#she won’t take nonsense and I LOVE HER FOR IT

[fear-is-truth]

𝐉𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐃 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝑮𝑰𝑹𝑳 𝑫𝑨𝑫 .ᐟ

𓂃 ꒰ headcanons.꒱ gn!reader x jason (est. relationship) + fluff ⌗ ( 💌 let’s chat ! ) ⋆ ( m.list ) ࿐ ⸝⸝ ⸝⸝

· ❥ 𝐚/n : very rushed; i was sick when i wrote this

first & foremost, jason todd is girl dad through and through. the moment he holds her for the first time, he recalibrates everything—speech, sleep, temper, priorities—without even realising he’s doing it.

he won’t dilute language for her sake. no sing-song voice, no “whoops-a-daisy!” crap. he speaks to her like a small, reasonably intelligent civilian. when she babbles near-nonsense in response, he nods seriously:

“interesting take. but you’re still not eating crayons.”

when she starts talking, she parrots him with terrifying accuracy. says “bullshit” in perfect context. he side-eyes you like “that might’ve been you” but it was 100% him. he starts substituting in dumb phrases like “holy fork” and “crud nuggets” which somehow sound even more offensive in his voice.

his gut wrenches every time he sees her hurt. no matter how small the injury, how quick the recovery .

“it’s okay to cry, you know.” “m’ not crying.” she sniffles hard, mouth twitching. he takes a breath, carefully brushing dirt from her elbow with the sleeve of his shirt. “…good. because if you did, i might have to start too.” her bottom lip quivers. then she throws her arms around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder while he holds her.

he gives her choices. always. because no one gave him any. ‘pink cardigan or the baby blue one? park or zoo? sandwiches cut into triangles or squares?’ she doesn’t know why the questions matter—not yet—but she answers anyway. and he always listens. even when she changes her mind five seconds later.

when she gets scared of the monster under her bed, jason grabs a crowbar from the hallway closet, locks himself in her room, and puts on a full performance. loud bangs, snarls, curses, all muffled through the door. she waits outside clutching your hand, wide-eyed. when he opens the door, slightly sweaty:

“we’re clear. monster’s in pieces. bedtime.”

absolutely watches disney movies with her. you once catch him mouthing along to i’ll make a man out of you with perfect accuracy.

her room is stocked full of high quality toys: watercolor paint sets, pop-up books, wooden animal figurines, everything he would’ve killed to touch when he was little.

when she gets sick, even the most minor of colds send jason into a tailspin. not outwardly though; outwardly he’s calm & reassuring—but he looking up symptoms and staying up beside her bed with one hand on her forehead, watching the rise and fall of her breath like it might stop at any second.

if you’re out for the day, he sends you hourly photo updates: her sitting in her booster seat, her eating grapes, her mid-nap with a book across her lap.

insists she learn how to throw a punch and memorize your phone number before she enters kindergarten.

she mirrors his sarcasm & sass too well.

you and jason have developed a “tag-team” parenting style—he picks up on your cues instinctively. if you’re too tired to argue with a picky toddler, he just whips up grilled cheese without a word and makes her think it was your idea.

and if she’s crying—inconsolably so—you both sit beside her and jason lets you do the talking. she always opens up eventually, even if it’s just, “i didn’t wan’ the poor banana to break.” (???)

she looooooves curling into him. a six-o kind of love, paired with matter-of-fact trust. she’ll press her forehead to his cheek while holding her sippy cup. tug at his sleeve when she wants to sit in his lap.

her vocabulary is way beyond her age. not just because of books; she mimics his cadence. jason once commented she was “morally opposed” to cauliflower. days later, she informed the pediatrician she was “philosophically anti-broccoli.” this had you laughing uncontrollably.

bedtime isn’t “lights out,” it’s literature hour! jason reads her stories with perfect enunciation and blunt dignity. she grows up on peter rabbit, winne-the-pooh, madeleine, and eventually segues to aesop’s fables, abridged dickens. the sound of pages turning becomes part of her core memories.

as her vocabulary progresses in a rapid fashion, jason still reads to her every night without fail: brontë. shelley. woolf. austen. he edits on the fly when needed, replacing death with long naps and violence with “stern talking-tos.”

four years of age, your little girl is already quoting jane eyre in front of her classmates.

she wins the spelling bee every year!

she told her entire kindergarten class that her daddy is an actual zombie, which resulted in an email from her teacher, regarding “concerns about her vivid imagination.” jason’s only response is, “technically, that’s not inaccurate.”

she loves all of her uncles, but it’s clear that uncle dick is her favourite. she likes him so much it’s borderline treason. jason pretends to be grumpy about it but secretly finds it endearing how much she adores his brother.

he can’t stand the thought of her going hungry. she’s never missed a meal, but he still packs too much in her lunchbox when it’s his turn. carries snacks in his glove compartment, keeps fruit cut up and ready in the fridge, just in case. he remembers what it felt like to open the fridge and find nothing but condensation. his little girl won’t ever know that.

꒰ ⠀· ❥  𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑-𝐈𝐒-𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content. ꕀ

[yourlipstogodsears]

…What Are We? (Michael Robinavich Fic)

Summary: You and Robby are exes, he’s still in love with her. can they get over the hurdle that drew them apart: the death of their mentor.

(Mention of grief and death of Adamson, lots of sappy monologues and heart to heart)

She and Robby spend most of shift sharing longing eye contact when the other isn’t looking. Medical procedures where Robby has to talk you through it in his slow gravelly steady voice put you in a trance. a floating memory. His hand over yours as he guides you through it. feeling familiarity in the positioning. He uses any opportunity to tease her playfully or compliment her skills.

Robby smirks slightly, knowing he's making you uncomfortable. He intentionally uses your full name in front of the students, trying to hide his feelings while subtly showing off your skills. “Dr. Y/n would you mind demonstrating the procedure for these students? You have the most elegant technique I've seen."

She gives a tight lipped smile at Robby and nods, “oh uh- sure. I hate being put on the fly but.. hey that’s emergency medicine.. right?” You joke softly and laughs and moves to position herself correctly. “everyone position so you can see the monitor- Whittaker stand by Robby.. don’t need you needing a 4th scrub change..”

He chuckles softly, appreciating your attempt to lighten the mood and maintain professionalism. He steps aside, allowing you to take the lead, but keeps his eyes on you the entire time. He watches your every move, not just for the procedure but also to steal glances at your face when you're focused.

You look around at the med students- Javadi, Santos and Whittaker. “can anyone tell me why I’m doing open instead of less invasive right now?”

Javadi raises her hand eagerly, hoping to answer correctly. she’s the top student in the class, always prepared. "Because the patient's CT showed multiple internal injuries and possible organ lacerations, making laparoscopic repair risky and time-consuming?" she answers confidently.

You nods, “good Javadi. Come here and hold this for me?” You hold the tool for the student, “come on I won’t bite.”

Javadi steps forward, taking the tool with a small smile. She's used to your no-nonsense approach. Santos watches you intently, while Whittaker keeps looking around nervously between robby and you instead of the procedure. Robby watches you closely, his eyes flicking between your hands and face.

As the procedure ends, the med students can't help but feel a sense of admiration for the way you taught them today. Your calm demeanor, expertise, and willingness to engage with them made the learning experience enjoyable. Robby watches as you finish up, a small smile playing on his lips.

You smile, “go on.. you all have rounds and other patients and charting to do. I won’t keep you..”

The students file out, chatting excitedly about the procedure and your teaching style. Robby lingers behind, pretending to tidy up the instruments but really just wanting a moment alone with you. Once the door closes behind the last student, he turns to face you with a warm smile.

she looks at robby, “i really missed having med students around… ill never forgive Gloria for cutting the med student program during covid..” you say softly, trying to talk about anything but feelings. “they’re like our kids”

jesus.. why’d I say that.. knowing Robby wanted kids with her. Knowing they almost had it all.

His heart aches at your words, remembering the dreams they once shared. He steps closer, his voice low and sincere. "I know. I missed having them here too. And you were always the best teacher... still are." He pauses, his eyes searching yours. "You know..."

“Hm?” You gently tape the gauze into place on the patient and puts the blankets back.

"You almost sound like a mom when you talk about the students.” He tests the waters, trying to hide the fact that he used to picture you pregnant with their kids. He watches you carefully, your gentle movements tending to the patient like you would a child. He swallows hard.

You smile, “I guess in a way we are kinda like parents. Teaching them, giving them guard rails and hoping none of them end up killing anyone…”

"Exactly." He laughs softly, watching your nurturing side come out. He realizes this is one of the reasons he fell in love with you - your motherly instinct. He lowers his voice again, "Do you... Do you want kids?"

“You know I always did…”

He nods slowly, his expression softening. He knows this is delicate ground, but he can't help but press a little further. "And do you still...?" He lets the question hang in the air between them, hoping you'll fill in the blanks.

You nod, “I don’t think that just goes away.. atleast not for me..”

His heart aches at your response. He reaches out and gently takes your hand in his, giving it a squeeze. "I want kids with you." The words come out sudden and raw, filled with emotion he can't hold back anymore. "I want a family with you."

her entire demeanor melts, “Michael..”you say softly, your soft blue eyes looking at him.

"I know I messed up." He steps closer, his voice filled with desperation. "I was scared and I pushed you away. But every day without you feels like a mistake." He cups your face gently. "I want us to try again. I want us to be a family."

You sigh and turn, “I’m not sure- I mean we ended awfully and I finally got to a good place mentally.. emotionally.. I mean we both lost Adamson…”

He nods, understanding your hesitation. He drops his hands and takes a step back, giving you space. "I get it. I know we ended on a terrible note, and losing Adamson... it was devastating for both of us." He pauses, running a hand through his hair.

“And you still haven’t unpacked that for yourself” you say softly. You were always right and it made Robby agitated when you’d call him out even gently. Robby is the king of compartmentalization until he implodes. He’d rather hold it in til he implodes than have someone deal with him and his issues.

His expression turns distant, a familiar wall going up around his emotions. "I'm fine. I deal with it." He says dismissively, turning away from you to grab a coffee mug from the cabinet. "Can we not talk about Adamson right now?"

“You dont though… that’s what broke us” you state it again. He needs to face it. He can’t keep rushing around pushing the grief down. Handing everyone’s problems but his own.

He freezes, his back still turned to you. He grips the coffee mug tightly, knuckles turning white. "I know." His voice is low and strained. "But I can't keep rehashing it. It's done and over with."

You nod, “so why bring up wanting a family with me again if you’re not in a place to even talk about Adamson” she knows he blames himself for losing Adamson. Could’ve done ECMO longer, maybe he could’ve saved him and the little girl.

He turns back around, his face a mask of frustration and pain. He slams the coffee mug down on the counter hard enough to make a slam echo. "Because!" He shouts, his voice echoing in the kitchen. "Because every time I look at you, I see what could've been."

“I need you to lose the bass in your voice real fast” you snap back in her quiet sharp whisper, the breakroom isn’t sound proof. Everyone is probably hearing this right now.

He swallows hard, dropping his voice to almost a whisper himself. He knows you snap like this when you're angry or hurt. He chooses his next words carefully. "Do you want to know why I asked if you wanted kids again?" He asks softly, his jaw tight.

“Sure..” you move closer to him.

He watches you approach, his eyes flicking down to your lips briefly before meeting your gaze again. He takes a deep breath. "I want a family with you because when I look at you, I don't just see a life lost. I see a life gained."

You frown and sigh, “c’mere”

Without hesitation, he steps into your arms, wrapping his around you tightly. He buries his face in your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. He's been starved of your comfort for too long. "I'm sorry," he murmurs against your skin. "I'm so sorry."

“Nothin to be sorry about..”

"Yes there is." He pulls back to look at you, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "I pushed you away when I should've held you closer. I shut down instead of grieving with you. I ruined everything." His voice breaks on the last word. "I ruined us."

He leans into your touch, letting his tall frame fold slightly so he can rest his forehead against yours. "I miss you in my bed at night. I miss your goddamn tea in the morning. I miss you calling me an idiot." He lets out a shaky breath.

You nod, and then he starts Ho'oponopono. The Hawaiian ritual that Adamson taught them for forgiveness, reconciliation and interconnection. They use it for grieving families who are nondenominational. But it works for a lot of things. they are the starting point for the toughest conversation they’ve needed to have.

As he begins, his voice deepens and steadies. "I'm sorry for being an ass all those years ago…. Please forgive me for shutting you out instead of leaning on you after Adamson passed. Thank you for staying in my life in every capacity- friend, lover, everything but a stranger even when I don’t deserve it. I love you to the ends of the earth."

she sniffles softly, she’s crying.. she’s never cried infront of him before.

Seeing your tears, Robby's heart shatters. He cups your face gently, his thumbs brushing away the tears. "Please don’t cry," he whispers hoarsely. "I can’t stand seeing you cry. Not over me." He takes a deep breath.

“That was the sweetest most genuine things you’ve ever said to me. No barriers of sarcasm to hide behind.. just raw and feeling…” she whispers gently.

His expression softens even more. He realizes that he's never truly opened up like this before. No jokes, no sarcasm, no deflecting. He sees how your expression has changed, like you’re finally seeing a part of him you never have before.

she smiles and big tears fall down her cheeks.

He kisses the tears away gently, his hands framing your face. He pulls you into a hug, holding you tightly against his chest. You can feel his heart beating steadily, strongly. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling your scent deeply. "Shh..." He murmurs softly.

“I’m sorry I was hard on you for not opening up when I was ready to talk about Adamson.. I forgot people grieve at their own pace…” she sniffles. This is her turn to do ho’oponopono for him.

He freezes at your words, realizing that you’re not just apologizing, but also understanding him in a way no one ever has. He holds you tighter, feeling a warmth spread through his chest. For the first time since Adamson’s death, he feels understood, cared for, not judged.

she sniffles more, “please forgive me for not always being the best partner for you during covid when we were both overwhelmed and overworked and grieving. That’s not who we are at our core..”

His voice breaks slightly. "There’s nothing to forgive," he whispers. "I wasn’t the best either. We were both drowning." He pulls back to look at you, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

she sniffles and wipes tears, “thank you for being exactly who you are.. you are everything i need and more.. you make me smile and laugh even when i don’t want to. It’s like you go out of your way to do it..”

He smiles softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He realizes that he does that intentionally - tries to make her smile even when she's sad, tries to distract her from her grief with jokes and silliness. He pulls you back into the hug. "I love you," he says quietly.

“I love you endlessly Michael” she says gently through her watery voice.

