragged. “Let me hear you. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you did.

Your nails dug into his back, your head thrown back with a loud moan as your orgasm crashed over you, blinding and all-consuming.

You pulsed around him, muscles spasming, hips jerking as waves of heat tore through you, leaving you gasping his name like a plea.

He cursed under his breath, his rhythm faltering again as you clenched around him.

“Shit, you’re gonna make me—”

His mouth fell open with a low, guttural groan as he thrust deep, grinding into you once, twice more before he came.

You felt it—the sharp, delicious jerk of his body as he spilled into you, heat flooding your core as he buried himself to the hilt, trembling through his release.

You moaned at the feeling of each rope, filling you up.

“God… Y/N,” he gasped against your neck, lips pressing against your sweat-slicked skin, “I love you. I love you.”

He kept whispering it, even as his body slowly stilled, even as he collapsed gently onto you, careful not to crush you beneath his weight.

The only sounds left were your shared, heavy breaths, your heart pounding against his chest, and the soft hush of his voice murmuring your name like a vow.

The world had gone quiet again.

Not silent—but still.

The kind of stillness that settles after a storm, where everything feels washed clean, softened by the weight of what had just been shared.

Rafayel lay above you, his forehead resting gently against yours, eyes still closed as he caught his breath.

Your bodies remained tangled, skin damp with sweat, his warmth wrapped around you like a blanket. Neither of you moved to speak at first. There was no need.

It was all there, in the quiet.

The trust.

The vulnerability.

The love.

After a while, he pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing your hair gently from your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

His thumb ghosted over your cheekbone, and he leaned in to press the softest kiss to your temple.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice hushed and a little hoarse.

You nodded, too full to speak for a moment.

Then, “Yeah… I’m okay.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. He looked at you like you were something fragile, sacred, something he could never take for granted.

“I didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” you whispered. “You were… perfect.”

You saw the relief in his face, the way his shoulders finally relaxed.

And then he tucked you against his chest, his arms sliding around you, holding you close like he never wanted to let go.

Your head rested against the curve of his collarbone, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“I’ve never felt anything like that before,” you murmured. “Like… I could break apart and still be safe in your hands.”

He tightened his hold around you. “You are safe with me. Always.”

You lay there together, your fingers trailing gently over his chest, his hand drawing lazy circles along your back. The room was filled only with the sound of your breathing, the occasional quiet kiss he’d press to your hair, your forehead, your shoulder.

“Was it okay?” you asked, almost shyly.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes again. “Okay?” He gave a breathless laugh. “It was everything.”

Your lips met again—this time slow, sweet, lingering.

No hunger now. Just gratitude.

Intimate. Love.

And as he pulled the blanket up around you, as you curled tighter into his chest and let your eyes flutter closed, you realised.

You hadn’t just given yourself to him.

You had found yourself with him.

And he had held every part of you like it mattered.

Like you mattered.

masterlist

[msbigredmachine]

Cheat Meal (Roman Reigns)

The OTC is hungry for a whole lot more than just good food.

Pairing: Roman Reigns/Black fem OC

Warnings: Smut

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: Based off Roman's TikTok where he complains about his diet😂

Enjoy!

----------------

gif by @romanreigns

He shoves the last tiny piece of broccoli in his mouth and dumps the plate in the sink with a resigned sigh. The ‘breakfast’ will barely register inside his stomach but it’s the price he must pay to be in the shape he’s currently in, the best he’s ever been in. Even if it makes him miserable and slightly cranky until it’s time for his next bland meal in another couple of hours. 

Retreating to his bed at the back of the bus, Roman checks the time as he waits patiently for his wife to return from the diner across the road so they can head on to their next destination. They’re already running behind schedule with a near two-hour drive still to go. More excruciatingly, he’ll have to deal with the smell of greasy, albeit delicious food that he can’t even look at, let alone eat.

Minutes later, the sound of her perennially cheery voice floats through the air, followed by the driver thanking her for her generosity, having bought him his own breakfast. As the bus restarts its journey, the bedroom door slides open, and Roman does a double take. The yoga pants and tank top he swore he saw her exit the bus in has been replaced with one of his old t-shirts. Nothing else. The outline of her nipples betray her lack of brassiere and that fat, juicy ass of hers jiggles with every step she takes as she places a tray full of food on the dressing table, the small bedroom instantly filling with the aroma of a hearty breakfast. 

“Sorry babe, I had to wait a little bit for my milkshake,” Elise explains, piling pancakes onto a porcelain plate. “Have you eaten?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Baby, this is not how you were dressed when you left,” he points out, soaking her in as he sits up against the headboard. 

Elise giggles and settles down on the edge of the bed next to him. One glance at the contents of her plate - buttermilk pancakes smothered in butter and honey, a couple of sausage links and two thick strips of bacon - has Roman salivating. “That diet is really fucking with your head, babe,” she jokes, as he rolls his eyes. “I’ve changed into something comfier. All the better to eat my comfort food with.”

“Why you ain’t eating in the kitchen, then? You just gotta fucking tempt me, huh?” He’s not sure which one he’s talking about anymore; the food or her appearance. She looks good enough to eat every time, but she looks amazing either dressed down or in next to nothing. Like now.

Of course, nothing at all is his absolute favorite.

“Cuz I wanna share it with you. Sorry but I don’t have your discipline. Just a day on that dry ass, rabbit food ass diet of yours would fuck me up,” Elise gripes. “And don’t get me wrong. I’m so proud of you and what you’ve done with your body. You look carved from damn marble. But you’ve lost hella weight and it’s making your big ears stick out." She pouts. "I kinda miss my thick neck Daddy. There was more of him to climb.”

“You still climb me with zero problems. And I can’t eat this stuff. You know that,” he laments.

“You say that while you eye-fuck my bacon.” She picks up her fork, cuts into a pancake and daintily takes a bite before moaning in delight. The warm fluffiness of the pancake, the rich, sweet honey, the smoothness of the butter, all come together in her mouth, textures and flavors melding together as she chews and swallows. "Mmm, this is soooo good," she gushes.

Roman grits his teeth and growls sullenly, “I hate your ass right now.” 

“You’re making me feel bad.” Carefully balancing the plate in her grasp, she shifts around and straddles him, and he hisses at the way her ample backside seats flush on his crotch. Sure enough, she has no underwear on. “Daddy, have breakfast with me. You need to eat more. A couple of bites won’t hurt.”

Roman sighs heavily, smoothing his hands along her thick thighs that complement the rest of her thick body. “You know damn well I can’t say no to you when you call me Daddy.” It’s not a lie either. Three kids in three years and a closet full of Birkins, Louboutins and many other luxuries are proof of this.

Elise muses over her plate and selects one of the large strawberries topping the pancakes. “Let’s start with something sweet.” She offers it to him, seeing him relax upon realizing it’s something relatively healthy. “Eat,” she instructs.

Roman opens his mouth obediently, closing his eyes as the juice bursts on his tongue, some of it dribbling down his bearded chin. Elise grins as he moans in satisfaction, and she makes him eat the rest, his full lips streaked red from the fruit. Cheekily, she places her own lips on his, tasting the flavor for herself, and smiles triumphantly as he makes a surprised sound but deepens the kiss anyway, cupping the back of her neck to hold her against him.

“Oh, it’s like that?” he asks when she pulls away, light panting punctuating the air between them. His eyes sparkle with lust. “Thought you were only feeding me.”

“I’m multitasking.” Kissing him again, she stabs the fork into another piece of pancake, dipping it in honey and feeding it to him. She loves to do this. It’s her favorite form of intimacy. Her love language, if you will. Taking care of him, pampering him. Her gestures never fail to stir his heart, as well as other parts of his anatomy. “My sweet baby. Feel better? You’re not hungry anymore?” she teases him several bites after.

“Nope. Not for pancakes anyway,” he says. The words are cryptic and shrouded in mystery, that’s until his hand slips between her thighs. At her sharp, indrawn breath, he smiles darkly, flattening his palm so that he firmly cups her sex. “There’s another…delicacy…I wanna feast on.” 

Her husband is insatiable for her. Always has been, and she loves it. Feeling desired and wanted by such a beautiful, high-value man like him does wonders for her self-esteem and their marriage. But after one passionate, bed-rocking round earlier this morning and little food fueling him, she would think his energy is depleted. “Baby, you should rest,” she tries to reason, but he’s adjusting her already, forcing her to put her food away on the nightstand.

“I’ll rest after you come in my mouth,” is his curt, yet loaded answer. And just like that, her resolve is reduced to ashes.

He scoots his big self down the bed until she is seated on his face. Elise barely has time to collect herself when his calloused hands scrape her thighs and clutch her hips to hold her in place. Her body jerks as his tongue finds her folds in record time, lapping greedily. Heat instantly washes over her with a wave of nerves and lust as he works her with that unmatched skill that brings her to surrender. In mere seconds, she is lost in the pleasure, her pussy dripping from a mix of her juices and his saliva, all of it slurped up by his talented tongue.

"Fuck, Roman…” she moans, squirming on his face, her body ablaze. He’s so damn good at this shit, it’s damn near unfair. It feels like her whole pussy is in his mouth as he licks and sucks to his heart's desire. He tightens his arms around her thighs, his massive hands prying her open for further onslaught. The warmth of his breath, the prickle of his beard, his moans against her sensitive flesh has her mind spinning, prompting her to rock her hips in rhythm with his circling tongue, grabbing her breasts through her t-shirt for added stimulation. Her entire being hums with anticipation as her orgasm builds and builds. “Ro, I'm...I…oh fuck, Daddy,” she gasps, unable to string a simple sentence together in the state of bliss she’s in.

But of course, her husband knows exactly what she wants. What she needs. To give it to her, he works harder, incorporating his nose and chin, gliding them back and forth along her wetness, buoyed by the quiver of her thighs as he sends her over the edge. The explosion of her body is of seismic proportions, and Elise slaps her hand over her mouth to muffle her scream, bucking, writhing, whining as pleasure consumes her whole.

She’s still reeling as Roman carefully lifts her off his face and drags her back down. His mouth captures hers with a dizzying urgency, exchanging the sweet tanginess of her arousal. They lick and suck hungrily on each other’s tongues, his hand reaching up to curl around her throat making her pussy spasm with need, so much so that her essence begins to smear the center of his gray sweatpants. Roman looks down at her mess with a proud, arrogant smile, and he lifts his hips just enough to pull the stained pants down his legs and kick them off. He strokes his dick, long, thick and hard, for a few seconds before guiding it inside her.

“Get this dick, baby, c'mon,” he orders, his low, gruff command sending yet another tremble through Elise that he both hears and feels as her breath catches. They moan together as she sinks lower onto him, balancing herself with her hands on his bare, muscular chest. Her hips roll back and forth, grinding on him, keeping him pinned to the sheets while she chases down their collective pleasure. 

He fucking loves it when she’s on top. It allows him a holistic view of the body he's been obsessed with since the day they first met. His big hands roam her front, relieving her of her t-shirt so he can properly idolize her breasts, so plump and pillow-soft as he massages them, gleeful at the way her nipples harden from his touch. He then travels south to grab her ass, enjoying the round, supple cheeks flexing against his palms as she rides him. He grips each one possessively and proceeds to lift her up and down on him, bouncing her on his throbbing erection. 

“Fuuuuck...”

“Nah, you can take it. And not too loud now, we don’t need the driver hearin’ us again, hmm?” Roman taunts, squeezing her left cheek and spanking it hard, earning a yelp from her. His eyes are blown as he studies the expressions on her beautiful face. “My fine ass, sexy ass wife. Climb me like only you can, baby,” he encourages her with soft moans of his own.

Falling forwards, Elise tucks her face into her man’s neck, her breathy kisses warming his skin as she manages to maintain the pace he’s set for her. He’s so deep inside her, nearing her cervix it feels like, the sweet sensations amplified by their chests pressed together, his large hands caressing her with so much love and care and reverence while talking her through it with his deep, husky voice and dirty words. Years together and their lovemaking is still as earth-shattering as their first time, and she appreciates it more than he’ll ever know.

Roman kisses every part of her his mouth can reach, reveling in her increasing moans as he angles his hips, keeping his dick buried in the ocean of her cunt. “Leese, you feel so fuckin’ good…” he groans on her shoulder, licking the butterfly tattoo etched on her skin, “Damn, baby, I could stay inside you like this all day…”

Elise tries to agree with him, but her jaw drops when he bucks up into her without warning, his hands planted on her ass holding her down to take every inch of him. The depth, the intensity and precision of his strokes render her speechless. Her eyes roll back as his lips find her nipples, suckling the swells of her heavy breasts, the wet smacking sounds of his hungry mouth and her gushy pussy sounding around the bedroom. The shit is so good that neither wants it to end, more than content to just remain on the bus and fuck all day long.

"Daddy," she whines, her fingers sliding over the back of his hair, tangling in the long, soft locks as she locks hazy gazes with him. His brows are furrowed, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth; telltale signs that he’s close, just like she is. "Oh baby, I'm gonna come again..." she whimpers.