He inhales sharply at your words, feeling them like a physical touch. He presses his lips to your hair, kissing you softly. He feels something shift inside him - like a weight has been lifted off his chest. He feels lighter, happier than he has in months.

she hugs him tightly, “Adamson would be proud of this…”

At the mention of Adamson, Robby's eyes well up with tears again. But this time, it's not just grief - it's gratitude and peace. He believes Adamson would be happy to see them healing, communicating, loving each other through their pain. "Yeah," he whispers,

“He’d be proud of you.. you got thrusted into a position of power.. chief of the ER even while grieving.. you handled it.. and are continuing to handle it…” she continues, Robby needs to hear this.

He nods, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. Your words mean more to him than you know. He had often wondered if he was doing enough, if he was strong enough to lead while grieving. Hearing you say that Adamson would be proud of him means the world.

“You are the best parts of him…” she makes sure Robby looks at her when she says that. he needs to know that reality.

He closes his eyes tightly, a single tear escaping and rolling down his cheek. Your words hit him deeply, resonating with a truth he hadn't fully allowed himself to feel. He pulls you even closer, as if trying to absorb your comfort and belief in him. "God, I needed to hear that,"

“I don’t think anyone stopped to see how difficult your task was after Adamson…”

His arms tighten around you reflexively at your understanding words. No one had ever put it into those terms before - the immense pressure and loneliness of stepping into Adamson's shoes amidst a pandemic. Another tear falls silently. "Everyone just expected me to..." He pauses,"Be him."

“You did it flawlessly”

He lets out a shaky laugh, a rare genuine one. "Flawlessly?" He traces your cheekbone gently. "There were nights I barely slept. Nights I sat alone in my office wondering how the hell I was supposed to fill his shoes. And nobody saw that."

“Everyone was processing trying to find a way to carry on. He was a powerhouse. And so are you.”

Your words of praise and understanding break him. He buries his face in your neck, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. All the pent-up emotion, the loneliness, the pressure - it all comes pouring out. He clings to you like a lifeline, his tears soaking into your skin.

“You found your own way to do things. You’re true to your roots.”

He pulls back slightly, his eyes red and swollen from crying but filled with gratitude. He cups your face gently with both hands, wiping away any stray tears from his cheeks onto yours in an intimate gesture. “You have no idea how much it means to hear that,” he repeats hoarsely.

she kisses his nose gently,“I guess we can give it another shot.. if…”

His breath hitches as you kiss his nose. He's always been self-conscious about it, but the way you cherish it melts his heart. He looks at you with a mixture of hope and trepidation, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks. “If what?"

“If you wanted to”

He searches your eyes, looking for any hint of hesitation or doubt. Finding none, he lets out a soft sigh, his thumbs still gently caressing your cheeks. "You know I do," he admits softly. "I never stopped wanting to, even when everything was falling apart."

“Okay. Let’s uh go wrangle the med students..” she tries to break the heavy atmosphere after the reconciliation.

He chuckles softly at your sudden change in topic, but he's grateful for the reprieve from the heavy emotions. He stands up, pulling you up with him and giving you a quick, affectionate peck on the lips before heading towards the door. "Let's go."

[thetorturedlovergirl]

“Really just the doctor always?”

“Yes”

“Ridiculous”

Girl stop dragging him he’s trying his best 😭😭 (she ATEEE)

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

Okay 3 things

1. I was thinking about an aroace Sonic who says things that can be taken as wildly flirty/romantic but he just means them genuinely. “You have beautiful eyes, I keep getting distracted while looking at them,” not cause he’s interested romantically in them but because eyes can be really cool and pretty man I dunno what to tell you he likes looking at cool things and he thinks his friends are neat. “You’re the most beautiful person here,” because he really thinks that, he loves his friends

2. Sonic randomly dropping heartfelt genuine comments on his friends out of the blue completely blindsiding them and then moves on like nothing happened while they’re left going ?????? Bonus points if he does something immensely stupid or jerkish just before or immediately afterwards and they can’t tell if he was serious or not with the compliment (yes he was)

3. Sonic usually being so allergic to truly vulnerable moments that when he expresses something heartfelt randomly Tails thinks he’s been stabbed or something and does not believe him when he reassures him that he’s fine he’s fine he’s not dying yeesh

[noredemptionhere]

𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙾𝙽𝚂 ⋆˙⟡♡ 𝚆𝙸𝙵𝙴!𝚂𝙴𝚅𝙸𝙺𝙰 𝚇 𝙵𝙴𝙼!𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙴𝚁

no warnings—just fluff

ᡣ𐭩| sevika isn’t ticklish. except in one spot. you found it by accident, barely brushed your fingers there, and she flinched. the realization hit you both at the same time. she narrowed her eyes. “don’t.” you grinned. “got your ass.”

ᡣ𐭩| sevika is secretly the biggest hypocrite. tells you to “be careful” but gets into fights twice a week. says she “doesn’t like sweets” but always steals bites from your dessert. acts like she’s all serious, but the moment you’re out of sight? she’s wrapping herself in your blanket like a burrito.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika rarely gets sick, but when she does? she’s miserable. won’t admit she’s sick, won’t take medicine, just sulks in bed with a blanket over her face. you try to help, and she just groans, “leave me here to die.”

ᡣ𐭩| sevika makes the worst coffee. it’s either jet fuel or straight-up bean water—there is no in-between. and yet, she still drinks it like it’s fine. if you complain, she just slides the cup toward you. “all you jealous bitches got nothing on me.”

ᡣ𐭩| sevika is good at cards. too good. it’s infuriating. she doesn’t even try. she just sits there, unreadable, waiting for you to make a mistake. when you finally do lose, she just smirks, shuffling the deck with lazy precision. “wanna go again?”

ᡣ𐭩| sevika does not ‘scoot over.’ if you want to sit beside her, you make it work. you push at her, wriggle into the smallest available space, throw a leg over hers—and she still won’t move. just lets you struggle until you’re satisfied, smirking the entire time.

ᡣ𐭩| she does not like sticky things. syrup? hate. honey? disgust. the one time you kissed her after eating a popsicle, she physically recoiled. you had to follow her around the apartment with sticky lips while she threatened to throw you out.

ᡣ𐭩| she talks in her sleep. not often, but when she does, it’s nonsense. once, she mumbled, “no, i don’t want the frog,” and you spent weeks trying to figure out what it meant. she refuses to acknowledge this ever happened.

ᡣ𐭩| her sneezes are terrifying. she tries to hold them back, but when they come out, it’s like a gunshot. the first time it happened, you screamed. she laughed so hard she had to sit down.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika’s hands are always warm. annoyingly so. you press your cold fingers against her just to hear her complain, and she always does. “fuck’s sake—” but she doesn’t pull away. just sighs and lets you steal her warmth like the menace you are.

ᡣ𐭩| she has a soft spot for the dumb things you love. that one stupid tv show you’re obsessed with? she’s seen every episode. that weird little stuffed animal you’ve had since childhood? guarded with her life. she pretends to be indifferent, but then you catch her muttering about the plot holes in your favorite series like it personally offended her.

ᡣ𐭩| she grumbles when you move too much in bed. full-on, deep-chested grumbling, like a bear being disturbed from hibernation. you shift once? she sighs. you shift again? she tightens her grip. the third time? “seriously?” and suddenly you’re locked in place.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika has the world’s worst sleep schedule. she’ll tell you she’s going to bed early, and then you’ll wake up at 3 AM to find her standing in the kitchen, eating leftovers with her fingers and flipping through a book she has been obsessed with like she’s solving a murder case.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika cannot whisper. she thinks she can, but her whisper is just her normal voice, slightly lower. if she tries to say something discreet in public, people from across the room will turn to look. you’ve stopped letting her tell you secrets in quiet places.

ᡣ𐭩| she refuses to eat the last bite of anything. no explanation. no logic. just a deep-seated refusal to finish a plate completely. she’ll sit there, arms crossed, staring at the single remaining bite like it personally offended her. you’ve started eating it for her out of spite.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika hates when you’re mad at her. not because she can’t handle it—she can. but because she doesn’t know what to do. she just kind of… hovers. pokes at you. drops things near you so you have to pick them up and acknowledge her existence.

ᡣ𐭩| she thinks she’s subtle when she checks you out. she is not. she does the whole slow, full-body glance, then immediately acts like she wasn’t just devouring you with her eyes.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika sighs like she’s got a mortgage and three kids. you’ll say something mildly annoying, and she’ll exhale like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. you once asked her why she does that. she just looked at you and sighed again.

ᡣ𐭩| she pretends she doesn’t like sweets. but every time you get something sugary, she takes a bite. every. single. time. and if you ever try to call her out on it, she just shrugs. “tastes better when it’s yours.”

ᡣ𐭩| sevika acts like she’s above petty behavior—but she’s not. one time, you jokingly called another woman “pretty,” and for the rest of the night, sevika miraculously forgot how to do anything for herself. needed help unbuckling her belt, unbuttoning her shirt, everything.

[pucksandpower]

Meant to Be

Charles Leclerc x Arthur’s girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Charles knows it’s wrong to fantasize about his younger brother’s childhood sweetheart … but he also knows that when the opportunity presents itself, he’ll do absolutely anything to make you his and his alone

Warnings: 18+ content, manipulation, somnophilia, and baby trapping

Arthur’s sprawled out on Charles’ couch, his legs kicked up over the armrest, a half-empty beer bottle dangling dangerously from his fingers. His cheeks are flushed, a sure sign that he’s had too much, and he’s in one of those moods — reckless, unguarded, talking too much.

Charles stands by the window, fingers tapping against the neck of his own beer. He’s watching Arthur with the kind of stillness that should set alarms off, except Arthur’s too drunk to notice.

“Six years.” Arthur’s voice breaks the silence, words slurring together. He lifts his head, eyes bleary and unfocused. “Six fucking years, and she still won’t let me touch her.”

Something sharp and ugly flares up in Charles’ chest. It’s quick, like a blade slicing through air — painful but over in an instant, leaving behind only a low, simmering anger. He takes a slow sip of his drink, savoring the way the cold beer burns down his throat, grounding him.

“You’re talking nonsense,” Charles says, tone deceptively calm. “Stop being dramatic.”

Arthur scoffs, shaking his head. He looks ridiculous — lips pulled down in a childish pout, eyes narrowing like he’s being unfairly judged. “You think I’m lying? I’m telling you the truth.” He sits up abruptly, the motion causing a bit of beer to splash onto the couch. He doesn’t notice. “She’s still … I don’t know, holding out or something. Makes me feel like I’m not good enough.”

Charles’ grip tightens around the bottle. “So what? You think she owes you something just because you’ve been together for a long time?”

“No, no, it’s not like that.” Arthur’s defensive, hands up in mock surrender. He’s shaking his head, but Charles sees right through it. “It’s just — what kind of relationship is this? I mean, I love her, but it’s like she’s keeping part of herself locked away from me. You wouldn’t get it.”

Oh, but Charles gets it. He gets it too well. That same fury, that same sense of being kept at arm’s length — he’s felt it for years. Watched you grow up beside Arthur, become this beautiful, untouchable thing that only Arthur could claim. Always the best friend, the girlfriend, the almost-but-not-quite.

“Maybe she’s just not ready,” Charles says softly. His voice is low, dangerous. He turns his back to the window, narrowing his eyes on Arthur. “Maybe you’re pushing too hard.”

Arthur laughs, the sound bitter and hollow. “You know me. I’m not pushing her at all. I’m just — fuck, I’m frustrated, okay? We’re supposed to be moving forward, but it’s like she’s … stuck.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I don’t want to wait around forever. What’s the point?”

Charles is moving before he realizes it, crossing the room in a few long strides until he’s standing right in front of Arthur. His shadow falls over his younger brother, the tension in the air crackling like static.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Charles murmurs, voice tight. “She’s not some … milestone you have to hit. Maybe she doesn’t want to-”

“With me, you mean.” Arthur’s eyes meet Charles’, defiance simmering just beneath the surface. “Maybe she doesn’t want to sleep with me. Right? Maybe that’s what you’re thinking. That I’m not enough for her.”

Charles holds his gaze, unflinching. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

There’s a pause, charged and suffocating. Charles can feel the blood pounding in his ears, a dangerous thrill threading through his veins. He should shut this down, diffuse the situation before it escalates, but some twisted part of him wants Arthur to keep going. He wants to hear it. Every insecurity, every frustration, every ugly piece of truth.

“Why are you telling me this?” Charles asks finally, his voice deceptively calm. “What do you expect me to say?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur slumps back against the couch, looking defeated. “Maybe I just needed to get it off my chest. It’s like … I feel like I’m going crazy. Everyone else is moving forward, and I’m just stuck here, waiting for her to catch up.”

Charles takes a deep breath, forcing himself to stay composed. He shouldn’t feel this satisfaction, this possessive pleasure at hearing Arthur’s struggle. It’s wrong. It’s twisted. But it’s there, coiling tight in his chest.

“And if she never catches up?” Charles asks quietly. “What then?”

Arthur shrugs, looking away. “I don’t know. Maybe we’re just not meant to be, you know?”

The words hang heavy in the air, and Charles feels something dark and vicious settle inside him. He’s been waiting for this — years of watching from the sidelines, of biting back his own desires because you were always with Arthur. Always just out of reach.

But if Arthur’s doubting — if Arthur’s thinking of letting go …

Charles clenches his jaw, forcing himself to speak evenly. “You’re drunk. You shouldn’t be talking about this right now.”

Arthur snorts. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” He pauses, glancing up at Charles with a look that’s almost pleading. “What would you do? If you were me, what would you do?”

The question catches Charles off-guard, a cold laugh escaping his lips before he can stop it. “If I were you?” He leans down slightly, voice dropping to a low murmur. “I wouldn’t be here, complaining to my brother like a pathetic idiot. I’d be with her, figuring it out. Doing whatever it takes to make her happy.”

“Yeah?” Arthur mutters, his voice cracking slightly. “Even if it means waiting forever?”

Charles straightens, something resolute and steely hardening in his chest. He looks down at Arthur, gaze cold and unyielding. “If you love her, you wait.”

Arthur looks away, shoulders slumping. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. I just — forget it. I’m talking bullshit.”

But Charles doesn’t forget. He stands there, watching Arthur fall silent, mind spinning with a thousand possibilities. He can’t let anyone else have you, not even Arthur. Especially not Arthur. He knows it’s wrong, knows it’s sick, but he can’t shake the image of you — untouched, unspoiled, something pure and perfect that only he deserves to claim.

Charles forces a smile, dropping a hand onto Arthur’s shoulder. “Go to bed. Sleep it off.”

Arthur nods, muttering something unintelligible as he pushes himself up and stumbles towards the guest room. Charles waits until the door closes behind him before letting out a long, shuddering breath.

He should feel guilty. But all he feels is a fierce, possessive resolve. Arthur’s doubt is his opportunity. His chance to take what’s always been denied to him.