"Yeah? Is my girl about to nut?" Roman asks, grasping her chin and brushing their lips together. "Gimme that nut, beautiful. Soak Daddy’s dick with your wet ass pussy," he goads her with another kiss, another smack on her backside that makes her ride him harder. Her pupils are dark and dilated with desire, reflecting the passion he’s feeling. He wraps his huge arms around her middle, and pushing up on his heels, he accelerates, fucking her faster, thrusting deeper, until her moans dissolve to broken, breathless cries as she trembles on top of him. Her walls milk his dick greedily and trigger his own release. Roman’s groans and curses fill the room, his body shuddering too as he empties his load, filling her to the brim. 

With a soft whine, Elise melts on her husband’s heaving body, both parties spent but immensely sated. An eternity passes before either move, Elise reaching over Roman’s prone frame to grab a piece of bacon and pop it into his mouth.

“Good? There's more if you want,” she asks, watching him chew on it.

Roman sighs contentedly and rests his head on the pillow. “Mm-hmm. That's another couple added minutes on the treadmill though.”

Elise giggles and snuggles up against her action figure of a husband. “You’ll be fine. And you’re perfect to me already, by the way,” she assures him.

THE END

---------------

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[prettyfilmz]

SWEET LIKE CANDY 5 • JEY USO

author's note: hello my loves! we have now reached part 5!! I am not gonna sugarcoat this.. this part is going to make you cry, rage, and question your existence (apologies beforehand😭) the good news is, the storm will pass as quickly as it came. I hope you enjoy💗

synopsis: in which a celebration at the strip club leads to the beginning of a love affair between a wrestler and a dancer.

pairing: jey uso x black fem!oc (cherise dupree aka candy)

tags: no smut for this part but still 18+ (MDNI) due to sensitive subject matters, angst, arguments, tears, talks of past predatory behaviors, grooming, financial abuse, violence, crashout jey uso™, jimmy and trinity being a good support system for our lovely couple.

word count: 6.6k words

read part one here!

read part two here!

read part three here!

read part four here!

soundtrack playlist

Three weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since Cherise’s entire world did a complete 180. Since Tremaine showed up at her door, spewing poison from his lips, his words sinking into her skin and refusing to let go.

She hasn’t been sleeping well. Barely eating. Half the time, she’s on autopilot dragging herself through her clinicals, forcing herself to smile for customers at the club, jumping at every shadow and lingering glance. Every night, she double-checks her locks, pulls the curtains tight, and sleeps with a kitchen knife under her pillow because she doesn’t trust that Tremaine won’t come back.

And Jey?

She hasn’t answered a single one of his texts or calls.

Not because she wants to cut him off, but because she doesn’t know how to talk to him without hearing Tremaine’s voice whispering in her head.

You really think he gon’ take you serious? You a stripper. You think you fit in that world? In his world?

So she’s been stonewalling. Avoiding the club on the nights Jey might show up, keeping her phone on silent during clinicals and chucking it to the bottom of her bag so she doesn’t see the “Where you at, baby girl?” texts that make her chest ache.

But tonight, she’s exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally. Her babydoll feels like sandpaper against her skin, her feet are killing her, and her nerves are frayed to hell and back. She needs to get home, take a long, hot shower, and pass out for at least twelve hours.

She barely glances up when the dressing room door swings open, too busy wiping off her makeup with shaky hands. Trinity’s reflection appears in the mirror behind her, a knowing smirk playing on her glossed lips.

“Girl,” Trinity drawls, popping a bubble with her gum. “You got a visitor.” Cherise tenses, heart stumbling in her chest. “Who?”

“Who you think?” Trinity raises a brow, chewing lazily.  “Mr. Main Event, ringin’ a bell yet?”

Cherise’s stomach twists. She grips the edge of the vanity, her breath catching. “Trin, I can’t—”

“Nuh-uh.” Trinity holds up a manicured finger, her tone turning stern.  “You better go talk to that man. He lookin’ all sad and shit, like a lost puppy. Don’t make me drag you out there.”

Cherise’s mouth goes dry. Her pulse thrums painfully in her ears, a mix of dread and longing knotting in her stomach.

“Trin, I really can’t—”

“Girl, I ain’t tryna hear that,” Trinity snaps, hands on her hips.  “You got this man comin’ up to the club lookin’ for you after you been ghost for three weeks, and you think you just gon’ hide back here forever?  No, ma’am.”

Before she can protest, Trinity grabs her wrist, dragging her toward the door with zero room for arguments.

“Trin—wait! hold on—”

“Hush,” Trinity says, flipping her curls over her shoulder.  “Go handle that. I’ll cover your set.”

And just like that, Cherise finds herself stumbling out of the dressing room, heart slamming against her ribs as she scans the club for him.

She doesn’t have to look far.

Jey’s by the bar, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, those broad shoulders hunched in a way that makes him look smaller somehow.  His eyes flicker restlessly over the room, like he’s hoping she’ll pop up out of thin air, that small crease between his brows deepening when she doesn’t.

Her breath catches. God, he looks good—black tee stretched tight across his chest, camouflage cargos, chains glittering under the dim lights. But his face…

He looks worried. Confused.

Hurt.

Cherise swallows, guilt twisting in her gut as she takes a shaky step forward.

As soon as he sees her, his head snaps up, relief flooding his eyes.  “Yo, there you are, baby girl.  I been—”

“You can’t be here,” Cherise blurts out, voice sharper than intended.  “Jey, you can’t just show up at my job like this.”

Jey’s brows lift, surprised by the hostility in her tone.  “Damn, mama, I just wanted to talk. You been dodgin’ me for weeks—”

“I know, but—” Cherise glances around, her nerves fraying. “Not here.  You can’t just—shit, Jey, I told you I needed space.”

“Space?” Jey frowns, straightening. “Baby girl, you ain’t said anything. You just been ignorin’ me. How I’m supposed to know what’s goin’ on if you don’t talk to me?”

“I can’t—” Cherise runs a hand down her face, heart pounding. “Look, you need to go.”

Jey’s jaw ticks. “So that’s it?  You just done wit’ me now?”

Cherise’s breath catches, guilt flooding her chest. “I didn’t say that—”

“Then what are you sayin’, Cherise?” His voice is rough, frustrated, but there’s something raw underneath it—something that makes her throat close up. “’Cause I’m tryin’ to figure out what the hell I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything,” she snaps, her voice cracking.  “This is—shit, this is why I didn’t wanna do this. This—this whole…thing with you.”

Jey’s eyes darken, his jaw clenching. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I knew this would happen,” she hisses, hands trembling.  “You come in here acting all sweet, making me think this is real, and then you disappear for three months—”

“I explained that,” Jey says quietly, his tone dropping. “I had Mania comin’ up, baby. I was busy. But I came back, didn’t I?”

“And why did you come back?” Cherise bites out, her eyes glassy.  “’Cause you missed me or ‘cause you just wanted to see if I’d spread my legs this time?”

Jey flinches, like she slapped him. “Yo, what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she spits, her vision blurring. “I know how this goes. I ain’t stupid. You saw what you wanted, came back to get it, and now you’re tryin’ to act like you care—”

“I do care,” Jey snaps, stepping closer.  “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?  If I ain’t care, I wouldn’t be here right now tryna figure out what the hell happened—”

“What happened is I realized I’m not built for this!” Cherise chokes out, tears burning her eyes. “I’m not built for you, Jey. I can’t..I can’t compete with all the other girls you probably got. I can’t pretend this is somethin’ it’s not—”

“Mama, you the only girl I been thinkin’ ‘bout,” Jey exclaims, voice softening.  “I haven’t even looked at another woman since I met you.  You the only one I been hittin’ up, waitin’ on, thinkin’ ‘bout every night—”

Cherise’s chest heaves, tears slipping down her cheeks.  “You’re lying.”

Jey’s face falls, something breaking in his eyes.  “Damn, Cherise…”

Her voice cracks, her shoulders trembling.  “Please just go.”

For a moment, he just stands there, staring at her with something broken in his eyes. Then he exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

“Aight,” he mutters, voice rough.  “C’mon. I’ll drive you home.”

♡

The drive is quiet.

Not the comfortable kind of quiet. No, this quiet is heavy and sharp, suffocating even, a thick fog that clings to every breath and makes the air feel too thin.

The sky outside is dark, the streetlights flashing past in blurred streaks of amber. The rain has slowed to a soft drizzle, tapping against the windshield in a rhythmic, melancholy patter that matches the hollow ache in Cherise’s chest.

Cherise’s fingers are twisted tight in the hem of her hoodie, her nails digging into the soft fabric, her knees pulled up just slightly in Jey’s passenger seat. Her eyes stay fixed on the window, but she doesn’t see the blur of streetlights and passing cars. Doesn’t see anything but the guilt clawing through her chest and the faint reflection of Jey’s profile—his jaw tense, eyes fixed straight ahead, one hand firm on the steering wheel.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t push. Just keeps glancing her way every few blocks, brows knit with quiet concern, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against the wheel.

The silence is unbearable.

Cherise swallows hard, her throat raw and aching, eyes stinging with the tears she’s been fighting back since the club. The argument replays on a loop in her mind her voice sharp and venomous, her words laced with accusations she didn’t mean, and Jey’s face when she told him she needed space. The way his eyes dimmed, something in them cracking even though he tried so hard to hide it.

I shouldn’t have said that.

But she can’t take it back.  Can’t undo the hurt she put in his eyes, the pain she heard in his voice when he relented to her demands.

Cherise clenches her jaw, blinking rapidly at the window. The streetlights blur into soft amber glows, her reflection warped and blurry, eyes too bright. She digs her nails deeper into her hoodie, willing herself to hold it together until she gets home.

But then the car slows to a stop, and she looks up, breath hitching slightly.

Her apartment building looms just ahead, the soft glow from the porch lights spilling across the cracked pavement. Familiar. Safe.

Jey pulls into the lot and shifts into park, the low rumble of the engine fading into silence. For a long, heavy moment, neither of them move.

His hand flexes over the steering wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh, but Cherise can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he inhales slow and deep like he’s fighting to keep his own breathing steady.

The rain taps softly against the window, and Cherise swallows around the tightness in her throat, her voice small and shaky when she finally speaks.

“Thanks… for the ride,” she mumbles, eyes fixed on her lap.

Jey exhales slowly, the sound soft and tired. “Ain’t nothin’, mama,” he murmurs, voice rough but warm. “Just wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

The tenderness in his tone makes her chest ache.

Cherise glances down, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, words thick and heavy on her tongue. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.

But the words don’t come.

She can’t look at him. Can’t bear to see the hurt in his eyes or the way he might look at her if she tries to explain why she’s been pushing him away.

So she just nods, fingers tightening on her bag, and reaches for the door handle.

But Jey’s already moving, pushing open his own door and circling around to her side before she can even process it. The chill night air slips into the car, cool and sharp against her warm cheeks, and Cherise blinks, startled, when the passenger door swings open.

Jey stands there, one arm braced casually against the doorframe, eyes warm and soft beneath his lashes. He offers a hand, palm up, brow quirked like he’s daring her to refuse.

Cherise hesitates, breath catching slightly. Her eyes flick from his hand to his face—open, patient, waiting for her to make the choice.

And against her better judgment, her fingers slip into his.

His palm is rough and warm, his grip gentle but firm, thumb brushing over her knuckles as he helps her out of the car. Cherise exhales, her eyes fixed on the ground, but she doesn’t pull away not even when he keeps her hand tucked in his as they walk to the building.

The silence stretches long and heavy between them, only broken by the soft scuff of their shoes against the cracked concrete. Jey’s fingers are warm, soft, wrapped firm around hers like he’s afraid she might slip away if he lets go.

The drizzle is cold, prickling her skin, and Cherise huddles into her hoodie, shivering slightly as they walk inside the building and into the elevator.

When they reach her door, Cherise fumbles for her keys with a shaky breath, her hands unsteady, throat tight. Jey lingers just a step behind, his gaze steady, watching her with that quiet, patient warmth that makes her want to cry.

Her hands tremble so bad she nearly drops her keys, and Jey steps forward instinctively, his palm settling warm over hers.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice soft, thumb brushing gently over her wrist.  “S’okay, mama. Take your time.”

Cherise’s breath hitches, her eyes stinging. Her fingers fumble with the lock, her vision blurred, and Jey’s hand moves instinctively, steadying hers, guiding the key with a tenderness that makes her chest ache.

The door clicks open, and Jey’s hand falls away slowly, lingering a second longer than it needs to.

Cherise swallows hard, her throat tight, guilt twisting sharp and ugly in her stomach. Her hand lingers on the door, but she doesn’t move, can’t make herself step inside, not yet.

She sucks in a shaky breath, blinking down at her sneakers. “Jey, I..”

“I know,” he murmurs, voice soft and warm. “It’s alright, baby girl.”

The gentle reassurance breaks something inside her.

Her vision swims, a tear slipping hot down her cheek, and she ducks her head quickly, wiping at it with the sleeve of her hoodie. “I-I’m sorry,” she chokes, voice cracking. “I-I didn’t mean to—fuck, I’m sorry, Jey, I—”

Jey’s hand rises instinctively, thumb brushing away a stray tear, warm and careful. “Hey, hey,” he soothes, voice soft, thumb tracing slow over her cheek. “Don’t do that, mama. Ain’t gotta apologize.”

And then, he reaches over, tugging the hood of her hoodie up over her damp curls, his fingers lingering for half a second longer than they need to.

“There,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost like he’s talking to himself.  “Can’t have you catchin’ a cold, baby girl.”

His eyes flicker down to hers, warm and honey-soft. “Take care of yourself, aight?” he murmurs gently, his thumb brushing slow circles into her back one last time. “I…I’ll be around, if you need me.”

Cherise’s breath shudders, her eyes glistening. Her fingers tighten on the hem of her hoodie, guilt twisting sharp in her chest. She doesn’t deserve this…his patience, his warmth, the way he’s still so gentle even after everything she said.

But Jey just offers a small, soft smile, his thumb brushing one last time over her cheek.

“Night, pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice warm and tender.

And then he steps back, hands sliding into his pockets, lingering just long enough to make sure she gets inside safe.

Cherise watches him go, her breath shuddering, vision blurred with tears.  The door clicks shut behind her, and she crumbles—knees weak, hands trembling, guilt clawing through her chest until she can barely breathe.

She sinks to the floor, fingers clenching tight in the fabric of her hoodie, tears slipping silent and heavy down her cheeks.

Because she’s ruined it.

Because the look in his eyes said he’d wait for her as long as she needed, even if it killed him.

And God, it makes her chest ache.

♡

The fluorescent lights in the bursar’s office were harsh, too bright for the dull ache thrumming behind Cherise’s eyes. The chill of the air conditioning bit at her exposed arms, but she barely noticed, fingers fidgeting with the strap of her purse as she shifted from foot to foot.

The line moved slowly.

She shouldn’t even be here. Not really.

Rent was late. Her phone bill was past due. Groceries were low. She should’ve been saving every dollar, stretching it thin until the next shift at the club. But if she didn’t make a down payment by the end of the week, her classes would be dropped. And after everything she’d been through, everything she’d sacrificed, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen.

The line inched forward, and Cherise’s stomach twisted.

She tried to breathe past the tightness in her chest, tried to ignore the ugly lump of guilt that had taken up residence in her throat since that night outside her apartment. Since Jey’s eyes, soft and warm, and the way his thumb brushed a tear from her cheek without a single ounce of judgment.

A week.

It had been a week since she’d last seen him, since she’d told him she needed space and watched him walk away with her heart still clenched tight in his hand.

Cherise’s fingers dug tighter into her purse strap, nails pressing hard enough to leave half-moon indents in the leather. Focus. She was doing this for herself, for her future.

“Next!”

She exhaled sharply, reaching the front desk.

The woman behind the counter, an older lady with kind eyes and tight gray curls, smiled at her.  "Hi there, how can I help you?"

"I’m here to make a tuition payment," Cherise said, forcing a polite smile. "For the current semester."

"Alright, sweetheart, what’s your student ID?"

Cherise rattled it off, fingers already gripping the strap of her bag like a stress ball.

She watched as the woman typed into the computer, her expression shifting as she scanned the screen.

She knew her balance was ugly—$87,350 for the rest of the semester alone, not even touching next year. There was no way she could pay all of it today, but even a partial payment would keep her enrolled, would buy her time to figure the rest out.

Then—

A small, warm smile.

"Oh, Ms. Dupree, you actually don’t have an outstanding balance anymore."

Cherise blinked. "I—what?"

"Your tuition has already been covered," the woman said, still smiling like she had just delivered the best news in the world. "For the rest of your program, actually."

Cherise felt like the floor had tilted.

Her stomach dropped. "I’m sorry, what?"

"Yes, your remaining semesters have been fully paid off. Looks like it was handled earlier last week."

Her fingers flew over the keyboard, pulling up the transaction details, and Cherise’s breath hitched at the number glowing on the screen.

$965,852.

Her brain lagged. It didn’t make any sense. Usually the financial aid office would send an email in advance to let her know they’ll cover her expenses but this? It seemed way too generous. 

"Who paid for it?" she blurted out, her voice tight.

The woman clicked through a few screens, then looked back at her with an apologetic smile. “It appears to be an anonymous donor but..they did leave a note for you.”

Cherise’s breath caught.

The woman leaned down, rifling through a stack of envelopes behind the counter before pulling out a plain white one. Her name was scrawled in neat, slanted handwriting across the front—no return address, no sender.

With trembling fingers, Cherise took it.

She hesitated, breath shallow, and carefully slid her nail under the flap, tugging it open.

A single sheet of paper slipped out, cream-colored and soft to the touch, folded once. Her heart pounded heavy and thick as she unfolded it, eyes scanning the inked words in that same familiar handwriting.

Keep going, pretty girl. You deserve this and more.

— J

And at the bottom, sketched in careful, intricate detail, was a butterfly.

Cherise’s breath hitched, her eyes blurring, fingers trembling so bad the paper nearly slipped from her grasp. She traced the wings with unsteady fingertips—delicate, detailed, every line shaded with painstaking precision.

She’d recognize it anywhere.

The butterfly inked inside Jey’s bicep—beautiful and intricate, woven with tribal details. A reminder of transformation, of growth.

Cherise’s breath hitched.

Anonymous.

But she knew.

She knew exactly who it was.

And it felt like the air had been knocked out of her lungs.

The woman’s voice was softer now. "Whoever it was… they must really believe in you, Ms. Dupree.”

Cherise’s throat closed.

She barely muttered a "thank you" before turning away, practically stumbling out of the office, her heart pounding in her ears.

The door swung shut behind her, and Cherise stumbled into the nearest hallway, her back hitting the cool concrete wall.  Her breath came out in short, broken gasps, the note clutched tight in her hands, her vision blurred and swimming.

And then the tears came.

Hot and heavy, slipping silently down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking with each ragged breath. Her fingers twisted tight in the note, her eyes squeezed shut.

Why would he do this?

After everything she said—after the way she pushed him away, accused him of lying, told him she needed space—why would he do this?  Why would he give her something so precious, so selfless, and not even ask for credit?

Not even ask for her thanks.

A soft, broken sob slipped past her lips, her knees threatening to buckle.

Because Jey didn’t want anything back. He never did.

And that hurt the most.

♡

Cherise curled into the corner of her couch, knees drawn to her chest, Jey’s hoodie wrapped tightly around her body like it could somehow keep her from falling apart.

Trinity sat beside her, one leg tucked under the other, watching her carefully. She hadn’t said much since she arrived, just letting Cherise breathe—because Lord knew she hadn’t been doing enough of that lately.

The only sound in the apartment was the occasional sniffle from Cherise, the soft hum of the city outside, and the rhythmic tap of Trinity’s acrylic nails against her thigh as she waited.

Waited for Cherise to talk.

Cherise inhaled shakily, staring at her hands. "He paid off my tuition, Trin."

Trinity didn’t react with shock. She had already suspected it. But now that she had confirmation, she let out a slow breath, shaking her head. "Damn."

"Yeah."

Cherise bit the inside of her cheek, her throat tight. "And I treated him like shit."

"You did." Trinity’s voice wasn’t harsh. Wasn’t judgmental. Just… honest.

Cherise’s eyes burned. "I don’t even know why he would do that, Trin.  After everything I said to him, after how I shut him out—"

"Because he cares, dummy." Trinity sighed, rubbing Cherise’s back.  "Jey ain’t the type to do something for no reason. He ain’t lookin’ for credit, he ain’t tryna make you owe him. He did it ‘cause he wanted to, Cher."

Cherise swallowed hard. "I don’t deserve that."

"Who told you that?"

Cherise flinched at the sharpness in her tone. "I—"

"Who told you that, Cherise? ‘Cause I know damn well it wasn’t Jey.  And it damn sure wasn’t me."

Cherise pressed her lips together, gripping the sleeves of Jey’s hoodie so tight her fingers ached.

Trinity nodded like she had her answer. "That man got in your head."

Cherise’s whole body stiffened. "Don’t—"

"Tremaine." Trinity said his name with nothing but venom. "That bastard got in your head, Cherise. And you let him."

Cherise winced. "I didn’t—"

"You did, babe.” Trinity’s voice was softer now, but the words still stung. "And I get it. I do. You been through so much, Cher. More than most people can even imagine. You lost your mama before you even had a chance to know her. You lost your daddy before he could see you graduate. And then Tremaine? That low-life groomed you.”

Cherise flinched.

The word hit like a slap to the face.

She had never said it out loud.

Never called it what it was.

She had been young. Eighteen, fresh into the world, thinking she had all the answers. And Tremaine had fed on that. He had made her believe she was making choices for herself—that stripping was her decision, that he was just "helping" her get on her feet.

But now, looking back?

She had never been in control of it.

He had chosen her name.

He had chosen when she danced, what she wore, how much she made.

And when she had finally started standing on her own—

He took everything from her.

Trinity’s fingers squeezed her hand. "He made you feel like you weren’t worthy of love.  Like you weren’t worthy of somebody wantin’ you for more than what’s between your legs. And that’s why you keep pushin’ people away, Cher."

Cherise’s throat closed.

"It’s why you never let people stick around."

Cherise hated that she was crying now.

"It’s why the second Jey showed you he cared, you ran."

Cherise wiped at her face furiously, shaking her head. "I just—I don’t know how to do this, Trin!"

"I know, baby." Trinity pulled her into a hug, rubbing slow circles on her back. "You never had anybody stay before. But that don’t mean you can’t learn, Cherise. And that damn sure don’t mean you let a good man slip away just ‘cause you scared."

Cherise buried her face into Trinity’s shoulder, body trembling.

"I think I already lost him." Her voice was small, broken.

"Then go find him."

"What if he don’t wanna see me?"

Trinity snorted. "Girl, please. Jey ain’t built like that. He likes you, Cher. Hell, I think he loves you and just ain’t said it yet."

Cherise froze.

Her stomach flipped. "Don’t say that."

"Why?  ‘Cause it’s true?"

Cherise clenched her jaw. "Trin—"

"Nah, let’s be real."* Trinity leaned back, looking her dead in the eyes.  "That man ain’t lookin’ for no lil’ fling. He could have that at any time. But he chose you. He came back for you. He spent time with you. He paid your tuition without even tellin’ you. Who does that, Cher?"

Cherise bit her lip.  "Jey."

"Exactly." Trinity gave her a knowing look. "And you need to talk to him."

Cherise sniffled, wiping her face again.  "What do I even say?"

"You apologize. And you tell him what happened. No more runnin’."

Cherise swallowed hard.  "And what if he don’t want me after that?"

Trinity smirked. "Then I’ll slap the shit out of him."

Cherise let out a watery laugh, shaking her head.

Trinity squeezed her hand.  "Lucky for you… I know exactly where he is."

♡

The iron clashed and clattered with every rep, the clang of weights echoing through the empty private gym, sharp and loud against the low hum of hip-hop vibrating from the speakers.

Jey pressed the barbell back onto the rack with a grunt, his breath ragged, muscles burning, but the tight knot in his chest stayed coiled and heavy, refusing to ease.

“Damn, Uce,” Jimmy drawled from where he leaned against the bench press next to him, arms crossed. “You alright? Ain’t no way you goin’ that hard just ‘cause.”

Jey exhaled, dragging a towel over his face, jaw clenched tight. He leaned back, the metal of the bench cold through his hoodie, eyes trained on the ceiling tiles.

“It ain’t nothin’,” he muttered, though the edge in his voice said otherwise.

“Mmhmm.” Jimmy snorted, one brow arching high.  “Aight, tell that to them weights. You been actin’ on edge all week. You gon’ tell me what’s goin’ on or you gon’ keep lyin’?”

Jey scowled, tossing the towel aside. “I said it ain’t nothin’.”

Jimmy huffed, lips quirking in a smirk.  “Uce. You can’t tell me it ain’t nothin’ if you been punching that bag over there like it’s a dude for the past hour. What’s really goin’ on?”

Jey’s jaw tightened, his fingers flexing over his knees.

But Jimmy was patient. He didn’t push, just folded his arms and waited, eyes steady and knowing, like he could see right through Jey’s bullshit which, to be fair, he probably could. Twintuition and all.

Finally, Jey exhaled, scrubbing a hand down his face. “It’s… it’s Cherise,” he admitted, voice low, gruff.

Jimmy’s brows shot up.  “Ohhh. That explains a lot,” he said with a low chuckle. “Y’all beefin’ or somethin’? Ain’t seen her at the club in weeks. Trin said she been quiet.”

Jey’s jaw ticked. “I don’t know,” he muttered, his voice tight. “One minute she cool, the next she… I don’t know, she just flipped on me.  Said she needed space. That things was movin’ too fast.”

Jimmy whistled low.  “Damn,” he murmured, eyes narrowing slightly.  “And she ain’t tell you why?”

Jey shook his head, frustration simmering hot beneath his skin. “I been tryna give her space, but it don’t make no sense,” he muttered, fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh. “She was fine, then outta nowhere she just… shut down. Said shit that didn’t even sound like her. Like she ain’t trust me or somethin’.”

Jimmy was quiet for a moment, lips pursing. “Aight,” he said slowly.  “You sure it was outta nowhere, though?”