His gaze drifts to his phone on the coffee table. A single message — an excuse, really — and you’d be here, sitting on his couch, looking at him with that soft, trusting smile. Like he’s someone you can rely on. Like he’s someone safe.

Safe. Charles laughs quietly, the sound bitter and mocking. Safe is the last thing he is right now.

He picks up the phone, thumb hovering over your contact name, and hesitates. Not yet. He needs a plan. Needs to be smart about this.

But one way or another, he’s going to be your first. Your only. Arthur’s hesitation has given him the opening he’s been waiting for.

All he has to do now is make his move.

***

Charles parks the car a little down the street from your apartment, his hands gripping the steering wheel tight as he stares at the dashboard. The engine is off, the keys dangling in the ignition, but he hasn’t moved. Not yet.

He’s thinking.

He’s been thinking all night, really — ever since Arthur stumbled off to bed, leaving Charles alone with his thoughts. Thoughts that spiraled, dark and hungry, circling the idea that’s been gnawing at him for years. How close he is now. How one small push could tip the balance in his favor.

And today, he’s ready to push.

In the passenger seat sits a box of pizza from that place you love, the one he knows you always order from on Fridays after a long week. There’s a bottle of wine in the backseat too, the kind you once told him was your favorite, when you were still just Arthur’s girlfriend, still so impossibly out of reach.

Charles grabs the pizza, slides out of the car, and walks to your building with measured steps. Each one feels deliberate, calculated, as if he’s forcing himself to maintain control. But inside, his thoughts are a frenzy.

It’s easy enough to get inside the building. You gave him the door code months ago, back when things were still … uncomplicated. Before his obsession became something he couldn’t contain.

As he rides the elevator up, Charles lets out a slow, steadying breath. He can do this. He will do this.

When you open the door, the surprise on your face is immediate but quickly melts into warmth. Your eyes light up, and you smile — God, you smile at him like he’s your favorite person in the world. Like you trust him.

“Charles!” You exclaim, stepping forward and pulling him into a hug before he can say a word. You wrap your arms around his neck, and he feels that familiar jolt, the one that always comes when you’re this close. “What are you doing here? This is a surprise.”

He hugs you back, holding you a second too long before he pulls away. He lifts the pizza box with a sheepish grin, the one he knows you always fall for. “Thought you might be hungry. Brought your favorite.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you laugh, that soft sound that always makes him feel like you’re letting him in on a secret. “You didn’t have to do that, but I’m not complaining.” You step aside, gesturing for him to come in. “Come on, I was just thinking about ordering food.”

He follows you into the apartment, closing the door behind him. It’s small, cozy — the kind of place that feels lived in, full of your personality. He’s been here before, but tonight it feels different. Tonight, he’s here for a reason.

You grab plates while Charles sets the pizza on the table, and then you settle in. Conversation is easy, natural. You ask him about his week, tell him about yours, and the rhythm of it all is so familiar that for a second, Charles almost forgets why he’s really here.

But then he watches you take another sip of wine, and something inside him snaps back into focus. You’ve had just enough to soften the edges, to make you more open, more vulnerable.

Now’s the time.

“I’ve got something I need to talk to you about,” Charles says, leaning back in his chair. His voice is low, careful. He watches your expression shift, the way your brow furrows slightly as you put your glass down.

“Something serious?” You ask, your tone shifting from playful to curious, maybe even a little concerned.

Charles nods, the weight of his next words pressing down on him. He almost hates what he’s about to say. Almost. But the thought of losing you to Arthur — again, after all these years — drives him forward.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he starts, choosing his words deliberately. “You know I care about you. A lot.”

Your frown deepens, and you sit up straighter. “Charles, what is it? You’re scaring me.”

He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s Arthur.”

You blink, confusion flashing across your face. “Arthur? What about him?”

There’s a beat of silence, and Charles watches your face carefully, gauging every reaction. He needs to be precise here, needs to strike the right balance between concern and truth.

“I wish I didn’t have to be the one to tell you this,” he says quietly, voice soft but steady. “But you deserve to know.”

“Know what?” Your voice is more tense now, on edge. You’re bracing yourself.

Charles looks down at the table for a moment, pretending to struggle with his words, to hesitate. Then, with a carefully measured sigh, he meets your gaze.

“Arthur’s cheating on you.”

Your reaction is instant — disbelief, followed by a laugh that’s more of a reflex than anything. You shake your head, the idea not even sinking in before you’re dismissing it outright. “Charles, come on. That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

You freeze, staring at him like he’s said something that doesn’t compute. “What are you talking about? Arthur would never — he’s not that kind of guy. He — he loves me.”

Charles leans forward, his eyes locking onto yours, unflinching. “I know you don’t want to believe it. Trust me, I hate having to tell you this. But I’ve seen it. He’s been … seeing someone else.”

You blink rapidly, shaking your head again, more violently this time. “No. No, that doesn’t make any sense. Why would he do that? We’ve been together for six years, Charles. We’re-”

“I know,” Charles cuts in, voice low and firm. “But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s happening.”

You stare at him, searching his face for any sign that this is some kind of twisted joke. But all you find is a steady, unwavering resolve. And it hits you, hard — he’s serious.

The first tear spills over before you can stop it. You swipe at it quickly, shaking your head, still trying to deny it. “No. You’re wrong. He wouldn’t … he wouldn’t do that to me.”

Charles watches you, his heart pounding in his chest, but he stays calm. He has to see this through. “I wish I were wrong. I really do. But I wouldn’t lie to you about something like this.”

You press your palms to your temples, shaking your head again and again, like you can somehow shake off the weight of his words. “Why? Why would he …”

“He’s an idiot,” Charles says quietly, his voice softening just enough. He reaches across the table, placing a hand over yours. “He doesn’t see what he has with you. He doesn’t appreciate you the way he should.”

You pull your hand away, standing abruptly from the table and pacing the small space of your living room. “This doesn’t make any sense. He’s been … he’s been distant lately, but I just thought it was work or something. He wouldn’t-”

Charles stands too, his movements slow and deliberate. “I wish I could tell you there’s some explanation, but … sometimes people just make stupid choices. It doesn’t make it your fault.”

The tears are falling freely now, and you wipe at them furiously, like you’re angry at yourself for crying. “I don’t believe you. I can’t believe you. Arthur wouldn’t do that to me.”

Charles steps closer, his chest tightening at the sight of your tears. He hates seeing you hurt, but some part of him — some twisted, possessive part — revels in this. In being the one you turn to, the one you fall apart in front of. Because this is his chance. His moment.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, reaching out to pull you into his arms.

You don’t resist. You’re too overwhelmed, too broken by the weight of what he’s telling you. You collapse against him, your face buried in his chest as the sobs start to shake your frame.

Charles wraps his arms around you, holding you tight, his hand moving slowly up and down your back. “Shh, it’s okay,” he whispers into your hair, pressing his lips to the top of your head. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Your sobs only deepen, and Charles feels his pulse quicken. There’s something intoxicating about the way you cling to him, like he’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” he says, voice low and soothing, his fingers tracing gentle patterns along your spine. “But you deserve to know the truth. You deserve better than him.”

You don’t respond, just keep crying into his chest, and Charles holds you tighter, his grip firm and possessive. He’s in control now. He’s the one you trust, the one you’re turning to.

And he’s not going to let you go.

“Shh,” he murmurs again, his voice a soft coo as he continues to run his hand down your back. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”

He presses his lips to your hair again, his chest swelling with a dark, possessive satisfaction.

This is where you belong.

With him.

***

Charles tightens his hold on you as your sobs weaken, though they still come in shaky, uneven breaths. He keeps his chin resting gently on top of your head, his fingers stroking slow circles along your back, coaxing you into some semblance of calm. Each wet gasp, each tremble from you presses deeper into him, a reminder of just how fragile you are right now — how close you are to breaking.

And you are his to fix.

“I can’t believe …” you start, your voice muffled against his chest, thick with tears. You take a shuddering breath and pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes, though your gaze is glazed and unfocused. “I can’t believe I was … I was going to let him …” Another sob catches in your throat, and you lower your head again, pressing your palms against your eyes as if to block out the thought.

Charles feels something stir in him, deep and raw. His breath catches. He knows what you’re about to say. He’s waited for this moment for so long.

“I thought I was ready,” you whisper between tears, each word slipping out in a jagged edge. “I really thought I was ready. I was going to … I was finally going to give him everything. And he — he doesn’t even care. I was going to let him take everything from me.”

Charles’ jaw tightens. His arms encircle you even more, as if he can shield you from the pain and the reality of it all. But behind that protective front, something inside him twists darkly. Arthur was going to be the one. The one to touch you first, to take what should never have belonged to anyone else.

The thought alone makes his stomach churn, but he forces his voice to remain steady, soft, as he leans in closer, his lips brushing the top of your head. “You don’t need to think about that now,” he murmurs, gently rocking you as your body shakes against him. “Arthur didn’t deserve you. He never did.”

You sniffle, lifting your head again, your eyes glassy and red. “But I thought … I thought we were going to-” You break off, biting your lip hard enough that it must hurt, your hands twisting in his shirt. “I thought I was finally ready to-” Another sob wracks through you, and you look down, as if ashamed of the words you can’t quite bring yourself to say aloud.

Charles feels a rush of anger — not at you, but at the mere suggestion that Arthur was close to having what only he should be worthy of. The idea that his brother, clueless and careless, almost had you, had almost been the first to touch you like that, makes something primal flare up inside him.

But he doesn’t let it show. Not yet.

Instead, he tilts your chin up gently, guiding your eyes back to his. His expression is soft, understanding, but underneath it, there’s that edge. The simmering need for control, for possession, for you.

“Listen to me,” he says, his voice low but firm. “Arthur would not have deserved something like that from you. He doesn’t appreciate you — he doesn’t even know how to treat you right.”

You open your mouth to argue, but all that comes out is a half-choked sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “I was going to give him … everything. And now-” You shake your head, your eyes welling up again, new tears slipping down your cheeks. “Now I’m just … I’m going to be a virgin forever, aren’t I?”

Your voice cracks on the last word, and the raw vulnerability of it strikes Charles harder than anything else you’ve said. You sound so broken, so small, like you’ve given up on the idea that you’ll ever be loved the way you deserve.

But Charles knows better. He knows exactly what you deserve. And more importantly, he knows exactly who should be the one to give it to you.

His heart pounds in his chest, each beat louder than the last as he watches you crumble before him. He pulls you in again, holding you close, his chin resting on top of your head once more. “You’re not going to be a virgin forever,” he whispers, his voice as soothing as it is purposeful. “Don’t say that.”

Your breath hitches against his shirt. “But who else is there? I can’t — I don’t want to be with anyone else after this. Not after Arthur …”

Charles feels you tremble, your body fragile against his, and something in him snaps. It takes every ounce of restraint he has not to push forward, not to take what he’s wanted for so long right here and now.

But he knows better than that. He knows how to play this. He knows you, knows what you need to hear in this moment.

“Arthur isn’t the only one who’s ever going to want you,” Charles murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as his fingers trace along the curve of your spine. “You’re worth so much more than you realize.”

You shake your head into his chest. “I just … I don’t know anymore.”

The words tear at him, but they also give him an opening. He can feel it — the way you’re unraveling, the way you’re grasping for something to hold onto. Something steady. Someone who understands you in a way Arthur never could.

And he’s more than willing to be that person.

Charles hesitates — just enough to make it seem genuine, just enough to plant the seed of doubt in your mind about what he’s about to say next. He exhales slowly, like he’s weighing his words carefully, like they’re difficult for him to get out.

“There’s … another option,” he says, his voice hesitant, as if he’s afraid to even suggest it. He feels your body tense slightly in his arms, and he knows you’re listening, knows he has your full attention.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your brows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

He meets your gaze, his eyes soft but unwavering. He can see the vulnerability in your expression, the way you’re looking at him like you’re trying to make sense of what he’s saying.

Charles takes a breath, keeping his voice as even as he can, though his pulse is racing. “I don’t want you to feel like you’ll never be able to … move on from this. From Arthur. You deserve better than that.”

You blink at him, still confused. “I don’t understand.”

He lowers his eyes for a moment, as if he’s struggling with the thought, and then looks back up at you, his expression serious. “I’m saying … if you wanted to … if you wanted someone who actually cares about you, who respects you, to be your first … I could be that person.”

Your eyes widen, and you freeze in his arms, staring at him like you can’t believe what you just heard. For a second, Charles wonders if he pushed too far, if he misread the moment. But then he sees the flicker of doubt in your eyes, the way your lips part slightly like you’re considering it, like you’re not entirely sure what to say.

“You?” You whisper, your voice barely audible.

Charles nods slowly, his heart pounding in his chest, but he keeps his expression calm, controlled. He lets out a soft breath, as if he’s reluctant to admit it but knows it’s the right thing to offer. “I don’t want you to feel pressured, or like you have to make a decision right now. But … I care about you. I always have. And I would never hurt you the way Arthur did.”

Your gaze drops to the floor, and Charles watches as you process his words, as the weight of what he’s offering settles over you. He can see the conflict in your expression, the way you’re torn between your pain and the possibility of comfort, of feeling wanted again.

And that’s exactly where he wants you.

“I just don’t know if I can trust anyone right now,” you whisper, your voice shaky, your hands trembling slightly as they clutch the fabric of his shirt.

Charles reaches up, gently cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the remnants of your tears. He tilts your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You can trust me,” he says softly, his voice steady and sure. “I would never hurt you, never betray you like he did.”

You look at him, your eyes wide and searching, and Charles can feel the shift in the air between you. The way you’re leaning into him, the way your breathing has slowed, your sobs replaced by something quieter, something more uncertain.

And that’s when he knows. He’s won.

“I don’t know,” you murmur again, but your voice is softer now, less sure, and Charles can feel the cracks forming, can see the way you’re wavering.

He leans in slightly, just enough that his forehead brushes against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m here for you,” he whispers, his voice a gentle coo as he strokes your cheek. “Whatever you need. I’ll take care of you.”

You don’t pull away.

Charles shifts his grip, his fingers slipping into your hair as he tilts your head back, giving himself access to the soft, untouched skin of your throat. He pauses for just a moment, taking in the sight of you: lips parted, eyes glazed and half-closed, a hint of vulnerability still lingering behind the tentative acceptance. His pulse thrums with a steady, insistent beat, desire coiling tighter with every ragged breath you take.

“Just relax,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough against your skin. “Let me take care of you.”

Your breath hitches, and Charles feels the way your body reacts, how you arch slightly into him, seeking more of his touch. His heart pounds harder, his gaze darkening as he dips his head and presses his mouth against the side of your neck.