Jey’s eyes flicked up, narrowing. “What you mean?”

“I mean,” Jimmy drawled, lifting a brow, “you ever think that maybe she ain’t just flip out for no reason? That maybe somethin’ happened?  Or somebody got in her ear?”

Jey stiffened, something cold sliding down his spine.

He’d considered it—hell, it was the only thing that made sense. But if somebody was fuckin’ with Cherise, who? And why?

“I been thinkin’ that,” he admitted, his voice low, strained. “But I don’t know who the fuck it could be. All I know is she been different.  Jumpy.  Scared. Like she waitin’ for the other shoe to drop or somethin’.”

Jimmy hummed, tilting his head. “You try to talk to Trin about it?”

“She don’t know shit,” Jey muttered, irritation bleeding into his tone.  “She said Cherise been duckin’ her calls too.”

Jimmy blew out a breath, shaking his head. “Damn, Uce,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s rough.  But…”

“But what?”

“But maybe you gotta think about what made her like that,” Jimmy said carefully, eyes steady. “I mean, look, I ain’t sayin’ it’s cool that she went off on you, but you don’t know what kinda dudes she been with before you, uce. She a dancer. You know she done seen some grimy shit.”

Jey’s hands clenched, his teeth grinding. He knew that. Knew it from the way she flinched at loud noises, the way her eyes darted around the club, always watching, always guarded.

The way she never talked about her past.

“Yeah, I get that,” he bit out. “But damn, uce, I ain’t them. She gotta know that by now.”

Jimmy huffed. “But does she?” he challenged, lifting a brow. “Jey, I been watchin’ y’all for months. That girl likes you. But she act like somebody waitin’ around the corner to pull the rug out from under her.  That ain’t no regular trust issue shit. That’s trauma.”

The word landed heavy in the air, settling in the space between them like a weight.

Jey’s hands flexed, guilt churning hot and sick in his gut.

Because Jimmy was right.

Cherise didn’t just have trust issues—she had scars, old and deep, the kind you couldn’t just kiss away, no matter how bad you wanted to.

And maybe he’d been too busy wanting her to notice how much she was still bleeding. 

“Shit,” Jey muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “What the fuck am I supposed to do, Uce?”

Jimmy smirked, clapping a hand over his shoulder. “Easy,” he said with a shrug. “You go find your girl, you tell her the truth, and you let her know you ain’t goin’ nowhere. Even if she push you away.”

Jey exhaled slowly, the tightness in his chest easing just slightly.

Maybe Jimmy was right. Maybe Cherise just needed to see that he was in this for real, that he wasn’t running just because she got scared.

Before he could respond-

“Yo,” a voice drawled, smooth and low.  “Can I spot you?”

Both Jey and Jimmy turned toward the voice.

A man stood there.

Maybe early to mid thirties.

Lean build. Average height.

Something about his stance rubbed Jey the wrong way—too easy, too confident.

Like he thought he was somebody.

Jey nodded once, grabbing his towel off the bench.  "I’m good, man."

But the dude didn’t leave.

Just smirked, tilting his head slightly.  “I’m Tremaine. Y’all the Usos, huh?"

Jimmy let out a short chuckle. "Damn. We can’t go nowhere without bein’ recognized."

Jey, however, didn’t like this dude’s energy.

Didn’t like how he was lingering.

But he played it cool. "Yeah, somethin’ like that."

"Man, y’all killin’ it right now," he continued, nodding. "That Bloodline run? Big fan.”

Jey didn’t drop his guard, but he responded anyway. "Appreciate it."

"You trainin’ for ‘Mania?"

"Somethin’ like that."

Tremaine let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "Man, must be nice.  Bet y’all got all kinds of perks. Travel, money… women."

Jey’s expression didn’t change.  “It’s cool.”

But something about the way the dude said that statement made his skin crawl.

“Aye, you be at that club off 17th, right?” Tremaine asked casually, racking weights. “The one with all them thick-ass strippers?  You ever had that lil’ brownskin one? Candy, I think her name was…She used to be mine.”

Jey went still.

His eyes darkened.

And his fingers curled into fists.

"That so?"

"Hell yeah." Tremaine let out a short chuckle. "Back then?  Man, she was soft. She ain’t know shit about how the world worked. She just wanted to go to school, get her lil’ nursing degree, be a good girl or whatever. But life don’t work like that."

Jey stayed still, adjusting the tape around his wrist. “Word?”

"Mmm-hmm." Tremaine chuckled, stretching his arms behind his head like he had won something. "Man, that girl… whew. You seen her, right? All them curves?  She was built for this. Wasn’t even her idea to strip at first, but I knew she’d be perfect for it."

Jey froze.

"You put her onto it?" he asked, his voice even.

"Hell yeah.” Tremaine let out a short laugh. "She was young. Fresh.  Had no idea what to do with herself. But I saw the potential, y’know?  Saw what she could be. She ain’t wanna do it at first, but… all that shyness? It don’t mean shit when rent due, right?"

Jey’s knuckles cracked.

Jimmy tensed beside him. "Uce—"

Jey ignored him. "So what, you was takin’ care of her?"

Tremaine smirked. "Man, I was doin’ more than that.  I was makin’ her. Taught her everything.  How to move, how to talk, how to pull the big spenders. I even gave her that name—‘Candy’."

Jey’s jaw tightened.

"Yeah?"

"Mmm-hmm." Tremaine shook his head, grinning.  "Ain’t it fittin’?  Sweet, soft, melts in your mouth, drippin’ when you touch it…"

Jey’s vision blurred.

The restraint it took to keep his hands at his sides was inhumane.

Tremaine kept going.

Kept digging his grave.

"She used to cry about it, though," he said, shaking his head with fake sympathy. "Said she ain’t wanna do it, said she ain’t like how men looked at her.  But you know how it is. They all say that at first. You just gotta… break ‘em in."

Jey stilled.

His fingers curled into fists so tight his nails dug into his palms.

"She ain’t start feelin’ herself ‘til I taught her how," Tremaine continued, voice smug.  "Got her all comfortable. Had her thinkin’ she was makin’ moves. Even let her keep her little cut. ‘Course, I had to take mine. Ain’t fair otherwise."

Jimmy was watching Jey now.

The slight shake in his shoulders.

The way his breathing had gone shallow.

"Uce—"

Tremaine wasn’t done.

"She was real loyal at first, too," he mused, shaking his head like he was reminiscing. "Had that ride-or-die shit. But then she started getting ideas. Thought she could run shit on her own. Thought she could keep all that money she was makin’."

Jey’s breath was short.

He could feel fire curling under his ribs.

Tremaine smirked.  "So, I had to humble her. Remind her how good she had it with me."

Jey’s teeth gritted. "How you do that?"

"Oh, you’d love this one." Tremaine leaned in, like they were just two guys catching up.

Jey waited.

"You ever see a girl really break?" Tremaine asked, tilting his head.  "Not just cry, not just sniffle, but completely break?  It’s a hell of a sight, man. And let me tell you…Man, she really thought we was just goin’ out. Had her all dressed up nice, lookin’ real pretty, thinkin’ we was on some date night shit."

His smirk turned into something cruel.

"One of my boys was gettin’ married, so I got her a nice lil’ gig at his bachelor party. The look on her face when she walked in and saw all my boys sittin’ there, just waiting for her? Priceless." He laughed. "I never seen a girl look so fucking helpless in my life."

Jey stopped breathing.

Jimmy froze.

"She looked at me like I stabbed her in the back," Tremaine went on.  "But what the fuck was she expectin’? That was her job. Her purpose.  She wanna be a stripper, but she wanna pick and choose who she dance for?  Nah, man.  Ain’t how it works."

Jey’s fingers curled into a fist.

"She ain’t dance at first." Tremaine leaned in slightly, his grin widening. "So I had to make her. Told her if she ain’t get up and do what she was good at, then she wasn’t gon’ have a place to sleep that night."

Jey’s entire body tensed.

"She did it, though," Tremaine continued, laughing under his breath.  "Shaky as hell, but she did it. And by the end of the night?  Shit, she learned real quick. She learned how to shut the fuck up and play her part."

Jey felt his blood boiling.

But he let him keep going.

Because he needed to hear how far this motherfucker was willing to go.

"Shame, though," Tremaine said, shaking his head.  "She ain’t learn fast enough. Started thinking she was bigger than me. Thinking she ain’t need me. So, y’know, I had to remind her again.”

Jey’s chest rose and fell steadily. "And how’d you do that?"

Tremaine grinned. "Took my cut. Took her cut, too. Took all that money she was stackin’ for school and got the fuck outta there."

Jey’s fingers twitched.

"Left her with nothin’." Tremaine exhaled, shaking his head. “Told her it was what she deserved. ‘Cause, man… girls like her?  They don’t get no fairytale endings. She ain’t built for that."

Jey’s blood turned to ice.

His pulse pounded, ears ringing.

Jimmy shifted uneasily, eyes flicking between them. He knew somebody was going to be leaving on a stretcher and it sure as hell wasn’t him or Jey.

Tremaine grinned. "But damn, I do miss that body, though.  That girl was tight, boy. Made the sweetest lil’ sounds when she—"

The first punch flew.

CRACK.

Tremaine’s head snapped back, his body jerking as the force sent him stumbling.

But Jey wasn’t done.

Before Tremaine could even react, Jey grabbed him by the collar, dragging him down to the gym floor, his fists slamming into his face again and again and again.

Jimmy shouted, trying to yank Jey back.  "Uce!"

But Jey wasn’t listening.

This was beyond anger.

This was rage.

This was vengeance.

Jey’s vision was tinted red, his hands coated in Tremaine’s blood, the sound of fists connecting with flesh ringing in his ears.

“Josh, chill!” Jimmy was pulling at Jey’s shoulder now. "You gon’ kill him, man!”

"Maybe I should!" Jey snarled, rearing his fist back again.

Jimmy yanked him back, arms locked around his chest. “Joshua, enough!”

Jey struggled, his chest heaving, his blood still roaring in his ears. Tremaine gasped on the ground, coughing up spit and blood, his eye already swelling shut. Jey’s entire body was shaking. His fists ached.  His breathing was ragged.

Then the sound of a door swinging open.

"Joshua?!”

The voice was familiar.

Too familiar.

Jey’s head snapped up.

And there she was.

Cherise with Trinity in tow. Standing in the doorway, eyes wide, frozen in place as she took in the scene that previously unfolded.

Jey, chest heaving, knuckles bloody with a busted lip from one of Tremaine’s cheap shots he barely felt due to the adrenaline.

Tremaine, curled on the floor, bruised and broken.

Jimmy, looking exhausted as he tried to hold Jey back.

Her breath caught. "What…what the hell is going on?"

Jey stared at her, heart pounding.

Tremaine laughed, his voice wet with blood. "Damn, baby… even after all these years, you still got niggas out here fightin’ over you."

Jey snapped again, lunging forward, but Cherise moved fast.

"Joshua, no!”

Her hands caught his face.

And just like that—

Everything stilled.

His rage froze.

His breath hitched.

And all that existed was her.

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[chilling-seavey]

Lessons in Lust and Other Illicit Desires (gr63) —NINETEEN

↳ A/N I love love love writing Lando in any and all universes <3

↳ Series Summary: Sensible, wise, and a hopeless dreamer, Rosaline was used to men not giving her a second glance. She soon discovered it was merely those mundane college boys who were nothing more than simply intimidated by her intellect. What she needed was a man — someone who could impart knowledge beyond the Classics and guide her in discovering her own confidence as a woman. The thrill of sneaking around with the ever-so-charmingly handsome Professor Russell was certainly a bonus.

↳ Pairings: OxfordProfessor!George Russell x Innocent!Student!OC, Max Verstappen x Charles Leclerc (background)

↳ Chapter Word Count: 4.1k

↳ Chapter Warnings: 18+, protected sex, minor mentions of pain but he's gentle, some begging, dirty talk, minor choking, praise, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, hair pulling, oh and lying <3

Rosaline vastly underestimated how easy it would be to coerce Lando Norris into asking her out. She couldn’t think of a single other time where her attempt at flirting successfully landed her a guy—in fact, her track record showed that it caused guys to run in the complete opposite direction—so, to be frank, she had zero hope going into this plan. Maybe Lando was just immensely easy or desperate or something to ask her out after only two arm touches and one doubled-over laugh at his joke that wasn’t even that funny. Maybe she had been learning a lot more from George than she had anticipated. Regardless, it made her plan a whole lot easier so who was she to complain.

On Sunday afternoon, Rosaline stood outside her dormitory building, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she waited for Lando to pick her up. They had agreed on 1:00, but as the minutes crept past 1:15 with no sign of him, she exhaled sharply, glancing down the empty stretch of road. Never had she known Lando to be on time for anything so, really, she shouldn’t have been surprised. Plus, what was a few minutes when at least this time, going out with one of her peers, she didn’t have to take the bus just to be inconspicuous. 

Not long later, an all-black Mini Cooper pulled through the gated entrance of the dormitory quad, windows down, music blasting, earning a few glances from other students walking the grounds. With his arm resting half out of the car window and an embarrassingly orange cap sitting backwards over his usual unruly curls, Lando slowed to a stop at the curb, nudging his sunglasses down his nose to offer her a grinning smile.

“Hello,” he greeted simply. 

“Hi,” Rosaline snorted, “You sure know how to make an entrance.”

“I try.” he then cocked his head, “Hop in.”

Rosaline helped herself to the passenger side of his car and she barely got herself buckled before Lando was peeling off through gates to loop back around to the main roads of Oxford. She was thrown back in her seat a little at the force and she gasped softly in surprise. Lando seemed perfectly unbothered as he sang along casually to the music playing. 

He was a safe driver, Rosaline noted, but he did have a tendency to speed, maneuvering his car through the narrow streets like it was another extension of himself. She had come to realize that everything with Lando felt so fast and she couldn’t help but compare him to the seemingly gracefulness of George; poised, polished, precise. Even their cars reflected who they were in a way—Lando’s sporty black Mini Cooper to George’s classy white Mercedes—polar opposites. 

After a moment of silence in the front seat, Rosaline decided to spark up a conversation, “So, this is your car?”

“Yeah. Mint, right?” Lando reached forward to turn down the music as he drove, “Saved up some money from streaming to afford it. Decked it all out with black rims…tinted windows…everything. Gangsta.”

Rosaline chuckled half-sarcastically, “Oh, yeah, for sure. ‘Gangsta’ is the first word that comes to mind when I think of you.”

Lando shot her a playful grin, “Aw, you think of me?”

“Shut up.” she snorted with a shake of her head. 

When Lando drifted to a stop at an intersection and looked both ways in anticipation to make a turn, she eyed the symbol on the front of his cap that had been hidden with how he had been wearing it backwards. It looked familiar and she thought back to that one Sunday at George’s house where he introduced her to Formula 1 and walked her through some of the teams. 

Knowing the importance of appearing involved and interested on a date, Rosaline stated, “Your hat—is that the logo of that F1 team you like?”

“Yeah! McLaren.” As he drove, Lando reached up to swing the cap around so it was facing forward and he pointed to the embroidered ‘81’ on the brim and the scribbly signature alongside it, “Signed by Oscar Piastri too. I got him to sign it when I went to Silverstone one year…got up freaking early to be at the front of the gates and everything. It’s, like, my most prized possession.”

“More than your car?” she challenged playfully. 

Lando laughed, “Yes. Until one day Oscar can sign my car. Hopefully then I’ll have a McLaren F1 of my own.”

Clueless to exactly what he meant, Rosaline replied casually, “I dunno if you can drive F1 cars on the roads, can you?”

“Oh my God,” his voice went up two octaves and he rubbed his forehead with his fingertips in utterly amused disbelief, “McLaren F1 is the style of roadcar. It’s not…a Formula 1 race car. Although that’d be sick.”

“Oh, God, don’t tell my friends I’m this clueless. They’ll never let me live it down.”

Lando turned his cap back around with a quick flirty smile in her direction, “Your secret is safe with me.”

He had insisted on taking her to play mini golf at this establishment just outside of the city; it was a frequent spot for the university students and something much more fun than just sitting and sharing a meal for a first date. It was a very Lando venue too, Rosaline thought, as the whole course was glow-in-the-dark and everything was neon and vibrant and the holes were made up of some of the most crazy obstacles she had ever seen. She never thought it was possible for Lando’s orange hat to be any brighter but it nearly glowed under the lights of the course, making it impossible to lose him. 

Although she didn’t want to be on a date with Lando, it was hard to deny that he wasn’t fun to spend time with and for the duration of their mini golf game, it really felt like she was spending time with a good friend. She had been incredibly reluctant when they were paired up for the project in George’s class but as they were forced to spend time together to complete it, she found herself enjoying his company. He was fun. Curse forced proximity and how it always seemed to know just when to come into play. 

They spent two hours navigating the themed mini golf courses and definitely bent the rules more often than they followed them, neither of them taking it too seriously. Lando often hopped along the curbs and stumbled over props as he tried to get out of the way of Rosaline’s putts, definitely earning him a few warnings from the employees to ‘please be careful’. It was impossible to stay too focused when he was treating the game like a playground, but she had to admit—it made the afternoon more fun than she’d expected.

Somehow, she managed to beat him as they tallied up their scores at the end of the course and he claimed it was because he was better at normal golf than mini golf…and that he had been going easy on her. She didn’t quite believe either statement but she played along for his sake. 

Once they had returned their putters and neon golf balls and emerged out into the bright afternoon light to head back to his car, they were walking an ounce closer to each other than they had been earlier, sharing rambunctious laughter over something or another. It was easy to be swayed by Lando’s youthful rowdiness, joining him in his glee and dramatics, hands flailing and stories exaggerated and volume loud as if he never minded being the centre of attention. 

They ended up at some pizza place nearby, sitting at a table for two with a sizable pie between them and each with a large fountain drink. Lando leaned over as he took a massive bite of his first slice, half the toppings falling off and back into the box.

“Ew!” Rosaline laughed.

Lando nearly choked on his humongous bite through his laughter, speaking through his mouthful, “I’m trying to see what’s the smallest number of bites I can take.”

Rosaline chuckled and unlocked her phone and opened Instagram before directing her camera at him, “Smile!”

His eyes scrunched at the corners as he offered her a toothy grin through his next bite, tomato sauce in the corners of his mouth, and a few stray curls escaping from the space above the clasp of his orange cap. She snapped the picture and then tagged Lando’s account and added a gif of (whom she assumed was) Oscar Piastri in a matching orange race suit giving a thumbs up. She posted it to her story and silently swore she could totally be part of a successful PR relationship if she really wanted to. She was going to have people fooled. She set her phone aside on the table and then leaned in to grab a slice for herself. 

Lando raised an eyebrow, seemingly unaware of the sauce in the corner of his mouth, “Did you just post that?”

“Yep,” Rosaline smirked, “I even tagged you.”

“Wow, instagram official on the first date. That’s serious.” Lando hummed playfully, “I feel honored. You don’t give me the vibes of a girl who posts about a guy unless it’s serious.”

Rosaline hesitated for a fraction of a second before playing along with a small chuckle, “My gosh, well it’s not like I posted anything incriminating or racy. It’s just you eating pizza.”

“Mhm,” Lando reached for his drink and took a lengthy sip before setting it back down and asking, “So what was the deal with that mystery guy your friends were talking about the other day in the library? Are you, like, broken up then?”

Rosaline almost choked on her bite of pizza at the unexpected question. She swallowed roughly and reached for her drink to wash it down with a hoarse, “What?”

Lando shrugged, completely unaware of the way her stomach flipped, “That day in the library when we were working on the project—your friends were grilling you about some guy. They seemed pretty intense about it.”

“Oh,” Rosaline forced a laugh despite her downset gaze, waving it off, “They were just being dramatic.”

He was watching her as he took another bite, speaking through it, “But there was someone then?”

“I mean, kind of? It wasn’t really a thing.”

“Damn, so I’m the rebound?” he teased, nudging her foot under the table.

She nudged him back with a small smile, “Hardly.”

There was a pause before he added more seriously, “But, like…you’re over him or whatever, right?”

The question caught her off guard. She had never been a wonderful liar but she had written liars enough to hopefully be able to get by; not too dismissive to appear suspicious but not too sentimental either. So she gave a nonchalant shrug as she lifted her drink with a simple but effective, “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

“Fair enough,” Lando let out a small laugh, smiling through his next bite, and then shrugged, “His loss then.”

She offered a barely audible “Yeah” in reply.

The rest of their dinner progressed smoothly and once the pizza was finished and their drinks were empty and the excitement after a long afternoon had started to fizzle, the date seemed to reach its natural conclusion. 

Lando stretched his arms above his head and then let them fall back against the tabletop with a sigh, “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, I’m just going to run to the toilet before we leave,” Rosaline said as she got up from her chair, “Be right back.”

As she had her moment of privacy in the washroom of the restaurant, her mind was whirling with the realization that the date had gone so well. Outside of George, this was her first date with someone her age and the fact that she had gone through the entire process from formulation to completion arguably all on her own merit filled her with this sense of pride. And she had enjoyed it. Sure, she took it more as a friendly hangout than a date but a win was a win.

She returned to their table and Lando was slouched back in his seat, glancing at her as she approached. She picked up her phone from the table top and took her purse from the back of her chair to drape it over her shoulder, “Okay, all set.”

“Okay,” Lando rose from his seat and slid on his sunglasses as he led the way to the door. 

The bell above the door tinked as they stepped out into the late afternoon sun and Rosaline followed behind him into the parking lot. She checked her notifications on the way, seeing a text from George front and centre:

G: I hope it’s going well today. I know you don’t want to be out with him but it’s just to keep the suspicions away from us 🤍 Come round to mine after and I’ll help you forget all about it xx

Lando unlocked his car and glanced back at her as if to make sure she was still following as she typed out a quick reply:

-It’s been nice. I’ll have him drop me on campus and head over to yours xx

Sliding her phone into her purse, she opened the passenger side door of the car and climbed in. Lando turned the key in the ignition and fiddled with the Bluetooth for a minute before his music started playing again.

“I’ll drop you back at Pembroke then?” he asked as he backed out of the parking spot.

“Actually, if you could drop me off at Worcester College, that’d be great. I’m meeting a friend.” Rosaline asked casually. 

“Yeah, sure.”

They drove in calm silence to nothing but the sound of Lando’s music playing through the speakers, the windows down and Rosaline’s hair flying around her head. She was itching to get to George’s to tell him all about it, especially since she hadn’t seen him in a few days and she was itching for something else too. Worcester College was only a few blocks from his street so it wouldn’t be too much of a trek to get to his house and Lando would be none the wiser. 

As he pulled up into the gates of the College on the westernly outskirts of the city, Rosaline gathered her purse, “I had a really lovely day. Thank you.”

“Me too,” Lando offered, sending her a tame smile once he parked by the curb.

She reached for the door handle, “See you on Tuesday?”

“Yep, see you then.”

In a fit of bravery, Rosaline leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek…just to play the part. Before he could reply, she was opening the door and climbing out and shutting it behind her. He leaned over to give her a final goodbye before pulling away from the curb and she waved after him, lingering there until she was sure he was out of sight, and then she turned on her heel and walked right back out the college gates. 

If George could taste the strong tinge of Lando’s aftershave on her lips, he didn’t speak to it. Or, rather, there was no space to speak to it as her feverish kisses she planted on him the moment she walked in the door rendered him mute. She was a woman on a mission and more than desperate to take him up on his offer to help her forget all about it. And he was more than willing to do just that.

They ended up on his living room couch, bathed in the late afternoon sun through the front windows, a tangle of limbs and lips and lingering touches and pulls on clothes. It had been a week since she had given him her virginity and six days since they had last had sex; to say Rosaline was starving for it would be an understatement. As clothes were shed, George pulled away from her swollen lips just long enough to run upstairs to grab the new box of condoms he bought, taking the stairs two at a time while she waited [im]patiently on the couch. 

The second he returned and set the twenty-four pack on the coffee table, he had already taken one out of the box and was leaning down to kiss her again before he even sat back down. Clothes littered the living room, tossed blindly to the rug or across the floor to the chair in the corner, stripping them both down to comfortable nudity between tongue-led kisses before he was easing her flat onto the couch. 

Rosaline couldn’t help but giggle up at him as she got herself comfortable with her head on one of the cushions against the arm of the couch, watching how he ripped open the condom wrapped to hurriedly put it on. Her sweet sound had him glancing down at her with that polite, handsome smile of his, despite the way his eyes were dilated with lust all for her. She could never get enough of the way he looked at her; she swore that no one else ever looked at her that way, not even Lando. 

George nudged her legs apart and shuffled a little closer, one foot anchoring him on the living room rug with his other knee bent on the seat of the couch to angle himself properly. She could feel those familiar butterflies in the pit of her stomach as he situated them into position, how he took control to make sure she was where he needed her and where she was comfortable. 

Their eyes locked as he leaned down over top of her with one hand firmly on the arm of the couch and the other between their bodies to help guide the head of his cock between her legs. He pressed into her slowly, cautiously, and his eyes moved all over her face as if he were reading her every minute expression, especially as her fingers pressed into his biceps and her breath hitched. After almost a week of going without, it ached again to accept him all, but he kissed over her cheeks and her lips and her nose and she breathed through it as he treated her like porcelain. 

“There we go…” George breathed comfortingly, his voice tinged with the effort of holding himself back, “Nice and slow…that’s it…”

Rosaline let out a little hum, eyes fluttering shut, her hands splaying across his back to hold him close as he filled her completely. Despite the slight ache, it was still much easier than the first time and almost right away she was giving him the go-ahead to start to move. He sealed the agreement with a kiss as he started to roll his hips against hers in precise, curling motions that had her fingers pressing into the muscle of his back. 

“Mmph, fuck, please—” she stumbled out. 

His eyes locked on hers as he made love to her on his living room couch, turning her brain to mush so the only name on her lips was his. They kissed sloppily like that, tangled together and desperate for pleasure from the other, and when George sped up a little more, she certainly didn’t complain. 