It starts slow. A soft kiss, just below your jaw, the barest brush of his lips. Then another, lower this time, lingering on the spot where your pulse flutters erratically. He kisses you again, harder now, teeth grazing over your skin. He feels the way you shudder beneath him, hears the sharp intake of breath that escapes your lips, and it fuels something possessive inside him. He lets his mouth linger, sucking at your skin until a faint red mark blooms beneath his lips.

Good. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.

Charles keeps going, kissing and biting his way down your throat, alternating between gentle nips and soothing licks. He can feel the way your body responds to each touch, the soft little noises you make that only seem to spur him on. Every mark he leaves behind feels like a victory, like he’s claiming you inch by inch, branding you as his.

And you’re letting him.

His hand slides down your side, fingers skimming along the curve of your waist before they hook under the hem of your sweater. He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his breathing ragged. There’s a question in his eyes, and he sees the way you hesitate, your lips parting as if to say something — before you slowly nod.

The look in your eyes is hesitant but trusting, and it sends a surge of possessiveness straight through him. He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he tugs the fabric up, slowly, deliberately, giving you every chance to stop him. But you don’t. Instead, you lift your arms, letting him pull the sweater over your head and toss it carelessly over the back of the couch.

Charles’ gaze drops, his eyes tracing the shape of your collarbones, the gentle curve of your breasts. There’s a flush spreading across your chest, and he can’t help but smirk, the sight of you like this making his blood heat. You’re so exposed, so vulnerable beneath him, and the trust in your eyes — the way you’re giving yourself to him, piece by piece — is intoxicating.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl as he leans in again, his mouth hovering just above the swell of your chest. “Do you know that? How perfect you are?”

Your cheeks flush a deeper shade, and you glance away, your fingers twisting nervously in your lap. Charles doesn’t give you time to respond. Instead, he presses his lips against the curve of your shoulder, his mouth moving slowly, deliberately, as he makes his way across your chest.

Each kiss is a claim, each touch a reminder of who you belong to. He can feel the way your breathing changes, the way your fingers twitch and flex as if you don’t know what to do with yourself. He’s relentless, sucking and nipping at your skin until more red marks bloom beneath his mouth, each one a testament to his need to mark you, to make sure no one else will ever look at you without seeing his touch.

“Charles …” You whisper his name, your voice barely audible, a hint of something like disbelief in your tone.

He pauses, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze again. “What is it?” He asks softly, his fingers brushing along the underside of your breast, tracing lazy circles against your skin. “Tell me.”

You swallow hard, your eyes darting away for a moment before they find his again. “I … I just can’t believe this is happening.”

Charles smiles, something dark and possessive flickering in his gaze as he shifts his weight, leaning closer until his body is pressed against yours. He can feel the heat radiating off you, the way your chest rises and falls with every shaky breath you take. “Believe it,” he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. “I’m here. This is real.”

And it is real. He can feel it — the way you tremble beneath his touch, the way your body yields to him without resistance. He’s waited for this moment for so long, dreamed of it in vivid, desperate detail. Now that he has you, he’s not going to let go. Not ever.

He lowers his head again, his mouth finding the skin between your breasts, and he kisses his way down, down, each press of his lips more insistent than the last. His hands are on your waist now, fingers digging into your hips as he holds you still, his breath hot against your skin. He pauses when he reaches the edge of your bra, his tongue flicking out to trace along the fabric.

“May I?” He murmurs, his voice rough with restraint. He glances up at you through his lashes, waiting for your response.

You hesitate for just a moment before nodding, a small, uncertain movement. But it’s enough for him. Charles’ fingers move with practiced ease, unclasping the bra and sliding it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

His breath catches at the sight of you — bare, vulnerable, all his. He doesn’t waste any time, lowering his head to your chest and pressing his mouth against your skin, his tongue flicking out to taste you. He hears the way you gasp, feels the way your back arches beneath him, and it’s everything he’s ever wanted.

Charles takes his time, kissing and licking his way down your body, leaving more marks in his wake. He can feel the tension coiling tighter in your muscles, the way your breathing grows more erratic the lower he goes. His hands roam over your skin, mapping out every curve, every dip and hollow of your body as if he’s memorizing you.

When he finally reaches your waist, he pauses, his fingers tracing the band of your panties. They’re delicate, a flimsy piece of lace that does nothing to hide you from him. He glances up, meeting your gaze, and for a moment, he just holds it, waiting.

“Tell me,” he says softly, his voice a low murmur. “I need to hear you say it. Do you want this?”

You bite your lip, your eyes wide and uncertain, but there’s something else there, too — something like trust, like surrender. Slowly, hesitantly, you nod.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I … I want this. I want you.”

The words send a jolt of electricity through him, sharp and exhilarating. Charles lets out a slow breath, his fingers slipping under the band of your panties, and he pulls them down, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Good,” he murmurs, his voice a dark, satisfied growl as he tosses the lace aside. “Because I’m going to give you everything.”

He dips his head again, his mouth following the path of his hands as he kisses his way down your belly, your hips, lavishing attention on every inch of exposed skin. He takes his time, his tongue flicking out to taste you, his teeth grazing along your skin. Each touch, each kiss is deliberate, calculated, meant to draw out every sound, every reaction he can coax from you.

And you respond to him beautifully, your body trembling beneath his touch, your breath coming in soft gasps and whimpers. Charles feels his own control slipping, the need to take you, to claim you fully, growing stronger with each passing second. But he holds back, savoring the way you writhe beneath him, the way your fingers clutch at his hair, desperate for more.

When he finally reaches the apex of your thighs, he pauses, his breath warm against your skin. He looks up at you, his gaze dark and intent, and he waits — waits for you to give him the permission he’s been craving.

“Are you sure?” He murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. He needs to hear you say it again. Needs to know that you’re giving yourself to him willingly.

You nod, your breath hitching as your eyes meet his. “Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling but sure. “Please, Charles. I want this. I want you.”

Charles doesn’t hesitate — not for a second. He buries his mouth against you, and the taste of your sweetness floods his senses. A low growl rumbles up from his chest, vibrating against your skin as he hooks his hands under your thighs, spreading you wider.

The taste of you is intoxicating, dizzying, like a drug seeping into his veins and lighting him up from the inside. You’re slick and warm, every part of you yielding to his touch, and he drinks you in like a man starved.

“God,” he mutters against you, his voice rough and reverent. “You’re so perfect … so sweet.” He can barely get the words out, his tongue slipping between your folds to lap at you with long, deliberate strokes.

You gasp, your hands flying to his hair, your fingers tangling in the strands as if you need something to anchor yourself. Your back arches off the couch, and Charles takes advantage of the movement, pulling you closer, deeper into him. He wraps his arms around your thighs, holding you in place as he feasts on you, his tongue tracing every inch of you with a hunger that borders on desperation.

Your moans fill the air, soft and breathless, each one sending a jolt of satisfaction through him. He can feel the way your thighs tremble under his grip, the way your body shudders with every flick of his tongue, every soft nip of his teeth. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up for even a second, his mouth working you with a single-minded focus that’s almost feral.

“Charles,” you whimper, your voice breaking on the syllable. “I-I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re doing so well. So good for me.”

He dips his head lower, his tongue swirling around your clit before he sucks it into his mouth, his lips closing around the sensitive bundle of nerves. You cry out, your hips bucking against him, and he tightens his grip, holding you down as he laves at you, his mouth relentless.

You’re so responsive, so pliant beneath him, and it’s driving him wild. He wants to pull every sound from your lips, wants to make you lose yourself in him, wants to make you feel so good that you’ll never be able to think of anyone else. He wants you ruined — completely — until the only name you can say is his.

“Please,” you breathe, your fingers clenching and unclenching in his hair. “Charles, I-I’m so close-”

He hums in response, the vibration making you shudder. His tongue moves faster, more insistent, as he drives you higher, his lips never leaving your skin. He can feel the tension coiling in your body, tighter and tighter, and he knows you’re right on the edge.

“Come for me,” he murmurs, his voice a low, coaxing purr. “I want to feel you, taste you. I want you to come for me.”

You let out a broken sob, your body arching into him as you fall apart. He holds you steady, his mouth never leaving you as he works you through your orgasm, his tongue moving in slow, soothing strokes as your body shakes beneath him. He can feel the way you pulse and clench, the way your thighs tremble and your breath catches, and he doesn’t let up until you’re completely spent, every last aftershock of pleasure wrung out of you.

Only then does he pull back, his chest heaving as he looks up at you. You’re a mess — hair tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded and hazy with pleasure. He can see the faint sheen of sweat on your skin, the way your chest rises and falls with every ragged breath, and it sends another surge of possessiveness through him.

This — the sight of you like this, wrecked and breathless and marked with his touch — this is what he’s been waiting for. This is what he’s been craving.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly, his voice low and rough with barely restrained desire. His fingers brush gently along your thighs, tracing lazy patterns on your skin as he watches your face. He needs to hear it from you, needs to know that you’re still with him.

You nod slowly, your lips curving into a small, breathless smile. “Yeah,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. “I’m … I’m okay.”

Relief washes through him, and he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Good,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your skin. “Because we’re not done yet.”

Your eyes widen slightly, your breath catching in your throat as you look down at him. “Charles-”

“Shh.” He presses another kiss to your skin, this one softer, more tender. “Just trust me, okay?”

You hesitate for a moment, then nod slowly, your fingers still tangled in his hair. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, but also something else — something like trust, like surrender. And it’s that look, that trust, that makes his chest tighten, makes something in him twist and shudder.

Charles shifts his grip, sliding his hands up your body until they’re resting on your waist. He leans up, his gaze locked on yours as he brushes his lips against your belly, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous promise. “I’m going to take care of you. Make you mine. Completely.”

Your breath catches, your lips parting as if to say something, but no words come out. Charles doesn’t give you time to respond. He leans in again, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that’s slow and deep, his tongue sliding against yours with a languid, sensual stroke.

He can taste you on his lips, can still feel the echo of your pleasure thrumming through your body. It’s a heady, intoxicating feeling, and he deepens the kiss, his hands sliding down to grip your hips as he pulls you closer, his chest pressing against yours.

You’re still trembling, your body soft and pliant beneath him, and he shifts, adjusting his weight until he’s cradling you in his arms. He breaks the kiss, his lips hovering just above yours as he murmurs softly, “Lie back for me, baby.”

You blink up at him, your gaze hazy and unfocused, but you do as he says, leaning back against the couch. Charles watches you for a moment, taking in the sight of you — your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your hair spills over the cushions. You look so small, so vulnerable, and it makes something dark and possessive curl inside him.

He wants you like this forever. Wants you beneath him, at his mercy, trusting him to take care of you.

Slowly, deliberately, he reaches out, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a soft, almost hesitant touch. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his voice rough and sincere. “So perfect.”

You blink up at him, a faint smile curving your lips. “Charles … you don’t have to-”

“I mean it,” he interrupts, his voice firm. “I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you. Never felt like this before.”

Your smile falters slightly, and he sees the uncertainty flicker in your eyes, the way your fingers fidget in your lap. He knows you don’t quite believe him, knows that you’re still struggling to understand what this — what he — means to you.

But that’s okay. He has time. He’ll show you, piece by piece, until there’s no doubt left in your mind.

Leaning in, Charles presses another kiss to your lips, softer this time, more tender. “Let me take care of you,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Let me show you how much I want you. How much I-”

How much I love you. The words hover on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them down, his chest tightening. He’s not ready to say it yet — not when you’re still reeling from everything he’s thrown at you tonight. Not when there’s still so much he needs to do to make you his.

Instead, he kisses you again, pouring all of his need, all of his desperation, into the touch. You respond to him, your body arching into his, your fingers tightening in his hair, and he knows — knows that you’re right where you belong.

With him.

Charles takes a breath, letting the air fill his lungs as he looks down at you, still trembling and flushed beneath him. The sight of you — so soft, so vulnerable — sends a wave of possessiveness through him that makes his hands shake. You’re his, all his, and he’s about to take what should have been his from the beginning. He wants to savor it, wants to make every moment last, but the need coursing through him is wild, uncontrollable.

His hands slide down your thighs, spreading you open again, his thumbs brushing along the soft skin just inside. You’re still shaking, your breaths coming in short, uneven gasps, and he leans down to kiss you, soft and slow, grounding you in the moment.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice a low rumble. “I’ve got you. Okay? Just breathe.”

You nod, but there’s a hint of fear in your eyes, a flicker of uncertainty, and it makes his chest tighten. He doesn’t want you scared. He wants you to trust him, to need him the way he needs you.

Gently, he presses his forehead against yours, his voice softer now, more coaxing. “You trust me, don’t you?”

You swallow, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment before you nod again. “I do,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Good,” he breathes, his lips brushing against yours. “I’m going to take care of you. I promise.”

He moves slowly, his hands tracing over your skin, mapping every curve and dip of your body. He wants to memorize you, wants to know every inch of you like the back of his hand. His fingers ghost over your hips, sliding up your waist, your ribs, before they dip down again.

You shudder at the touch, your breath hitching in your throat, and Charles smiles — a slow, dangerous smile that sends a thrill through him.

“God,” he murmurs, his voice thick with awe. “You’re perfect.”

You look up at him, your lips parted, your chest rising and falling with every shaky breath, and for a moment, the world seems to stand still. It’s just the two of you — no distractions, no outside noise — just you, laid out before him, vulnerable and trusting, and him, teetering on the edge of losing himself completely.

His fingers trail down between your thighs, gentle, teasing, as he watches your face for any sign of hesitation. He wants this to be perfect for you — wants you to remember this as something special, something that no one else could ever give you.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers, his fingers brushing against you softly. “If you want to stop, you just say the word. Okay?”

You nod, biting your lip, and he can see the way your body trembles in anticipation, the way your eyes flutter shut as his fingers dip lower, brushing against the slick heat of your core. You’re so warm, so soft, and he can feel how ready you are for him, how your body responds to his touch without hesitation.

He presses a single finger into you, slow and gentle, watching the way your mouth falls open, the way your back arches off the couch as you let out a soft, broken moan. The sound goes straight to his head, dizzying him, making him harder than he thought possible.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing rumble. “You’re doing so well.”

You whimper in response, your hands gripping the cushions beneath you as he moves his finger in and out of you, slow and deliberate. He’s not rushing, not yet. He’s taking his time, getting you used to the feeling, making sure you’re ready for him.

“Does that feel good?” He asks, his voice rough with barely restrained desire.

“Yes,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering open to meet his. “It … it feels good.”

Charles smiles, his thumb brushing against your clit in a slow, circular motion, making your whole body jolt in response. “I want to make you feel even better,” he murmurs, his gaze dark and intense. “But I need to make sure you’re ready for me. Can I add another?”

You nod quickly, your breath hitching in your throat as he slides a second finger into you, stretching you wider. You gasp, your hips bucking up against his hand, and he groans at the way you respond to him, the way your body is so eager to take everything he gives you.

“You’re so tight,” he mutters, his voice thick with lust. “So perfect. I can’t wait to feel you around me.”

You moan softly, your hands flying to his shoulders, your fingers digging into his skin as he works his fingers in and out of you, coaxing more soft sounds from your lips with every movement. He’s careful, deliberate, making sure not to hurt you, but the need burning inside him is almost unbearable.

“Charles,” you whimper, your voice trembling. “I … I need you.”

The words send a bolt of electricity through him, and he curses under his breath, his hands shaking as he pulls his fingers out of you, his heart racing in his chest. He can’t wait any longer. He needs to be inside you.

He shifts, positioning himself between your thighs, his hands gripping your hips as he lines himself up with your entrance. He looks down at you, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps, and for a moment, he hesitates.

“Are you sure?” He asks, his voice low and hoarse. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You look up at him, your eyes wide and trusting, and you nod, your voice soft but steady. “I’m sure.”

Charles swallows hard, his chest tightening at the sound of your voice. You trust him — completely — and it makes his head spin. He’s never wanted anything more than this moment, and now that it’s here, it feels almost surreal.

Slowly, carefully, he presses into you, inch by inch, his hands tightening on your hips as he pushes deeper. You gasp, your body tensing beneath him, and he pauses, his jaw clenched as he fights the urge to move too fast.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice strained. “You’re doing so good. Just breathe for me.”

You nod, taking a shaky breath as you try to relax, and Charles groans as he slides deeper, the tight heat of you surrounding him, squeezing him in a way that makes it almost impossible to think.

He’s never felt anything like this before — never felt so close to losing control, so close to falling apart completely. But he can’t rush. Not with you. He has to take his time, has to make sure you’re ready for all of him.

Once he’s fully seated inside you, he stills, his breath ragged as he presses his forehead against yours. “You okay?” He asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, your hands clutching at his shoulders, your body trembling beneath him. “Yeah,” you breathe, your voice soft. “I’m okay.”

Relief floods through him, and he presses a soft kiss to your lips, his hands brushing against your skin in slow, soothing strokes. Charles inhales deeply, savoring the intoxicating scent of your skin mixed with sweat and arousal. You’re so tight around him that it takes every ounce of restraint he has not to lose himself right away. Every trembling exhale from your parted lips makes his head spin, and it takes everything in him to keep himself composed, to hold back just a little longer so he doesn’t scare you.

“You’re such a good girl,” he murmurs, voice gravelly, heavy with want. He cups your cheek tenderly, fingers brushing against the tear-streaked skin as he begins to move — slowly, gently — just enough for you to feel every inch of him. “Doing so well for me … taking me so perfectly.”

You whimper, the sound breaking and needy, and it shoots straight through him, making his hips snap forward involuntarily. He freezes, staring down at you, but you only arch your back, letting out another soft, breathless moan that sends a shiver through his spine.

“That’s it,” he breathes, his thumb stroking over your cheek. “Look at you … so beautiful like this. All mine.” His voice drops lower, almost to a growl, as he pulls back and thrusts into you again, harder this time, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. “You know that, right? I’m your first … and I’ll be your only.”

You nod frantically, eyes squeezed shut, fingers digging into his shoulders as your whole body arches up to meet his. “Yes,” you gasp, voice trembling, the word barely coherent.

“Say it.” His hand slips down, gripping your hip as he holds you still beneath him, his thrusts measured and deliberate. “I need to hear you say it.”

Your breath hitches, your head lolling back against the cushions as you struggle to form words through the haze of sensation clouding your mind. “You’re … you’re my first,” you manage, your voice breaking on the last word. “My only.”

The words make his chest swell with something dark and possessive, and he groans, leaning down to bury his face against your throat. “Damn right,” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing against the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. “I’m going to ruin you for every other man. No one else will ever get to have you like this. No one else will ever get to touch you.”

You shudder beneath him, a broken moan escaping your lips, and he can feel the way your body clenches around him, almost as if your body itself is responding to his words. His control frays further, his thrusts picking up pace, harder, deeper, as he loses himself in the feeling of being inside you, in the way your body takes him so perfectly.

“Fuck,” he growls, his teeth scraping lightly against your collarbone. “I’d kill any other man who tries to touch you like this. Do you hear me? No one else gets to have you.”

You whimper again, your hands sliding up to clutch at his back, your nails digging into his skin as if you’re trying to anchor yourself. “Charles-” you choke out, but whatever you’re trying to say gets lost in another breathless moan as he drives into you again, hitting a spot that makes you cry out, your whole body going taut beneath him.

“Shh,” he soothes, his voice low and dangerous as he kisses a trail down your throat, letting his teeth scrape against your skin just enough to leave marks in his wake. “It’s okay, mon cœur. I’ve got you. I’ll always take care of you. You don’t need anyone else.”

His lips move lower, brushing against your chest, leaving more marks there — proof that you’re his, that you belong to him and only him. He wants everyone to see, to know just by looking at you that you’re taken, that you’re his, that no one else can have you.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, his voice dark and possessive. “You’ll always be mine. I’ll make sure of it.”

He shifts slightly, angling his hips, and you let out a sharp cry, your hands flying up to grasp at his shoulders as your whole body shudders. Charles grits his teeth, his jaw clenched as he fights to keep his control, to keep himself from losing it completely.

“Are you on birth control?” He asks suddenly, his voice tight, strained. The question seems to come out of nowhere, and for a moment, you just stare up at him, your eyes wide and unfocused.

“What?” You whisper, breathless and confused.

“Birth control,” he repeats, his gaze locked on yours, intense and unrelenting. “Are you on it?”

You shake your head, your brow furrowing slightly as you try to make sense of his words through the haze of pleasure. “No … I’m not …”

Charles’ breath catches, and he has to fight to keep the grin off his face. He moves again, thrusting into you slowly, deliberately, making you moan, your head falling back against the couch. “You’re not?” He murmurs, his voice low and almost mocking. “Then I could put a baby in you right now, couldn’t I?”

The words make your eyes fly open, a look of shock and something almost like panic flashing across your face. “Charles-”

“I could,” he continues, his voice soft, coaxing. “I could fill you up, make you mine forever. No one else would ever look at you again. You’d be tied to me — completely.”

You let out a soft, broken whimper, your hands trembling as they clutch at him, and he groans at the sound, his hips snapping forward as he loses a bit more of his control. “But I won’t,” he breathes, his lips brushing against your ear. “Not yet. Not tonight. But soon.”

“Soon?” You echo, your voice a breathless whisper, and he nods, his hand slipping down between your bodies, his thumb brushing over your clit in slow, teasing circles.

“Yes, mon ange,” he murmurs, his voice dark and sweet. “Soon. I’ll make you mine in every way possible. You won’t be able to think of anyone else. You won’t want anyone else.”

You moan, your whole body trembling beneath him, and he can feel the way you tighten around him, the way your body responds to his words, to the promise in his voice. He’s going to make you his, completely and utterly his, and the thought of it drives him wild.

“You’ll be perfect,” he whispers, his voice low and rough. “Carrying my baby, looking so beautiful with my child growing inside you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being so full of me.”

You shake your head frantically, a choked sob escaping your lips, but your body betrays you, arching up against him, pressing closer as if you can’t get enough of him. “No,” you gasp, but it’s a broken, desperate sound, and he can hear the way your breath catches, the way you moan when he moves inside you again.

“No?” He teases, his lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile. “Are you sure? Because your body’s telling me something different.”

You whimper, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly, your nails digging into his skin, and Charles groans, his hips snapping forward as he thrusts into you again, deeper, harder.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “And I’m not letting anyone else have you. Ever.”

You don’t answer — can’t answer — your head falling back against the cushions as you cry out, your whole body shuddering beneath him. And Charles knows, in that moment, that he’s won. You’re his, completely and utterly his, and there’s no going back.

Charles’ breath stutters as he finally lets go, a deep, guttural groan spilling from his lips as he buries himself inside you, pushing deep, deeper than before, until you gasp and shudder beneath him. He’s been holding himself back for so long, waiting, controlling his own desire just to make sure this moment, your first time, is perfect.

And now — now he’s giving in.

His entire body trembles as he empties himself inside you, his eyes locked on your face, watching every twitch of your brow, every little gasp, every soft, broken moan that escapes you. You’re too overwhelmed to even think, your gaze unfocused, mouth parted as you take him in, your chest heaving with every breath. He can see it, the look of exhaustion and pleasure mingled together, and he loves it. He loves that he’s the one who put it there.

A small whimper falls from your lips as he pulls back slightly, his hips giving a final, gentle thrust as he lets the last of his release fill you. You’re trembling, your entire body shaking with the aftershocks of pleasure, and he can’t help but lean down, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your throat, murmuring praises against your skin.

“There you go,” he murmurs, his voice thick and low. “You did so well … such a good girl for me.” He pulls back slightly, his hand slipping down between your thighs. He can feel his release already starting to slip out of you, a small, creamy trickle that makes something dark and possessive curl in his chest.

“No,” he breathes, almost to himself, his thumb gently brushing over your swollen, overstimulated clit as he scoops up a bit of the mess between your thighs. You shudder, your hips jerking involuntarily at the contact, and a soft whimper escapes your lips. Charles watches, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, as he brings his fingers up to your lips, smearing his release over them.

“Open,” he whispers, his voice soft but firm, and you do, your lips parting obediently, eyes fluttering shut as you take his fingers into your mouth. He watches, enthralled, as your tongue flicks out, tasting him. His release. Your combined arousal. He can feel the warmth of your mouth, the way your tongue swirls around his fingers, and a low, satisfied hum escapes him.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, his voice rough and deep. “Don’t waste a drop. I want you to taste how good we are together. How perfect you are for me.”

You’re so pliant, so willing to do whatever he asks, and it sends a thrill through him, makes his stomach twist with a dark, heady satisfaction. You’re his. Completely and utterly his. He watches as you swallow, a small, helpless sound escaping your throat, and he groans softly, his hand cupping your cheek as he leans down to press a gentle kiss to your lips.

“Good girl,” he breathes against your mouth, and then, slowly, carefully, he pulls back, his body protesting as he slips out of you. A small whimper falls from your lips at the loss, and Charles’ chest tightens, a sharp pang of something almost like guilt shooting through him. But he pushes it away. He can’t afford to feel guilt right now. Not when you’re still trembling beneath him, your breath hitching in soft, broken sobs of pleasure.

With a soft, low sigh, he reaches down, his arms slipping beneath you as he scoops you up, cradling your boneless body against his chest. You’re so light, so small in his arms, and he holds you close, pressing his cheek against your hair as he breathes you in.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing as he stands, holding you securely. “I’ve got you, mon amour. You’re safe.”

Your head lolls against his chest, your eyes fluttering shut as you let out a soft, contented sigh. You’re still trembling, your entire body limp with exhaustion, and Charles glances down at the mess you’ve both made on the couch — a wet spot that’s spread across the fabric, a mixture of his release and yours. He grimaces slightly, knowing it’s going to need a thorough cleaning later. But he doesn’t care. Not right now. Not when you’re in his arms, so soft and warm and completely at his mercy.

He carries you down the hall, each step deliberate and careful, not wanting to jostle you too much. You’re completely relaxed against him, your arms loosely draped around his neck, your cheek pressed against his shoulder. He can feel your breath against his skin, soft and even, and it makes something twist painfully in his chest.

He nudges the bathroom door open with his foot, flicking on the light with his elbow as he steps inside. The room is cool and quiet, and Charles glances around, trying to figure out the best way to set you down without letting you go. After a moment, he carefully lowers you onto the countertop, his hands lingering on your waist as if he can’t bear to let you go just yet.

You make a soft, sleepy sound, your head lolling to the side as you blink up at him, eyes glazed and unfocused. “Charles …” Your voice is a soft, broken whisper, and Charles’ heart clenches at the sound.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing gently over your hip as he reaches over to turn on the faucet, the sound of water filling the room. “Just going to run a bath for you, okay? I want to take care of you.”

You nod slowly, your gaze drifting back to him as if you’re trying to keep your focus, trying to stay present. Charles watches you, his chest tight, a strange mix of emotions swirling inside him. He hates seeing you like this — so exhausted, so spent. But at the same time … he loves it. Loves that he’s the one who put you in this state, loves that you trusted him enough to give yourself to him completely.

He adjusts the temperature of the water, letting it run for a moment to make sure it’s just right before he turns back to you. You’re still watching him, your gaze soft and a little dazed, and he smiles gently, his hands slipping under your thighs as he lifts you again.

“Come on,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing as he lowers you into the warm water. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You let out a soft, contented sigh as the water envelops you, your head falling back against the edge of the tub. Charles watches, his gaze lingering on your face, on the way your eyes flutter shut, your lips parting slightly. He stands there for a moment, just looking at you, his chest tightening with something fierce and possessive and so, so tender.

Then, slowly, he slips out of his own ruined clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the floor as he steps into the tub behind you. The water is warm, soothing, and he settles in, pulling you back against his chest, his arms wrapping around your waist as he holds you close.

You let out a soft hum of contentment, your body relaxing against his, and Charles sighs, his chin resting on your shoulder as he nuzzles his cheek against your hair.

“There we go,” he murmurs, his voice low and soft. “Just relax, baby. I’ve got you. I’ll always take care of you.”

You sigh softly, your hand drifting up to rest on his arm, your fingers curling loosely around his wrist. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath. “For … for everything.”

Charles’ heart clenches, and he tightens his hold on you, his lips pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder. “You don’t have to thank me,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. “I’ll always take care of you. Always.”

You nod slowly, your body sinking further into his embrace, and Charles closes his eyes, letting himself just … feel. Feel the warmth of your body against his, the soft rise and fall of your chest, the steady beat of your heart. He holds you close, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your skin as he murmurs soft, soothing words against your hair.

And in that moment, he knows. He’ll never let you go. Never. He’ll do whatever it takes to keep you with him — to keep you his. Because you’re his. His first. His only. His forever.

***

The warmth of your body still lingers against his skin as Charles carries you from the bathroom to your bed. You’re completely boneless, head tucked beneath his chin, the gentle rhythm of your breathing soft and even in the quiet room. He glances down at you, the way your hair falls messily across your forehead, the relaxed expression on your face. The exhaustion etched in every line of your body.

He’s never seen anything more perfect.