Her head arched back against the arm of the couch with a pretty whine, legs parting wider until she could get them wrapped around his waist, needily pulling him closer, deeper, anything. He was the only one who could satisfy that hunger within her. She just kept breathlessly asking for more like she was insatiable, wanting every ounce of him to herself until everything else fell away. And he kept asking ‘are you sure’ like she was too precious, too delicate, and he dared not hurt her. 

Rosaline trusted him more than anyone else in the world, happily giving her everything to him and trusting him to give everything back in return. She trusted him to get a little rough with her until her fingers were scratching across his shoulder blades and she was crying out to his living room ceiling through a messy chant of ‘yes, yes, yes’. His breath was hot against her neck, tied in with handsome muffled grunts of pleasure as he took her as she so desired, and, beside her head, his hand found a white knuckled grip of the arm of the couch to hold himself upright. 

She stared up into his eyes like that, filled with pleasure she never before knew possible, taking his every firm thrust with eager encouragement; little nods, sweet sounds, anything to keep him going, knowing that she was enjoying it. Then, as if speaking behind her natural filter that was hazed by pleasure, her mouth formed words in a barely audible breath, “Please come inside me.”

Of course, they both knew he was wearing a condom but the concept of him claiming her without felt all the more shiver-worthy. George moaned warmly above her, “Yeah? You want that, darling?”

“Fuck, uh huh,” Rosaline whimpered, clutching onto him tighter as she stared up into his steadfast gaze, “Please gimme it. I won’t tell anyone.”

Something flashed in George’s eyes, something full of want, like she had reached into his very soul and grasped onto something he had been trying so hard to push down for her sake. And then, knowing how she’d liked it before, he wrapped his fingers around her throat, just barely squeezing, and he spoke down to her, “You won’t tell anyone? You’ll be a good fucking girl for me then?”

Her eyes fluttered as his large hand found its home around her throat, “Yeah…please, sir.”

“Yeah, you will,” George groaned out tightly.

He barely made it a few more thrusts before he released hard into the condom, burying himself as deep inside her so she could feel every inch of him throbbing against her tight muscles as she clutched onto him. Rosaline’s lips parted in a silent breath at the feeling, eyebrows furrowed slightly in the middle, trying to imagine how feeling him naturally would feel. She couldn’t get too ahead of herself. 

She barely had a second to blink herself back to reality before he was easing out of her and slipping off the side of the couch so he was keeling on the rug, clammy hands wrapping around her thighs and yanking her closer to the edge so he could lean down and get his mouth on her. More sensitive than anything, the simple touch of his tongue against her aching clit and the warmth of his slightly breathless pants had her back arching off the couch and a gasp tearing itself from her lungs almost completely involuntarily. Her fingers pressed into the expensive leather upholstery while George slid three fingers into his mouth to moisten before sinking them inside her, just to keep her stimulated with a nice bit of stretch. 

“Yeah…” she whimpered as he started to thrust his fingers inside her in short, precise little jabs while his tongue lapped purposefully at her clit. She dropped a hand down to rake through his hair, tugging on the roots as if to equal parts pull him closer and push him away.

He made her come in no time, almost like he was an expert of her body, groaning against her cunt as she creamed around his fingers and he cleaned her up with his tongue. It felt like fire was pouring through her veins and her thighs trembled with the influx of waves of pleasure tearing through her. She genuinely smiled to the ceiling through it, fingers tight in his hair like she never wanted to let him go.

When she was pleasantly finished, they took a second to catch their breaths. George was still kneeling on the floor and had rested his cheek against her thigh while she stayed splayed out over the couch with her arm draped across her forehead, chests heaving. After a moment, he kissed her knee and looked up at her and when she glanced down to meet his gaze, they shared soft smiles. 

George then asked a cheeky, “So…how was the date?”

They had barely even spoken a proper word to each other since she had stepped over the threshold, much preferring to make up for their six days of lost time instead. So, now, satisfied and spent, she let out a soft laugh and answered, “It was fine. I beat him at mini golf.”

Through a proud smile, he gave her calf a squeeze, “That’s my girl.”

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[aakeysmash]

Roommate or boss?

part 2, part 3, part 4

Pairing: f!reader x Katsuki Bakugou.

Warnings: none, really. AND THEY WERE POSSIBLE ROOMMATES, MAYBE?

Context: 3k words. Reader is a barista and she only meets Bakugo at the end of this </3. He’s her boss but she doesn’t know. I don’t delve into this tho, just so you know. They’re both 22.

A/N: never thought I’d write a slow burn but I HATE not giving context. This is just me yapping with zero grammar context whatsoever. The reader is super oc in this one, but all the girl names I thought about were UGLY. Let me know what you think about it!

“No.”

“Come onnnn it’s gonna be just this one time” pleads your best friend from the other end of the phone.

“Ochaco, you know I hate when you pull this shit” you reply, while putting your jacket on.

“I knowww, but listen, me and the cute guy have had NO time for ourselves lately and-“

“And you’re leaving me doing this assignment with who knows who? We’re always partners for physics, you know I can’t do it all alone and you can’t phrase your deductions to save your life. We complete each other. You’re my soulmate. Why are you leaving me for a guy?” you whine, while closing the door of your apartment and walking towards your car.

“It’s gonna be just this one time, I promise! It’s not like we’re gonna fail. I think. I hope…” she mumbles.

You sigh. “If we do fail, you’re getting your ass beaten, I am so for real” you concede after thinking about it. You start your car and put your phone on speaker.

“BABEEE I love youuuu! You know you’re the only one for me! I promise to finally tell you all the details on Saturday” she squeals.

You wince. “Nah, I can’t this Saturday. I have to work, manager is on vacay. Maybe Sunday?” you said, knowing she will start rambling.

“Y/N just leave that place, they don’t even value you as a person, let alone as a worker. Plus, your manager is a bitch” Ochaco says sternly. “I still haven’t got over the fact she makes you work double shifts just because she wants to be in Bali with her new stupid tomboy. Who, by the way, cheats on her. You said so yourself, and I heard him and your colleague going at it that one time I came to visit you last week -not Momo, bless her heart, how is she by the way?- oh and he steals her money. And-“

“I need the money, and I do love to make coffees for the nice old ladies that tip me” you interrupt your more-than-protective best friend, knowing that she could go on complaining for hours if you didn’t stop her. “Also, I just got to the cafe and I’m already running late. I’ll text you when I get off, okay? Love you”.

“Yeah yeah. Don’t overwork yourself too much, love you” and you hang up.

You and Ochaco have been friends since you were babies. Your parents were neighbours back in your hometown, and your moms coincidentally got pregnant in a span of 2 months apart from each other. You have been attached to the hip all of your school years, and fortunately you have been accepted at the same campus at university. You moved to different apartments because you wanted to be independent, but you are still living pretty near each other. You are enrolled in literature, while Ochaco has a passion for astronomy; you had chosen physics as a bonus class for some extra credits since Ochaco said it would be easy and you trusted her, but she didn’t take into consideration that you failed math throughout all of high school, and she had to save your ass multiple times in the past. You’ll never forget her face when she got an 86% on one of the graded tests she did for you: she was so disappointed she made you ask the professor to redo the test, which you barely knew the basics of. She got 100%, and the professor congratulated you (her) for being such an overachiever. You never felt more ashamed of yourself and proud of your best friend at the same time. On the other hand, she made you do her English essays on a monthly basis, so she really wasn’t in the place to complain about doing all the dirty work for you.

You had partnered up with her since she was a genius, but she met this “cute guy” a month ago and was head over heels for him. She still hasn’t said his name to you, all you know is that he is a part of the physics course and he apparently just stole your assignment partner.

You sigh inwardly. Sometimes you wished love could come to you as easily as it comes to Ochaco. She is a lover girl at heart, nicer than anybody could ever hope to be, but she sure could bite if she had to. She has been there for some of the worst moments of your life, and you have done the same for her. You really didn’t know what you would do without her. Maybe you should get her an apology pastry from the cafe’s leftovers to make up for the last two missed Saturdays (“they’re for the girls!” she said, and you meticulously met up every week up until you had gotten a job).

You’re a bit distracted by thinking about her when you get into the place you work at. It’s a cute cafe, a little bit too orange for your taste, but it’s cozy enough to make work pleasurable. Plus, it’s 5 minutes from your apartment (15 if you walk, but you are lazy). They pay on time, the coffee is good and the clientele isn’t too bad. If it wasn’t for-

“You’re 32 seconds late. You’re getting a formal complaint this time” says your manager, waiting for you with her arms crossed.

“Put that on the note that says I worked 8 extra hours a week for the last 5 months. Hello to you too, weren’t you supposed to be in the Philippines or whatever by now?” you say sickening sweet, with the fakest smile you can muster, while you pass next to her to get to the room behind the register.

“Shut your smart mouth up before I get you fired!” she almost screams. Some of the people at the table near her look at her like she’s crazy before going back to their cappuccino.

“My oh my miss Utsushimi, it’s not nice to use that tone before the rush hour” you reply, giving an apologetic look at your regulars next to her.

“Mpfh, whatever. Close up this place when you’re done, the boss will probably be in to ask you for the keys at the end of your shift. I’ll be MIA for the next two weeks, bye” she says to you. Then she turns around and smiles sweetly at the clients who previously looked at her with distaste and lies “pregnancy hormones I hope, me and my man are trying for a baby, I’m sorry for scaring you!”. You know damn well she had an IUD appointment last week, because she made you work instead of working herself. Fake bitch.

Without saying anything else, she leaves the place.

“I hate her ass so much”, says someone next to you.

You snicker. “Who doesn’t, Momo?” you face her with a genuine smile.

“Never leave me alone with her ever again, you know I can’t survive this place without you, work wifey” she kisses your cheek fast, before going back to making coffee for a client at the register.

“Ochaco will be hearing about this and she’ll slap you” you laugh heartily.

“I love her too, she’s my work wifey’s wifey, so she’s basically my wifey” she winks at you.

After a few more laughs here and there, you both go back to work like usual.

A couple of hours pass and it’s closing time. Momo waves you goodbye, clocking out. “I’m so tired I could sleep on the floor right now” she whines.

“Yeah, how about no. Let’s go, babe. We don’t want to drag Y/N’s time” says her boyfriend, Shoto, who shoots you a nod of acknowledgement before placing a hand on her lower back and escorting her out of the cafe. “I remember suffering at closing times, let’s leave her be and go home” he nudges your colleague, smiling down at her. He has been inside the cafe a lot in the years you’ve worked here, sometimes picking Momo up. Momo says he was one of the best bartenders the cafe ever had, but he found a job that payed him more and he decided to leave. You couldn’t blame him.

“See you soon, you two lovebirds!” you reply, waving a hand of your own.

Now all alone since even the waiters have gone home, you clean up the counter before packing up the pastry for Ochaco.

“Damn, I have to wait for the boss to give him the keys” you remember, rubbing your face.

You wait 45 minutes before a redhead makes his way into the cafe. He seems busy on the phone with someone.

“I’m here, let me just get- fuck no I don’t wanna talk to Camie about it, Baku- no, wait- fire? Are you going to take her place and finally come down here like the boss you are? Yes, I know- what? And where would we- what do I have to do with all of this? No, I’m going home- fuck, he hung up” the man sighs, before turning his body towards you.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting, not really manly from me” he smiles, looking sorry.

“Oh don’t worry about it!” your smile was really stretched, and you think he notices, because he says “sorry” again. “The manager said to give you the keys. So you’re the boss?” you say politely, stretching your hand with the keys towards him.

You’ve seen him multiple times, he’s a regular. He always gets the same order (one black coffee and one hot chocolate with extra cinnamon), and he always tips you and Momo well. Today he seems distressed.

“I wouldn’t wish to be the boss, to be fair. You could say I’m his right hand. Where’s Camie? Boss needs to talk to her in private before next week comes” he sighs.

“She said she’ll be gone for two weeks” you reply, confused.

“And who said she could do that?” Kirishima, you think that’s his name since you’ve written it on his order just yesterday, looks at you in disbelief. You shrug. “I don’t ask. The less I know about her, the better I feel about working here”. You start to pack your things up, before going towards the door with the man following behind you closely.

“This is nuts. I hate doing job interviews” he mumbles fast, turning the key in the lock. You raise an eyebrow, what is he even talking about?

“Do you live near? If not, I could give you a ride. I’d hate losing the only barista who makes boss man’s drink good enough to not make him pissy” he says, while pointing to his car.

You laugh. “It’s just a hot chocolate. Tell him he should try it with a few drops of hot sauce in it. Sounds disgusting but it’s actually pretty good. Also don’t worry, I live just down the street”. He nods and you wave each other goodbye.

“It does sound horrible. Thanks again for waiting, see you tomorrow for the same exact order I always make” he grins, then gets in his car and drives away, not after seeing you get in your car as well.

Once at home you call Ochaco, who’s “been worried sick, you never get home this late”.

“Y/N you seriously need a roommate. Did you even eat?” she reprimands.

You sigh. “I have to meet someone tomorrow. But you know, girls tend to look at you weirdly when you say you need them to know how to cook. They feel like you’re looking for a maid. Like, I can’t eat sandwiches every day like I did with the last roommate I had” you explain while opening your fridge. Sausages and smashed potatoes from yesterday will do the job for today.