You don’t even stir when he lowers you onto the mattress, your arms falling limp at your sides as he tucks the covers around you. There’s something intensely gratifying about it — about knowing how thoroughly he’s worn you out. About being the only one who’s ever seen you like this, so vulnerable and open and … completely his.

He straightens, looking down at you, his chest tightening with something almost too big to name. He takes a moment, just … standing there, watching you, every instinct in his body screaming at him to stay close. To keep you safe. To make sure nothing ever takes you away from him.

The soft, steady rise and fall of your chest is hypnotic, your breath a gentle whisper in the stillness of the room. Charles reaches down, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. His fingers linger, tracing lightly over your temple, down the curve of your cheek, his touch feather-light. You sigh softly in your sleep, leaning into his hand, and something fierce and protective flares in his chest.

It’s not enough.

Even now, standing here, looking at you, knowing you’re finally his … it’s not enough.

Slowly, he slips off his towel, dropping it in a silent heap on the floor. The bed dips slightly under his weight as he climbs in beside you, careful not to jostle you too much. He shouldn’t do this, he knows — shouldn’t be so close, shouldn’t let himself cross this line again. But he can’t help it. Can’t stop himself from reaching out, his hand brushing over the soft curve of your waist.

You don’t wake. You’re too deeply asleep, too exhausted to even stir, and Charles’ chest tightens as he watches you. You’re completely oblivious, completely unguarded, your breathing slow and even. So trusting. So vulnerable. So … his.

He shifts closer, his body pressing against yours as he slips a hand under the covers, his fingers ghosting over the soft skin of your stomach. You’re so warm, so soft beneath his touch, and he can’t resist — can’t help but trace the gentle swell of your belly, the curve of your waist, the delicate line of your hip. Every inch of you is perfect. Made for him. You were always meant to be his.

His fingers linger at the crease of your thigh, hesitating for just a moment. He should stop. He knows he should stop. But … you’re his. You’ve given yourself to him, trusted him with your body, and that trust — your submission — is more intoxicating than anything he’s ever felt before.

Slowly, carefully, he grabs the duvet and tugs, pulling the fabric down, down, until it’s slipped free of your legs. The cool air brushes against your bare skin, and you shiver slightly, a soft, broken sound escaping your lips. But you don’t wake. You don’t even stir. You’re completely lost to sleep, completely at his mercy.

He breathes out slowly, his gaze dark and intent as he watches you, his heart pounding hard in his chest. You’re perfect. So perfect. So beautiful, lying there, your body splayed out beneath him. His to touch. His to take. His to claim.

He moves slowly, carefully, his hand sliding between your thighs, his fingers brushing against the slick warmth of your core. A soft sigh falls from your lips, your body arching slightly into his touch, and Charles’ breath catches in his throat. You’re so wet, so pliant and soft and ready for him, even in sleep.

He shouldn’t do this. He knows he shouldn’t do this.

But he can’t stop himself.

His hand trembles slightly as he lines himself up, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance. He grits his teeth, his entire body coiled tight with the effort it takes not to just thrust — to push inside and take you all over again. But he’s patient. He’s careful. He moves slowly, gently, inching forward until he’s just barely inside you.

You stir, a soft moan escaping your lips, your body arching slightly beneath him. Charles bites back a groan, his hands gripping your hips as he holds himself still, waiting for you to settle. His breath comes hard and fast, his heart pounding in his chest as he watches you, every instinct screaming at him to move. To take. To claim.

But he waits. He’s patient. He’s careful. He won’t hurt you.

Slowly, carefully, he inches forward, his breath hitching as he sinks deeper, deeper, until he’s fully seated inside you. You’re so tight around him, so warm and wet and perfect, and it takes everything in him not to just move. To thrust. To take you the way he wants to. The way he needs to.

A soft whimper falls from your lips, your body twitching slightly beneath him, and Charles freezes, his entire body going tense as he watches you. You don’t wake. You don’t even stir, your breathing soft and even, your chest rising and falling steadily.

He breathes out slowly, his hands trembling slightly as he releases the breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. You’re still asleep. Still lost to whatever dream has you sighing softly, your lips parted slightly, your brow furrowed in the softest frown.

You’re his. Completely and utterly his.

He moves slowly, carefully, his hips shifting as he pulls back slightly, only to push forward again, sinking deeper inside you. A soft, broken sound escapes your lips, and Charles’ heart clenches, his entire body trembling with the effort it takes to stay slow. To stay gentle. To make this perfect for you.

His hand slips up, brushing over the soft skin of your stomach, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your navel. You’re so beautiful like this — so soft and pliant and completely at his mercy. He moves again, a slow, gentle thrust that has you sighing softly in your sleep, your body relaxing even further beneath him.

He keeps it slow, keeps it gentle, his movements deliberate and careful as he rocks into you, each thrust a soft, measured press of his hips against yours. He’s not trying to wake you. Not trying to take you out of this soft, quiet world of sleep. He just wants to be close. Just wants to feel you. Just wants to be inside you, surrounded by your warmth, your softness, your perfect, trusting submission.

A soft whimper escapes your lips, your body twitching slightly, and Charles leans down, his lips brushing over your temple, your cheek, your lips. “Shh, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing whisper. “I’ve got you. Just relax. Let me take care of you.”

You sigh softly, your body going limp beneath him, and Charles’ heart clenches, a fierce wave of something dark and possessive washing over him. He holds himself still, his breath coming hard and fast as he watches you, his gaze dark and intent.

You’re his. You’re finally his. And nothing — nothing — will ever take you away from him.

Slowly, carefully, he shifts his weight, his body pressing down against yours as he buries himself inside you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he pulls you close. He can feel the soft, steady beat of your heart against his chest, the gentle rise and fall of your breath, the warmth of your skin against his.

He’s never felt anything like this before. Never felt so … complete. So at peace. So whole.

You’re his. Finally.

And he’s never letting you go.

With a soft, contented sigh, Charles settles in behind you, his body curled protectively around yours as he holds you close. He stays inside you, his cock still nestled deep, the warmth and softness of your body enveloping him. He’s never felt anything like this before — this perfect, blissful sense of rightness, of belonging.

He leans down, his lips brushing over the back of your neck, his breath a soft, warm whisper against your skin. “Mine,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with emotion. “You’re mine, ma chérie. My good girl. My perfect girl.”

You let out a soft, sleepy sigh, your body shifting slightly in his arms, and Charles smiles, his heart swelling with a fierce, possessive joy. You’re his. And he’ll do whatever it takes to keep you with him.

Slowly, he closes his eyes, his arms tightening around you as he lets himself drift, his breath evening out as he falls into a deep, contented sleep. The last thing he feels is the steady beat of your heart, the soft warmth of your body, and the perfect, blissful sense of belonging that comes with knowing …

You’re his. Finally, irrevocably, and forever his.

***

The morning light spills softly into the bedroom, casting a warm, golden glow across the sheets tangled around your body. Charles wakes slowly, the remnants of sleep clinging to his mind like a fog as he blinks his eyes open. The first thing he feels is you — still warm and soft against him, your body completely relaxed, your head nestled against his shoulder.

He’s still inside you.

The realization makes something tighten in his chest, something dark and possessive and overwhelmingly satisfied. You’re still so tight around him, so soft and warm, your body fitting perfectly against his. He should feel guilty. He should feel remorse or shame or some shred of decency for what he’s done.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stays still, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, the gentle curve of your mouth, the delicate flutter of your eyelashes against your cheeks. You’re still fast asleep, your breathing slow and steady, your chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm that matches the beating of his heart.

His.

You’re finally his.

The thought makes his breath hitch, his gaze darkening as he watches you, a fierce, possessive satisfaction washing over him. He’s been waiting so long for this — been wanting you for years, watching you from a distance as you smiled and laughed and loved his brother instead of him. And now you’re finally here, wrapped up in his arms, his cock still buried deep inside you.

He tightens his hold on you, his arms wrapped around your waist as he pulls you closer, your body shifting slightly in your sleep. You murmur softly, a small, sleepy sound escaping your lips, and Charles’ chest tightens, his heart swelling with something almost too big to name.

He could stay like this forever. Could spend the rest of his life holding you like this, feeling your warmth, your softness, the gentle, perfect way your body molds to his. But the light filtering through the curtains is growing brighter, the morning creeping steadily in, and he knows he can’t stay like this forever. There’s too much to do. Too much to take care of.

Too many loose ends to tie up.

Carefully, slowly, he shifts, pulling out of you with a soft, reluctant sigh. His cock slips free, and he watches, mesmerized, as a trickle of his release follows, sliding down your inner thigh to stain the sheets beneath you. Something dark and primal stirs in his chest at the sight, his fingers itching to reach out and touch, to gather up the evidence of his possession and push it back inside you where it belongs.

But he resists. You’re still sleeping, your face soft and peaceful, your body completely relaxed. He doesn’t want to wake you — not yet, at least. You need your rest after last night. You need time to recover, to heal, to get used to the new reality of being his.

Instead, he pulls the covers up over you, tucking them gently around your body before slipping out of bed. His feet hit the cool floor with a soft thud, and he bends down, retrieving his discarded boxers from the pile of clothes spilling out of the bathroom. The fabric is soft and worn against his skin as he slips them on, his gaze drifting back to you, sprawled out on the bed, your hair a tangled mess on the pillow.

He’ll let you sleep a little longer, he decides. You’ve earned it.

He’s just turning away, his fingers brushing through his own tousled hair, when the sound of a knock echoes through the apartment.

Charles freezes, his entire body going still, his gaze snapping toward the bedroom door. The knock comes again, louder this time, more insistent, and a flicker of irritation sparks in his chest.

Who the hell-

Another knock, and Charles’ jaw clenches, his teeth grinding together as he stalks out of the bedroom, his bare feet silent against the floor. The apartment is quiet, the only sound the soft rustle of his movements as he makes his way to the front door.

He knows who it is before he even reaches for the handle.

Knows, because he’s been waiting for this — waiting for the moment when everything comes crashing down, when the reality of what he’s done, what he’s taken, finally hits his brother.

The door swings open, and there he is.

Arthur stands in the doorway, his face pale and drawn, his eyes wide and wild with something close to panic. He’s still in the same clothes he was wearing yesterday, his hair a mess, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes.

“Charles?” His voice is rough, a strange, desperate edge to it. He looks … lost. Confused. Like he’s not quite sure what he’s seeing.

And then his gaze drops, taking in the sight of Charles standing there in nothing but his boxers, his bare chest still flushed with the lingering heat of last night. Arthur’s mouth opens, then closes, his eyes narrowing as something sharp and dangerous flickers across his face.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Charles’ expression doesn’t change. He leans against the doorframe, his arms crossing over his chest, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He should feel bad — should feel guilty or ashamed or something for what he’s done.

But he doesn’t.

“Good morning to you too, Arthur,” he drawls, his voice calm, almost bored. “What brings you here so early?”

Arthur’s hands clench into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening as he glares at his older brother. “Don’t play games with me, Charles. What the hell are you doing here? Why are you in her apartment?”

Charles’ gaze flicks over him, taking in the way his shoulders are hunched, the way his hands shake with barely contained anger. He almost feels a pang of pity.

Almost.

“I think the better question,” he murmurs, his voice soft and even, “is why you’re here, Arthur.”

Arthur blinks, his brows furrowing in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Charles straightens, pushing off the doorframe as he steps forward, his gaze steady and unflinching. “She doesn’t want to see you anymore,” he says quietly, his voice firm and unyielding. “Your relationship is over.”

Arthur’s mouth falls open, shock and confusion and a hundred other emotions flickering across his face. “What — what the fuck are you talking about?” He stammers, his voice rising in pitch. “What do you mean, it’s over? She — she wouldn’t-”

“She did,” Charles interrupts, his tone cold and matter-of-fact. “She ended it last night. She doesn’t want to be with you anymore. It’s over.”

The words hang heavy in the air, the silence that follows thick and suffocating. Arthur stares at him, his eyes wide and disbelieving, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. He looks … broken.

Charles almost feels a pang of guilt.

Almost.

But then he remembers the way you looked last night — the way you moaned and gasped and begged for him, your body arching beneath his, your lips parted in breathless pleasure. He remembers the way you whispered his name, the way you clung to him, the way you gave yourself to him so completely, so perfectly.

And any trace of guilt or remorse disappears, replaced by a fierce, possessive satisfaction.

Arthur was a necessary sacrifice. A means to an end. Something to be discarded and forgotten now that he has you. Now that you’re his.

“Charles, this — this is insane,” Arthur chokes out, his voice shaking. “You’re — you’re sick. You’ve always been obsessed with her, but I never thought-”

“Careful, Arthur,” Charles murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. He takes another step forward, his gaze locking with his brother’s, his expression cold and unyielding. “You’re starting to sound like you don’t believe me.”

Arthur’s face twists, a snarl curling his lips as he takes a step back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You’re lying,” he spits, his voice thick with rage. “You’re fucking lying. She wouldn’t — she wouldn’t do that.”

“She did,” Charles says calmly, his gaze never wavering. “And if you care about her at all, you’ll respect her decision. You’ll leave her alone.”

Arthur’s chest heaves, his breath coming hard and fast as he glares at his older brother, his eyes wild with desperation and fury. “You’re — you’re a fucking monster,” he breathes, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. “She’s — she’s everything to me, Charles. You can’t just-”

“She’s not yours,” Charles cuts him off, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “She was never yours. And now, she’s mine.”

The words are a final blow, a cruel, cutting truth that shatters whatever fragile hope Arthur was still clinging to. His shoulders sag, his head bowing as the fight drains out of him, leaving him hollow and broken and utterly defeated.

“Get out,” Charles says quietly, his voice calm and cold and unyielding. “And don’t come back.”

Arthur stares at him for a long, agonizing moment, his eyes filled with pain and betrayal and a thousand other emotions Charles doesn’t care to name. And then, slowly, he turns, his movements stiff and mechanical as he stumbles back down the hallway.

Charles watches him go, his gaze dark and unreadable, his heart pounding hard in his chest.

Charles closes the door softly, the lock clicking into place with a finality that makes his chest swell with satisfaction. He doesn’t spare another thought for Arthur, doesn’t bother with the remnants of guilt still faintly tugging at the edges of his mind. It’s done. He’s gone.

You’re all that matters now.

He turns away from the door, the apartment eerily quiet as he pads silently back down the hallway. The morning light is streaming in through the windows, casting long shadows on the floor, but everything is still, peaceful. The calm after the storm.

When he reaches the bedroom, his eyes find you immediately. You haven’t moved. Still lying there, curled up under the sheets, your hair a soft halo on the pillow, your face turned slightly to the side. You look so peaceful, so innocent, so his. He watches you for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest, his entire body thrumming with an electric anticipation.

He can’t help himself.

Slowly, he slips out of his boxers, letting the fabric fall to the floor in a careless heap. He’s hard again — has been since Arthur’s interruption, the confrontation with his brother only heightening the possessive desire coursing through his veins. He wants to claim you all over again. Wants to bury himself inside you, make you moan and gasp and beg for him like you did last night.

Wants to remind himself that you’re his and his alone.

The bed dips under his weight as he crawls in beside you, the mattress creaking softly as he settles in, his body pressed against your side. He moves slowly, careful not to wake you just yet, his eyes tracing the delicate curve of your neck, the soft rise and fall of your chest. He leans in, pressing his lips to your shoulder, his mouth trailing down the smooth line of your back, his hands sliding under the covers to caress your skin.

You murmur softly in your sleep, a small, content sound that makes something tighten low in his belly. He shifts, his hand trailing down your back, over the curve of your hip, his fingers brushing the soft skin of your thigh. Slowly, carefully, he moves, spreading your legs just enough to make room for him as he positions himself between them.

His cock presses against your entrance, the heat of your body searing against his skin. He pauses, his breath catching in his throat as he waits, his gaze locked on your face. You’re still sleeping, still blissfully unaware, and he bites back a groan, his hands trembling with the effort of holding himself back.

But only for a moment.

He pushes forward, just a fraction, just enough to feel the tight, wet heat of you enveloping him, your body resisting for a split second before yielding to his intrusion. He bites down on his lip, a soft hiss escaping as he inches in deeper, his hands braced on either side of your body, his chest pressed against your back.

You stir, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as your body tightens around him, your back arching slightly in response. He freezes, his gaze snapping to your face, watching as your brows furrow, your lips parting in a soft, breathless moan.

“Charles …” you murmur, your voice thick with sleep, confused and disoriented as you shift beneath him. “What …”

“Shhh,” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he leans down, his voice low and soothing. “It’s okay, baby. Just relax. Let me take care of you.”

You shudder, your body trembling beneath him as he presses in deeper, the sheets rustling softly as he moves. He’s careful, slow, giving you time to adjust, his hands sliding up to cradle your hips, his thumbs brushing soothingly over your skin.

“Charles …” you breathe again, your voice a soft, broken whisper as your body arches against his, your legs parting wider to accommodate him. “What are you-”

“I couldn’t wait,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with need as he thrusts in the rest of the way, his hips pressing flush against your ass. You gasp, your body clenching around him, a soft whimper escaping your lips. “I couldn’t wait to be inside you again. To wake you up like this.”

Your breath hitches, your fingers clutching at the sheets as he pulls out, just a fraction, before pushing back in, his movements slow and deliberate. “Charles, I-”

“Shhh,” he soothes, his hands sliding up your sides, his thumbs brushing the curve of your waist. “Just feel me, baby. Let me make you feel good.”

You’re still half-asleep, your mind foggy and slow, your body moving on instinct as he starts to move, his hips rocking gently against yours. He’s barely holding back, his entire body strung tight with need, the urge to fuck you hard and fast and claim you again roaring in his veins.

But he holds back. Takes his time. He wants you to feel every inch of him, wants you to wake up to the sensation of him buried deep inside you, stretching you, filling you completely.

“I can’t wait to do this every day,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the nape of your neck, his voice a low, possessive growl. “Every morning. Every night. For the rest of our lives.”

You moan softly, your body shuddering beneath him as his words sink in, your breath coming faster, your chest rising and falling in quick, shallow pants. “Charles, I-”

“You’re mine,” he breathes, his hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm, each thrust deep and deliberate, each movement designed to remind you exactly who you belong to. “You’re mine, baby. And I’m never letting you go.”

Your fingers clutch at the sheets, your head falling back against his shoulder as he fucks you slowly, thoroughly, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasp, your back arching, your body tightening around him, and Charles groans, his own control fraying at the edges.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, his voice rough and thick with need. “So tight and wet and perfect for me.”

“Charles …” you whimper, your voice a broken, desperate plea, your body trembling beneath him. “I — please, I-”

“Shhh,” he soothes, his lips brushing the curve of your jaw as he thrusts in deep, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. “It’s okay, mon ange. Just let go. I’ve got you.”

He can feel you starting to fall apart, your body tightening around him, your breath coming in quick, shallow pants. He knows you’re close — can feel it in the way your body clenches and quivers, in the soft, breathless moans slipping from your lips.

“Come for me, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough command as he picks up the pace, his hips snapping against yours in quick, shallow thrusts. “Come on, let me feel you.”

You shudder, a broken, desperate sob escaping your lips as your body tenses, your muscles locking up as pleasure crashes over you, your entire body trembling with the force of it. Charles groans, his own release building, his cock throbbing as you tighten around him, milking him, drawing him deeper.

“Good girl,” he breathes, his voice thick with praise and satisfaction as he thrusts in hard, his hands gripping your hips as he buries himself deep, his release hitting him like a freight train. “Such a good girl.”

He stays there, buried deep inside you, his chest heaving, his heart pounding as the last waves of pleasure roll through him. You’re still trembling, your breath coming in soft, ragged gasps, your body pliant and boneless beneath him.

“Charles …” you murmur softly, your voice a sleepy, sated whisper as your eyes flutter open, your gaze dazed and unfocused. “I-”

He shifts, his hand sliding up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over your lips. “It’s okay, mon amour,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. “Go back to sleep. I’m here.”

You sigh softly, your eyes drifting closed again as sleep pulls you under, your body relaxing completely beneath his. Charles watches you for a long moment, his gaze softening, his chest tightening with something almost too big to name.

You’re his.

And he’s never letting you go.

With a soft sigh, he lowers his head, his lips brushing the curve of your shoulder as he shifts, his body molding to yours. He’s still inside you, still connected, still a part of you. And that’s exactly where he wants to be.

Where he’s always wanted to be.

His arms tighten around you, his eyes closing as he breathes in your scent, the warmth of your body seeping into his. He can feel sleep tugging at the edges of his mind, but he doesn’t fight it. Not this time.

Not when he’s finally, finally where he belongs.

With you.

For now. For always. Forever.

***

Charles isn’t entirely sure how many weeks it’s been since that morning. Since Arthur. Since everything changed. But the blur of days and nights, of waking up beside you, of coaxing you into his bed, into his apartment, into his life, has been the sweetest kind of haze.

It���s been a slow, deliberate process. Each night, he asks you to stay a little longer. Each morning, he insists on making you coffee, on sharing a quick breakfast, on driving you to work. He’s patient, meticulous, letting you come to him little by little, your things finding their way into his space in a way that feels natural, unforced.

Until it’s not just a toothbrush left in his bathroom, but your favorite skincare products. Not just a spare shirt, but an entire drawer full of your clothes. Not just a book or two, but stacks of them lining his shelves, mingling with his own, your life slowly intertwining with his in every way.

It’s intoxicating, watching you settle in, watching you relax, watching you start to think of his space as yours. It’s almost too easy.

Every evening, when he casually suggests you bring over something else — a few more clothes, your laptop so you can work from his place, that blanket you love because his living room gets drafty — your hesitation fades a little more. And every time you say yes, every time you come over and unpack just one more bag, his heart clenches with a satisfaction so intense it’s nearly painful.

Tonight, it’s the same routine. You’ve brought over another bag, this one heavier than usual. Charles watches, hiding a smile, as you kick off your shoes in the hallway, setting the bag down with a small, relieved sigh.

“Did you bring your entire closet this time?” He teases, leaning against the doorway, his eyes tracing the curve of your body as you stretch, your sweater riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin. The sight makes his fingers itch to touch, to pull you close and never let go.

“Just the essentials,” you reply lightly, your voice warm and teasing as you give him a playful look. “You told me to, remember?”

“Did I?” He raises an eyebrow, pretending to think. “I must’ve forgotten. Or maybe I just want you to have everything you need here.”

“Everything?” You tilt your head, giving him a curious look. “What are you saying, Charles?”

He pushes off the doorway, crossing the short distance between you in a few easy strides. He stops in front of you, his hands finding your hips, his thumbs brushing the fabric of your jeans in slow, deliberate circles.

“I’m saying,” he murmurs, leaning in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “that you should just stay here. For good.”

He feels the way you stiffen, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, your fingers curling slightly into his shirt. “Charles, I-”

“Think about it,” he cuts in softly, his voice low and soothing. “You’re here almost every night anyway. You have more clothes here than you do at your place. It just makes sense.”

“Sense,” you echo, your voice quiet, almost hesitant. “But-”

“You’re wasting money on rent for a place you barely stay at,” he continues, not letting you pull away, his hands tightening on your hips. “Why would you need that when you could just be here with me?”

You hesitate, your gaze dropping to his chest, your teeth worrying your bottom lip. “I don’t know, it’s just … it feels so fast.”

“Fast?” He huffs a soft laugh, his hands sliding up your sides, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. “It’s been weeks. We’ve known each other for years. There’s nothing fast about this.”

“I know, but …” You trail off, shaking your head slightly, your brows furrowing as if you’re trying to find the right words. “I just — Charles, I don’t want to rush things.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze tracing your face, taking in the uncertainty in your eyes, the way your lips are pressed into a thin line, the way your body is tense under his touch. He can feel your hesitation, your reluctance, the lingering doubt that’s keeping you from taking that final step.

And he knows exactly how to make it go away.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself to his knees, his hands sliding down your body to rest on your thighs. He looks up at you, his gaze dark and intense, his fingers curling into the waistband of your jeans.

“Charles, what are you-”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost coaxing. “Let me show you how much I want this. How much I want you.”

You swallow, your throat working as you look down at him, your eyes wide, your breath coming in quick, shallow pants. He waits, watching the way your pupils dilate, the way your hands twitch at your sides, the way your body sways just slightly toward him.

And then he moves.

His hands find the button of your jeans, flicking it open with a quick, practiced motion, the sound of the zipper rasping loud in the quiet apartment. He pulls the fabric down, his fingers brushing over the soft skin of your thighs, your legs, until he’s stripped you bare from the waist down, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Charles,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly, your hands fluttering at your sides. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough as he leans in, his mouth brushing the soft skin of your inner thigh. “Let me.”

He can feel the way your body tenses, the way your breath catches, the way your legs tremble slightly as he presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your skin. He takes his time, his mouth moving higher, his tongue darting out to taste, to tease, until he reaches the delicate lace of your panties.

He looks up at you, his hands sliding up your thighs to grip your hips, his thumbs brushing over the edge of the lace. He waits, watching the way your chest rises and falls, the way your eyes are dark and heavy-lidded, your lips parted, your breath coming in quick, shallow pants.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath.

It’s all he needs.

With a low, satisfied hum, he hooks his fingers into the lace, pulling it to the side, exposing you to his gaze. He leans in, his mouth brushing over your folds, his tongue darting out for a quick, teasing lick.

You gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders, your fingers curling into his shirt as your body jolts in response. He grins, his hands tightening on your hips as he leans in again, his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path over your clit.

“Charles — oh god-” You choke out, your voice breaking as he licks again, his mouth moving with slow, practiced precision. He can feel the way your body is trembling, the way your fingers are digging into his shoulders, your breath coming in quick, desperate pants.

He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Knows exactly how to push you to the edge.

He laps at you slowly, deliberately, his tongue teasing and tasting, his mouth moving with a languid, almost lazy rhythm. He wants to savor this, wants to make you fall apart slowly, wants to make you feel.

You’re moaning now, your head falling back, your body arching against his mouth as he licks and sucks, his tongue swirling over your clit, his lips brushing against your folds. He can feel the way you’re trembling, the way your body is tensing, the way your breath is coming in quick, ragged gasps.

“Please — oh god, please-”

He pulls back slightly, his gaze flicking up to yours, his breath hot against your skin. “Please what, mon cœur?”

“Don’t stop,” you gasp, your voice a broken, desperate plea. “Please, don’t stop.”

He grins, his hands tightening on your hips as he leans in again, his tongue flicking over your clit, his mouth moving with a relentless, determined rhythm. He can feel the way you’re trembling, the way your body is tightening, the way your breath is coming in quick, shallow pants.

And then you’re coming apart, your body arching against his mouth, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as you cry out, your release crashing over you in waves. He groans, his hands gripping your hips as he holds you steady, his tongue moving slowly, gently, coaxing every last tremor from your body.

When you finally collapse against him, your breath coming in soft, ragged gasps, he pulls back, his mouth slick and wet, his gaze locked on yours.

“You belong with me,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough as he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your thigh. “Say you’ll stay.”

“I-” You swallow, your voice trembling as you look down at him, your eyes wide and dazed, your body still trembling. “Okay.”

He smiles, satisfaction and triumph blooming in his chest as he stands, his hands finding your waist, pulling you close. “Good girl.”

And just like that, you’re his.

***

The soft murmur of conversation and the clinking of silverware fill the cozy space of Charles’ apartment. The dinner table is set beautifully, as always — warm, ambient light filtering through the modern chandelier above, casting gentle shadows on the polished wooden surface. Plates are lined with an assortment of carefully prepared dishes, most of which you helped with under his guidance, the evening flowing seamlessly in the comfortable domesticity they’ve created together.

Charles glances across the table, his gaze settling on you with the same fierce, possessive warmth that’s become more familiar over the past few weeks. You’re laughing softly at something he said, fingers wrapped loosely around the delicate stem of your wine glass. He leans back, watching you take another slow sip, and waits.

And then it happens.

You lower the glass, a slight furrow forming between your brows, your nose scrunching up in confusion. “Hmm, that’s … strange.”

Charles cocks his head, feigning curiosity. “What is?”

“This …” You frown, swirling the liquid gently, as if expecting the taste to change with the motion. “I don’t know. The wine tastes … different tonight.”

“Different?” He raises a brow, playing along, watching the subtle flicker of emotions cross your face. Confusion. Curiosity. Just the hint of concern. “How so?”

“I can’t really explain it,” you say, looking up at him, your lips quirking with a slight grimace. “It’s like it’s missing something.”

He lets the silence stretch for a beat, then two, before leaning forward slightly, his fingers drumming once against the table. “That’s because it’s not wine.”

The statement hangs in the air, and you blink, clearly taken aback. “What?”

“It’s sparkling grape juice,” he clarifies, his voice calm, as if discussing the weather, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

You stare at him, your expression shifting from confusion to outright bewilderment. “Grape juice? Why would you-”

“Because,” Charles interrupts gently, leaning forward, his gaze locking onto yours with a quiet intensity, “we haven’t used protection. Not once. And if … if you’re already pregnant, I don’t want to risk anything.”

He watches the way your face goes slack with shock, the way your fingers tense around the stem of your glass, your knuckles whitening. For a moment, it’s as if you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

“Pregnant?” The word slips out in a whisper, almost inaudible, your voice trembling on the single syllable.