“The psycho who thought vegetables made her look weak? Freak” you hear your best friend snicker. “At what time are they coming over?”

You groan and say “8 am. It’s a guy this time. Who wakes up before 8 am at uni? He’s already lost 2 points for this” while gulping down your food.

Ochaco’s snicker is now a full laugh. “People who have their lives together, maybe? But pay attention, males scare me” she replies quieting down.

“Yeah yeah. I’m gonna sleep now, text me the deets for Sunday, okay?” you clean your plate and go to the bathroom to wash your teeth.

“Will doooo. Good night, babe” she smooches on the mic before hanging up.

After making sure you locked your apartment door, you go to your bed, where you manage to fall asleep in thirty seconds.

The next morning you’re brutally awakened by the sound of your doorbell. You look at your phone screen: 7:42 am.

“Who the fuck is it now?” you grumble, before going down the stairs and looking through your peephole.

“Shitty hair I swear if this takes me more than 10 minutes… she hasn’t even opened the door. Yeah, she said 8 am, who cares if I’m early? I AM NOT the only one awake on a Saturday morning. Y’all are just lazy fucks” a blonde rudely says into his phone. You can hear him talking loudly from behind the door. You widen your eyes, before screaming “coming! Give me 5 minutes!” and rushing towards your bathroom to make yourself presentable. “Fuck, I forgot about the roommate appointment” you whine, while putting on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. At least they are clean.

You open the door to find a broad man staring at you menacingly. He’s kinda tall, kinda (really) fit, kinda underdressed for the winter. Kinda hot, too.

“Hi, how can I help you?” you offer him the nicest smile your still sleepy mind can muster.

He looks you up and down, before focusing on your face and levelling you with an indifferent look.

“You must be Y/N. I’m Katsuki Bakugo, we had to meet at 8 am for the spare room offer. I've been here for 15 minutes” he gruffly declares.

You add “rude” to your list of “kinda”. You don’t like his tone. -1 point.

“Yeah, and it’s 7:48” you bite back, your smile faltering while shaking his outstretched hand. He’s definitely going to the gym with the callouses he has.

“Come in, I’ll let you see what you’re getting yourself into”, you say, opening your door more.

You live in a nice apartment, you think. There’s a nice kitchen with a nice island that also serves as a table in front of it, a blueish couch in front of the tv, and a couple of steps that bring you to a corridor with three doors: your room, the spare one and the bathroom.

You describe everything while he stays in absolute silence next to you. It makes you feel uneasy. -1 point.

You just finished showing him the bathroom and are ready to tell him you don’t think he’s a good suitor when he finally speaks up.

“And how much do you pay for this shit?” he asks. Nice voice, you think. Gravelly and rough enough to not sound annoyingly forced. +1 point.

“500 a month” you reply, while returning to the kitchen.

“Your shower needs some work done, it leaks. Also, mold is starting to show on the bathroom ceiling, might wanna check on that. Your oven looks unusable in the condition it’s in. Small tv. At least you’re clean from what I've seen” he begins to say.

You frown and turn to look at him. Did this bitch talk for the first time in 15 minutes only to complain?

“Do you even know how to cook with said oven?” you say, ignoring everything else he just said, and giving him a nasty look.

He tsks. “Yes. Is this your way of asking me to cook you fucking breakfast? I don’t eat with lazy people who get out of bed at 11 am” he makes sure to say.

You scoff. Men really do find the audacity to say stuff like this nowadays? It seems like you've been out of the loop for too much.

“You showed up early. It’s a sign of disrespect, you know? Also no, I know how to fix myself something. I just don’t want you to burn my kitchen down to a crisp and smell takeout whenever I get home” you say in the rudest way you find possible.

He smirks before saying “might wanna check on that fucking attitude of yours too before I poison your food”, tapping your shoulder to get you out of the way and take out some pans. You showed him where to find them earlier on.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you say in disbelief. “This is still my kitchen. Get out”.

He rolls his eyes. “I’m making you fucking breakfast to say sorry for interrupting your princess sleep. Just make coffee while I come up with something. If you know how to make it, that is” he doesn’t even look at you while getting eggs, milk and bread out of the fridge.

You’re baffled. He’s making himself at home when you didn’t even say he was accepted.

“Wait, you’re still not-“

“I'll give you the money at the start of every month. I’ll paint the walls of the room, I hate that fucking green, but painters are scammers so I’m doing it myself. I’m clean, I’ll just need a spare key in a matter of days to take my shit here. I’ll keep myself in my room if you keep yourself in yours. Any further requests?” he interrupts you, assembling his french toasts on the pan.

You’re even more stunned. But you’ve always been quick with your thoughts, so you come up with something.

“I’ll say yes if those french toasts are good. If they’re not, your ass is out” you say, still not looking at him, while making coffee.

“Might say yes if you know how to make a hot chocolate from scratch instead of the poor coffee that machine will make” he watches you from the corner of his eye. You scoff, you’re a barista nonetheless: who does he think he’s talking to? Meanwhile, he could swear he knew you from somewhere.

“Deal”.

“Deal”.

Neither to say, the french toasts were “not that bad” and your hot chocolate was “barely fucking acceptable”.

[trippinsorrows]

with me + part one

authors note: well, i got some type of writers block working on two other RR wip's so opened a new google doc and ended up with this. prob gonna be 3 parts, maybe 4. there's an almost five year time jump after this one, can you guess why? also, joe's wife is an oc, not galina.

first time posting my roman writings on here and trying not to freak out tbh

warnings: angst, infidelity, language, suggestive content

song inspo: with me by destiny's child

word count: 4,000

You know that assignment everyone at some point in their education where they research what they want to be when they grow up and share it with the whole class for a grade? Yeah, that big mammoth of a question that somehow you’re supposed to have confidently answered before even reaching double digits.

That was always super easy for you.

From as far back as you can remember, you wanted to be a teacher. It took until you were in middle school, almost high school for you to settle on an elementary school teacher, college for a specific grade. But, the teaching profession always called to you.

You chalk it up to your grandmother, undoubtedly one of your favorite people in this entire world. She was also an elementary school teacher who taught until she was expectedly called home when you were 14. Some part of you wonders if you’ve never even allowed yourself to entertain any other professions because of her loss. She was your best friend, and following in her footsteps was wanted but also felt somewhat necessary. Like you had to in order to honor her and her legacy.

A couple years into your career, you still think about that, how you’ve known from such a young age what you wanted to do with your life. Well, one part. 

In other areas, maybe the most important areas, you were lost as all of the outdoors. Mostly in one area, if you’re being honest, and truthfully, it’s not even what you want in as much as it is how you get there. The path is relatively simple: find a man, fall in love, get married, have babies, live happily ever after.

It’s such a stereotypical trajectory, but one you’ve also envisioned for yourself since your late teens. You’d gotten partying all out of your system during the early college years, somewhat in high school as well. Now in your mid 20s, soon to be late 20s, all you want to do is prepare to eventually settle down. Sooner rather than later.

And the issue isn’t even having no prospects. You have a prospect, he’s just unavailable. 

Because he’s already fucking married.

But can you even call him a prospect when that implies there’s some chance? Because there’s zero chance. You know this. You know this very well, too well. So why you still allow him into your bed and inside of you is beyond you. Yes, the sex is out of this world, but you desire more than that. Maybe not at first, but almost three years deep into this arrangement, most definitely.

You still think back to your first meeting.

Your best friend won a contest that not only granted her two front row tickets to a Smackdown show but backstage passes as well. You met so many wrestlers that night, some you grew up watching on TV as the little tomboy that you were as a kid. But, it was one wrestler in particular: tall, muscular, hair more beautiful and silky than any silk press your beautician mother could ever style, that changed your life. Whether for better or worse remains to be seen. 

He was attractive, extremely, possibly one of the most beautiful men you’d ever met. But, the attraction was short-lived when you spotted the wedding band on his left hand. You’d be lying if you tried to say that was when the attraction sizzled out. It diminished, but it was still there. Still, you didn’t think much of it, that was until you received a call from a number on your phone that you didn't recognize. 

Why you even accepted the call is still a mystery. You never answered random calls, yet that one was an exception, an exception that resulted in you having an unexpected phone conversation with Roman fucking Reigns. He explained that he got your number from your friend who’d exchanged contact information with a wrestler she met that night as well. They were messing around too, that much you knew. And good for her. He, unlike Roman, was not married and therefore free to fuck around.

The conversation lasted much longer than it needed to, especially given the flirtatious nature it quickly took on. It was wrong, you knew this well, very well. He took vows, but you were also aware of those vows. And heat no point pressured you into anything, you could have cut it off. Flirtatious he was, but forceful he was not.

The conversations increased in frequency and length over a matter of weeks that turned into months, and before you knew it, your day started and ended with either a text or phone call from the wrestler. 

A small part of you knew that it would eventually escalate into more, a man like him seemed like he needed more. But, you stupidly tried to tell yourself that when that time came, you would remain strong and draw the line in the sand with just communication. Even if it was just as wrong as anything else.

It was a silly thought. 

Your resolve was weak.

You absolutely did not need to accept his invitation to fly you out to one of his shows, and you damn sure didn’t need to allow him to take you back to his hotel where your legs ended up wrapped around his waist as he pounded into you—among other things—until the early hours of the morning.

The days after that were rough. You felt absolutely disgusted with yourself. It was one thing to flirt with a married man, but it was an entirely different thing to fuck a married man. He wasn’t yours. He belonged to someone else. He had a life with some other woman. You had no right to insert yourself into that union, so you decided to sever contact with him, deleting his number from your phone and shoving the experience in the ‘biggest regret of your life’ box with no intention of reopening it.

Unfortunately for you, Roman, Joe, as he asked you to call him, was a persistent bastard.

You ignored his texts, so he called. You ignored his calls, so he texted. You ignored both, and this motherfucker showed up at your goddamn door. There were multiple times you could have and should have ended things, that being another perfect opportunity. If you told him to leave that night, not allowed him into your apartment, he would have listened. He was stubborn and resolute but also respectful. If you told him to leave, really told him, he would have done so.

But, you didn’t. You allowed him into your place and similar to the last time you were in his presence, ended up spread out on your bed with him balls deep inside you until you couldn’t feel your lower half. 

Now, fast forward three years later, not much has changed. You two don’t communicate quite as much in the day, and his visits are more spread out given the company’s current efforts at pushing him as the new face of the company. But, that doesn’t stop his visits to come see you and flights he puts you on to come see him, both of which always end with him leaving your legs jelly and throat raw.

All the while his wife sits at home unaware of her husband’s consistent residence between your legs.

The thought alone makes you sick, revolted at yourself, at how you’ve allowed yourself to reach this point in life. Closer to 30 than 20 and going on 3 years of being a mistress to a married man, a man who can never give you the future you want yet refuse to let go. 

Not that you’d ever allow yourself to really acknowledge why. 

That’s….that’s just too much.

________

Pillow talk was just something that naturally happened between the two of you. It made sense given that your relationship started out with just talking. He seemed interested in knowing more about you, about your likes and dislikes. He shared his as well. You weren’t beyond admitting that Joe was insanely easy to talk to, the flow of conversation always natural, never forced. There never seemed to be a dry spot between you two. 

And whether it was an innate ability to pick up on the emotions of others or just his, you could always tell when something was bothering him, could see when he came to you with a burden he didn’t want to discuss.

Not that that stopped you from asking. If he declined to talk about it, you respected it, didn’t push. But, more often than not, he would end up sharing things with you, mostly concerns regarding his career.

It seemed he visioned one thing for himself, while Vince McMahon saw another. He felt frustrated at times, especially when the fanbase started pushing back more. He never admitted as such, but you could see it hurt his feelings. How could it not? Kayfabe or not, Joe was still a real person with real feelings, regardless of the role he played.

And at some point, his visits to see you stopped always involving sex. That happened majority of the time, but there were occasions when he just seemed like he needed someone to be around, a distraction, someone to talk to. 

Someone like you.

“Come on.” You jumped up off the couch and offered your hand that he looked at with disinterest. “Don’t make me drag your big ass. It’ll probably break my back.” He lifts his brow, and you roll your eyes. “Joe, come onnnn.”

“Where are we going?” He finally asks, all the while sighing heavily and standing up. Though unnecessary at this point, he still takes your hand. You try not to think too much of the gentle squeeze he gives.

“To my kitchen.” 

Glancing over, he gestures with his thumb. “The place that’s like 3 feet away.”

You suck your teeth and shove against him. “Don’t be an ass. We’re gonna bake cookies.”

“Bake?”

“That’s what I said.” Though clearly skeptical, he follows you into the kitchen and watches as you start gathering supplies. “I spent a lot of summers with my grandma, and whenever either of us were having a bad day, she’d take us into the kitchen and we’d bake chocolate chip cookies. She’d always say there’s nothing a good chocolate morsel can’t cure.” 

Reflecting on those memories, so fond and cherished, brings a despondent smile to your face.

His eyes fall on you, sensing the sudden sadness. “You miss her.”

“Every day….” Shaking your head, you make a conscious effort to not make this about you and your grief. “Now, we need music.” You settle on some random “cookout” playlist that aids in setting the playful mood. To your surprise, yet not surprise, Joe keeps up without struggle. He's a fast learner, easily following along to your detailed instructions and explanations. Things get messy at times, as one does when baking, but it only causes the two of you to share laughter. Especially when you ‘accidentally’ get flour on each other. For you, it was an accident. His was definitely intentional. 

Still, between the laughter, light conversation, and New Edition serving as backdrop, it’s a sweet moment. 

“And now we wait,” you announce, plopping down on the sofa. “Wrestler by day, baker by night. Who’d a thunk it?”

He chuckles. “I never knew you could cook.”

At that, you nearly choke on the water bottle you’d grabbed off the coffee table. “Me? Cook? No. Not at all. There’s a reason every thanksgiving, my family only asks me to bring the drinks. My mom is the cook. Grandma was the baker. I can make cookies and a few select items. That’s it.”

You can still hear your grandma’s voice in the back of your head, chiding you for never allowing your mom to teach you how to cook. It just never garnered your interest, even when they swore up and down you’d never find a husband without knowing how.

Maybe they were right.

He joins you in the living room, settling on the other end of the sofa. “Maybe I could teach you then.”

His words—and offer—suprise you. “You can cook?”

“Don’t look so surprised.” He rolls his blue eyes. Some days you love the contacts, others you hate them. Today is a love day. They make his beauty even more exquisite. “Because of the big age difference between me and my siblings, it was just me and my mom a lot of times. They were either out and about or had either moved out. She’d ask me to help her out in the kitchen, and I picked up on a couple things.”

“You’re a fast learner.” That much is very obvious, in several areas of his life. “Was it ever hard? Like, not really having them around?”

He seems to think about her question before answering. “Yes and no. The twins moved to Florida when I was like three, and we became close instantly. It was like suddenly having two new brothers. Obviously, they didn’t live with us, so they weren’t always around, and those times were hard, I guess. But the older we got, the more we did together.”

The Usos. Also wrestlers trying to make names for themselves. He really does hail from a legendary dynasty. “I get that. It was just me and my mom, and she worked a lot to support us, so that’s why I spent so much time with my grandma. And I loved it, but sometimes it got lonely not really having siblings.” You look over at him, studying this massive specimen of a man who seems so unsure of himself right now, unsure of his future. He’d hinted at such during their prep, but you bookmarked the comment to revisit. “It’s all gonna work out, you know.”

His gaze is on you, partially disinterested, mostly in disagreement. Joe knows what you're referring to. He chuckles, darkly, “you sound sure.”

“I am,” you counter calmly. Moving to sit on your knees, you continue, “no matter what it takes, you make them respect you. You can do it, and when you finally find your footing, you’ll be one of the best to ever do it. Mark my words.” 

You’ve never been one to build up false hopes in anyone, far too familiar with the sting of disappointment. So every word leaving your mouth drips with sincerity. Joe is so much more than a “pretty face” or someone who got lucky by being born into a wrestling dynasty with a golden spoon in his mouth. He’s worked his ass off, you see how he works his ass off, so the last thing you’d want to witness is him become his own worst enemy by getting too into his head.

“You’ll see. They boo now, but pretty soon they’ll be cheering.” Moving to your knees, you lift your arms in a theatrical display. “Roman, Roman, Roman.” You yelp when his strong arms pull you into his lap, legs spread on either side of his thick thighs. “Would you let me hype you up? Like, damn.”

His smile, so beautiful and genuine, warms your soul. His spirits are lifted, and that’s all that matters. Joe’s hands are on your hips, palms massaging you through your shorts. You move your arms around his neck, resting on his strong shoulders “Thank you.”

It’s at this moment, you foolishly allow yourself to wonder. Wonder what it would be like for this to be the norm, for him to always return to your place when he has time off or in between shows. Wonder what it would be like to consistently be this safe space for him, to be in his corner and not just in the shadows, but in the light. To be supporting him ringside. To be his.

And for a second, you pretend. You pretend that you are his, and he’s yours. That this is your man, and you’re his girl. Just the two of you. Nobody else.

But the comedown from that is devastating, like a boulder sitting on your chest, a butcher knife to your heart. Because he isn’t yours. He never was, and he never will be. 

Mood sullen, you lower your arms to separate yourself. “I should…” You clear your throat, climbing off of him. The air is suddenly too stuffy, the room too small. You need space. “I should go check on the cookies.” 

Joe’s not stupid, far from it. You know that he has to pick up on your 180 in mood, yet he doesn’t pursue you, doesn’t ask questions, and you’re thankful for that. You need to not be around him right now, not so close, not so connected, not so in love.

You need to let him go. ________

“I can’t do this anymore.” 

Joe’s in the midst of sliding his shirt over his head, sitting on the edge of the bed when your voice, low and quiet, stops him mid movement. “What?”

“I said.” You blow out a big breath, unsure why your chest suddenly feels so heavy. “I can’t do this anymore.”

At that, he angles his body so that he can look at you, assess your face. He’s a big eye contact person. “What are you talking about?”

Irritation piques. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Joe.” Gesturing between the two of you, you kick the blankets off and quickly reach for your t-shirt that got discarded last night. Being naked in front of him suddenly feels uncomfortable. “This. It’s done.”

He pauses for a second and then shakes his head, resuming his dressing. “Okay.”

His tone is dismissive, like he doesn’t believe you. Like he thinks you’re playing around. Of course he would be in one of those moods, where he’s more irritable, less receptive and fucking stubborn. “I’m serious.”

“I’m not doing this shit with you right now.” Joe gets up and continues dressing himself, prompting you to climb out of bed and move in front of him. 

He can’t avoid his way out of this. You won’t allow it. It’s time to finally rip the bandaid off. 

You’ve sat on this for the last two weeks, since he last left your apartment and you realized you’d stupidly allowed yourself to fall for this man. Fall for a man who walks around with a wedding ring on his left hand, who’s always had that wedding ring from the moment you met him. You’re not upset with him, not as much as you’re upset with yourself.

You grew up the product of an affair, felt the stinging pain of being rejected by a parent whose selfishness resulted in the creation of life, a life he wanted no part of. Seen how your mom literally begged your piece of shit father to be in your life, to play some role. Heard how he cruelly rejected her, rejected you, calling you your mother’s bastard. A mistake.

It devastated you so deeply that you still can’t really talk about it without getting emotional. 

And yet, you idiotically found yourself playing the same role you used to judge your mother for: the other woman. 

It’s a role you stepped in, and one you must now step out of.

“There’s nothing to do.” You run your hands over your face and shake your head. Choosing to have this conversation at almost 4 o’clock in the morning probably wasn’t the best move, but you also know that if you give yourself more time, you’ll find a reason not to do it. And you need to do this. “You have a wife, Joe. A whole ass woman who loves you and would probably let you fuck her just as much as you like to fuck me. Go be with her, and if not her, find someone else, cause I won’t be that for you. Not anymore.” 

You’re not exactly sure what part of what you just said registered with him, but it’s obvious something did by the change of tone he takes. “Where is this coming from?”

“It’s coming from where it should have come a long time ago,” you answer, crossing your arms over your body. “This was never right, and I refuse to partake in it anymore. I won’t be your whore anymore.”

You didn’t expect hurt to flash in his beautiful eyes nor for him to move closer to you, that hurt intensifying when you back away. He can’t touch you. You can’t allow that, because all it takes is only touch, one longing gaze, and you’ll be putty in his hands. This has to end. “Is that really what you think you are to me?”

“I don’t know what I am to you, Joe,” you answer, honestly. It’s something you’ve battled back and forth with for nearly three years. Just what is it about you that keeps him coming back, keeps him in your bedroom, inside of you. At face value, it’s the sexual compatibility between you. Below the surface level though, there’s maybe more. You’ve never allowed yourself to venture there, and you’re certainly not about to right now. You know how you feel about him, but you refuse to really ask yourself how he feels about you. “And truthfully, it doesn’t matter, cause it doesn’t change anything.”

“So, that’s just it?” His voice is wounded, handsome face painted into a mixture of scowl and a frown. “Almost three years, and you want to throw it all away, for what?”

“For what…..Joe, you are married. You have a whole wife at home. Whatever issues you have that cause you to step out, work that shit out. Learn how to be with her. Cause I’m not doing it any more. I—I can’t.” Emotion imbues your voice toward the end, and you hate that shit. You don’t want him to see, to know, how much this has been eating you up as of lately. “I’m gonna be 30 in a few years. I want to be married. I want to have a family. I deserve that, and I’ll never have it as long as I’m messing with you, so I’ve gotta let you go.” You swallow the deep lump in the back of your throat. “And you’ve gotta let me go.” 

This time, this time you can see the part that wounds him, that digs into his chest. You’ve gotta let me go. 

Joe is fast, fast enough to move directly in front of you, large hands holding your face. He says your name, desperate almost. “Tell me what to do, tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. Just….” He stops, and you close your eyes, refusing to see if it’s his own emotions coming up. You can barely handle your own cascade of feelings right now and refuse to take on his. “I can’t lose you.”

What you want…..

What you want is for him to never leave. What you want is for him to stay with you, to be with you. What you want is for him to have never met Jadah, never married her, never committed his life to her. 

What you want is for him to be yours and only yours, but what you want….is also what you can never have. 

“I—I want you to leave, Joe.” The words burn your lips, scorch your throat, ache your soul. “And this time….don’t come back.”

You can’t bring yourself to open your eyes, to see the result of your heartbreaking, even if honest request. It’s because you know seeing him hurt will only cause your resolve to crumble, and you can’t have that. You have to be strong, have to be the woman your mother couldn't.

So, you remain there, remain silent as he steps away from you, his touch vanishing. There’s such an emptiness in his wake.

It’s only when you hear the front door of your apartment shut that you finally feel it, the caving of your stomach, the heavy lump move from the back of your throat, the release of the loud sob you didn’t realize you’d been keeping at bay. 

It’s when you finally allow yourself to feel all of the emotions of a woman who just told the only man she’s ever loved to leave. 

If only you knew his departure was just the beginning of the rest of your life.

[kakao-lovey]

𖦹 Your all-encompassing scripting / OC creation sheet for shifting, writing or manifestation

Just something I created for funsies. This sheet doesn't really have a target audience, use it for whatever you like.

Full name:

Nickname: (Family: Partner: School/work: )

Age: (Perceived: Mental: Physical: )

Pronouns:

Gender identity:

Sexuality, romanticism:

Status: (Single/Dating/Engaged/Open/Married/Other)

Height:

Weight:

Family:

Medical conditions:

𖦹 Physical appearance

Most striking feature:

Skin colour: (Undertones, overtones, cold/warm/neutral)

Blush colour:

Skin features: (Acne, rosacea, freckles, stretch marks, moles, vitiligo, wrinkles/lines, scars, tan lines, bruises)

Skin type: (Oily, combination, dry, normal, eczema)

Other skin descriptions: (Ashy, transparent, clear, soft, even-tone, rich, glowy)

Hair colour: (Specify warm/cold/neutral shade, dyed or natural)

Hair type: (1a-4c) *

Hair porosity: (Low, high, normal) *

Hair thickness: (Strands, overall volume)

Hair length and cut: (Waist, mid-back, shoulder-length) (Find a picture on Pinterest and paste it here)

Other hair descriptions: (Glossy, soft, coarse, feathery, light, glowy, matte)

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Eye shape: *

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Glasses: (Prescribed or fashion, colour, metal or plastic, shape)

Eyelash length, thickness, colour:

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Nose shape: (Hooked, button, ski-slope, flat, angled)

Lip shape: (Heart-shape, round, thin, plump)

Lip colour: (Rosy, red, neutral, two-toned)

Other lip descriptions: (Plush, soft, kissable, upturned/downturned, cracked)

Ear shape: (Large, small, more protruding or less protuding)

Piercings: (Any facial/body piercings)

Tattoos:

Other body modifications:

Posture:

Mannerisms:

Body type: (Plus-size, athletic, underweight, toned, thin, chubby etc.)

Body shape: (Pear, hourglass, inverted triangle, rectangle, apple)*

Hands: (Long or short fingers, bony or chubby, veins)

Arms: (Muscular, thin)

Legs: (Thighs, calves, ankles)

Waist, belly:

Chest:

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𖦹 Style

Main wardrobe colours:

Clothing aesthetic in a few words:

Statement pieces:

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Preferred clothing store(s):

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Main hairstyles:

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Specific items of clothing you have:

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𖦹 Personality

Take each of these attributes and put them on a slider from zero to one-hundred. Add explanations, if desired.

Introvert/Extrovert: (Social battery)

Pessimist/optimist:

Kindness and generosity:

Charm:

Serious/silly:

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Energy in social settings (Hyperactive, tired and reserved):

Attitude towards work/education:

Attitude towards life in general:

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Love language(s):

𖦹 Occupation

Current place of education/work:

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History of education/apprenticeship/lack thereof: (E.g. Went to kindergarten here, primary school there, switched schools etc.)

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Activities in free time:

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Favourite things to draw / paint / compose / create: .* : If you are unsure, do research