“Yes, ma chérie,” he murmurs, standing slowly, moving around the table with deliberate ease. His eyes never leave yours, every step measured, controlled, calculated. “It’s a possibility, isn’t it?”

“Charles-” You’re shaking your head now, as if trying to dispel the thought, as if the mere suggestion is too much to handle. “I … I can’t be … I’m not-”

“We don’t know that,” he counters softly, his voice almost a purr as he closes the distance, his hand coming to rest lightly on your shoulder. He feels the way your body tenses under his touch, the way you’re holding yourself so still, like a deer caught in headlights. “And if you are …”

He trails off, his hand sliding down to your arm, his fingers brushing against your skin in slow, soothing strokes. You don’t move, don’t pull away, your gaze locked on his, wide and unblinking, your breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your forearm. “It’s okay. Just breathe, baby.”

“But-” You’re struggling to find words now, your voice breaking on the sound, your eyes darting wildly, like you’re searching for some kind of escape, some kind of explanation that makes this all make sense. “I — we didn’t. We-”

“I know,” he soothes, his tone soft, patient, as if he’s speaking to a frightened child. “I know. But these things happen. And if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be.”

You stare at him, your chest heaving, your fingers trembling against the table. He can see the panic rising in your eyes, the fear, the uncertainty, the way your mind is racing, struggling to process what he’s just said.

“I-I don’t-” You swallow hard, your throat working, your gaze flicking away, like you can’t bear to look at him, like you’re trying to hold onto some semblance of control. “I can’t be pregnant. I can’t-”

“But what if you are?” He murmurs, stepping closer, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin with feather-light pressure. “What if, right now, there’s a little piece of us growing inside you?”

You let out a choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, your shoulders trembling under his touch. “Charles, please, I … I can’t-”

“Shhh.” He moves in closer, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, his body pressing against yours, caging you in, holding you steady. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“Okay?” You let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, your hands coming up to press against his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “How can this be okay?”

“Because,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the crown of your head, his breath warm against your hair. “Because it would be a good thing. Because I love you. Because this is what I want.”

“Charles …” You sound lost, your voice wavering, your fingers clenching in his shirt, like you’re trying to ground yourself, like you’re trying to hold onto something solid, something real. “I-I don’t know if I’m ready for this. I don’t know if I can-”

“You can,” he murmurs, his voice firm, reassuring. “You can, and you will. And I’ll be right here with you every step of the way.”

He tilts your head up gently, forcing you to meet his gaze, his eyes dark and intense, his expression softening as he takes in the fear, the confusion, the overwhelming uncertainty swirling in your eyes.

“Listen to me,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, his gaze locked on yours. “If you’re pregnant, it’s because it’s meant to be. Because we’re meant to be. This is a good thing, baby. This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“Charles, I …” You shake your head, tears welling in your eyes, your voice breaking on a sob. “I don’t know if I can do this. I’m not ready to be a mother. I’m not-”

“You’ll be perfect,” he whispers, his hands tightening on your face, his gaze burning into yours. “You’ll be the perfect mother, and I’ll be the perfect father, and we’ll be the perfect family. You and me. And our baby.”

“Our baby,” you repeat, your voice a broken, breathless whisper, the words catching in your throat like you can’t quite believe them.

“Yes.” He smiles, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Ours.”

You let out a shuddering breath, your body trembling in his arms, your eyes wide and wet with unshed tears. He can see the way you’re struggling, the way you’re fighting to hold onto something, anything, that makes sense, that feels real.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs again, his voice a low, soothing murmur, his hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you closer. “I promise. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“But-”

“No buts.” He cuts you off gently, his lips brushing against your temple, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close. “If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be. And I’ll be right here with you. No matter what.”

You let out a soft, broken sob, your body crumpling against his, your fingers clutching at his shirt as you bury your face in his chest. He holds you, his hands stroking your back, his voice a low, soothing murmur as he whispers reassurances, promises, vows.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your hair. “You’ll see. It’ll be perfect. Just like you.”

He tightens his arms around you, his gaze dark and possessive as he stares over your head, his mind already racing, already planning, already imagining what it’ll be like.

A baby. A family. A future.

His.

All his.

***

Charles has always been meticulous — about his training, his racing, every part of his life carefully calculated, a system he maintains with the precision of a clock. But this, this is different. This is obsession. And it consumes him entirely.

It started the morning after the conversation, when you looked so fragile, cradled in his arms, your voice a whisper of uncertainty. Charles felt something shift inside him, something deep and primal. He’d reassured you, soothed you, but the truth was, he already knew. He could feel it in his bones: this was happening. This had to happen.

For weeks, he watches you closely. Everything you do, every move you make — he sees it all. You, oblivious in your softness, in the way you trust him, rely on him. You don’t see the way he lingers on you when you aren’t paying attention, how his eyes darken with possessive thoughts. You don’t notice the subtle changes in the way he cares for you, the little routines he’s established — checking your moods, your energy levels, the way your skin looks, the tiniest shifts in your appetite.

Charles starts tracking everything. He memorizes your menstrual cycle, noting the dates carefully, storing them in his phone, his mind keeping a careful countdown to when things might change. When you might miss it. It’s a private ritual now, something he doesn’t share with you, something he keeps close to his chest. It feels like power, like control, like the final piece falling into place.

When you’re a few days late, Charles feels it before you do. He watches your morning routines with more focus than ever, noting your subtle tiredness, the slight changes in your mood. You don’t even realize, but he knows. The idea of telling you swells in his chest, but he holds back. Not yet. Not until he’s sure.

Instead, he begins preparing, silently, methodically.

Every morning, Charles brings you lemon water, just like always, but now with a small twist. He crushes prenatal vitamins into the glass before mixing it, careful to stir it in completely so the powder dissolves. He watches as you take your first sip, the way your lips curl around the edge of the glass, unaware of the extra care he’s put into it. He knows it’s too early, far too early to be certain, but that doesn’t stop him. He wants you and the potential life growing inside you to be nourished, prepared.

In the evenings, it’s the same ritual with your tart cherry juice, the one you love before bed. You’ve commented how well you’ve been sleeping lately, how rested you’ve been feeling. Charles smiles at that, hiding his satisfaction behind his glass. He can already imagine the next steps, the way your body will change, grow round with his child, the way your life will transform to center around him and the future he’s already decided for both of you.

When you fall asleep at night, Charles often stays awake, his mind racing, his hand drifting to your belly while you breathe softly beside him. His palm lingers there, the flatness of your stomach warm beneath his touch, and he lets his mind wander — imagining how in just a few short months, that same spot will be rounded, filled with life. His life. His blood. The perfect blend of both of you.

He closes his eyes and pictures it — how you’ll look swollen with his child, how your body will change, become fuller, softer, more his than ever. He pictures you, tired and glowing, his hand resting possessively over your bump, the world knowing exactly who you belong to.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, when the room is still and your breath is steady in your sleep, Charles whispers to your belly. His lips brush against your skin, words murmured softly into the night, a promise to the life growing there. He tells you how he’ll take care of you, how everything will be perfect. How you don’t need to worry, because he’ll handle everything.

He tells you how much he loves you, how this is what he’s wanted all along.

In the mornings, you don’t seem to notice the small changes in him, the way he hovers just a bit more, the way his touch lingers on your stomach longer than it used to. You think it’s tenderness, maybe affection, and in a way, it is. But it’s more than that — it’s control, it’s possession, it’s the weight of something bigger than either of you.

One evening, over dinner, Charles watches you more intently than usual. You’re laughing, oblivious, completely unaware of the storm brewing inside him. You’ve been tired lately — more than usual — and you’ve mentioned feeling a bit off, but you brush it away, thinking it’s just stress, or maybe a cold coming on. He nods, agreeing with you, but inside, he knows better. He knows exactly what’s happening.

After dinner, as you’re curled up on the couch, Charles leans against the kitchen counter, his eyes fixed on you, a small, satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You glance up at him, your head tilted in question.

“What?” You ask, a soft laugh in your voice.

“Nothing,” he replies smoothly, moving towards you. “Just … thinking.”

“About what?”

Charles sits beside you, pulling you gently into his lap, his hands resting on your hips. He brushes a kiss to the side of your neck, his lips lingering there for a moment before he speaks, his voice low, careful.

“About how lucky I am.”

You smile, relaxing against him, your head resting on his shoulder. “You’re sweet.”

He hums in response, his hand trailing down to your stomach, his fingers spreading across the flat surface. You don’t seem to notice the significance of the gesture, too lost in the warmth of his touch, the closeness between you.

“We should talk about the future,” he says suddenly, his voice calm but firm.

You shift slightly in his lap, looking up at him with a hint of surprise. “What do you mean?”

Charles’ fingers trace absent circles over your stomach, his gaze darkening as he imagines the changes that are coming. “I mean … where we’re heading. Together.”

You blink, the question hanging between you, heavy with implications. “We’ve talked about the future before.”

“Not like this.” His voice is steady, his thumb brushing over your skin with deliberate care. “I mean … in a few months, things could change. We could be expecting.”

Your breath catches, and for a brief moment, he feels you stiffen in his arms. But he’s prepared for this, for your uncertainty, your hesitation. He’s been planting the seeds for weeks now, and he knows exactly how to ease you into it.

“I don’t think I’m …” You trail off, your voice wavering slightly. “I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

Charles’ grip tightens just a fraction, not enough for you to notice, but enough for him to feel the need to maintain control. “You don’t have to be ready right now,” he says softly, his tone soothing. “But when it happens — if it happens — it’ll be the most beautiful thing in the world.”

You swallow hard, your fingers curling slightly against his chest. “I just … I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to worry about anything,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your temple. “I’ll take care of everything. You know that.”

He feels you nod slowly, your body relaxing slightly in his arms, and he knows he’s won, at least for now. He plants a kiss on your forehead, holding you close, his hand never leaving your stomach.

In the quiet of the night, when you’re fast asleep, Charles slips out of bed and heads to the kitchen, carefully preparing your morning lemon water. The vitamins are crushed to a fine powder, dissolved into the liquid, the routine seamless now. He’s preparing you, your body, for the life he’s creating with you, and soon enough, you’ll know it too.

When he returns to bed, he slides in behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist, his hand resting once again on your stomach. He falls asleep that way, his dreams filled with the image of you — round, glowing, full with his child.

His future is set. And you? You belong to him completely now.

***

Charles is lounging on the couch when you walk in, your eyes wide and rimmed with red. He looks up, a subtle smile curving his lips as he watches you shuffle closer. You seem nervous, almost hesitant — he’s noticed it for days now, the way you’ve been quiet, reflective. But he doesn’t prod. He doesn’t ask. He’s been waiting for this, letting it build, savoring the anticipation. And now, it’s finally here.

You stand before him, clutching something small in your hand, your fingers trembling. He sees it, the faint outline of the white plastic, and his heart quickens, a rush of satisfaction coursing through him. But he schools his features into calm curiosity, tilting his head as if he has no idea what’s coming.

“Charles …” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, wavering with emotion. “I, um, I have something to show you.”

He sets his book aside, focusing all his attention on you. “What is it, ma chérie?” The endearment falls from his lips smoothly, wrapping around you like a soft blanket.

You take a shaky breath, stepping closer. Then, with a trembling hand, you hold out the pregnancy test. Charles lets his gaze drop to it, his brow furrowing in feigned confusion. He lets the silence stretch, just for a moment, just enough to feel the weight of your emotions press into him.

“What …” He blinks, his eyes widening as if in realization, then flicks his gaze up to meet yours, his mouth falling open slightly. “Is that-”

You nod quickly, your breath hitching, a sob escaping your lips. “I’m pregnant, Charles,” you choke out, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I-I didn’t know how to tell you, and I’m so scared, and-”

He’s up in a second, his arms wrapping around you tightly, pulling you against his chest. He holds you close, feeling the way you tremble against him, your tears soaking into his shirt. He strokes your hair, his other hand sliding down to rest on your back, keeping you anchored to him.

“Shh, mon amour, shh,” he murmurs, his voice soothing, tender. He presses his lips to the top of your head, breathing you in. “It’s okay, everything’s okay.”

You clutch at his shirt, your sobs muffled against his chest. “I-I didn’t think … I didn’t think it would happen so soon.”

He pulls back slightly, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away your tears. His eyes search yours, a soft, affectionate smile forming on his lips. “I can’t believe it …” he murmurs, letting his voice crack with supposed disbelief. “You’re pregnant?”

You nod again, more tears spilling over, your emotions a whirlwind of fear and uncertainty. “Y-Yes … I just found out. I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but-” You break off, another sob tearing through you. “Charles, I’m so scared. What if-”

“Hey, look at me.” His voice is firm now, his grip on your face gentle but unyielding. He waits until your eyes lock onto his, your gaze swimming with emotion. “This is the best news I’ve ever received, okay? You’re carrying our child. Our baby.” He pauses, letting the words sink in, then leans forward to kiss your forehead, lingering there, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m so happy, mon amour. So, so happy.”

He feels your body soften against his, the tension easing slightly. But there’s still that uncertainty in your eyes, that flicker of doubt that makes his heart tighten. You’re so fragile, so beautifully breakable. And he’ll do everything in his power to make sure you never feel that doubt again.

“Come here,” he whispers, taking the test from your hand and setting it aside on the coffee table. He pulls you onto his lap, his hands settling on your hips, guiding you until you’re straddling him, your knees pressing into the cushions on either side of his thighs.

“Charles …” you start, but he shushes you gently, his hands sliding up your sides, tracing the shape of your waist, the curve of your breasts. He can’t stop touching you, can’t keep his hands still, not when you’re sitting on him like this, flushed and teary-eyed, carrying his child.

“Let me show you how happy you’ve made me,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your jaw, trailing soft kisses along your skin. He feels you shiver, your hands gripping his shoulders, your breath hitching as he nips lightly at your neck. “Let me celebrate with you, hmm?”

Your response is a broken sound, half-whimper, half-sob, your body leaning into his touch. He shifts beneath you, his hands moving to your thighs, pushing up the hem of your dress. He feels the fabric slide higher, baring more of your skin, and he can’t help the way his fingers tighten, his grip almost bruising.

“Do you know how much I love you?” He breathes against your ear, his voice low, rough with want. “How much I love the thought of you carrying my baby?”

You shake your head, your eyes fluttering closed as he moves lower, his mouth trailing over your collarbone, leaving a path of heat in its wake. “N-no … I … I don’t know …”

Charles growls softly, his hands sliding up to cup your ass, pulling you flush against him. He’s hard, straining against his pants, and he can see the way your cheeks flush, the way your breath catches as you feel him. “I’m going to make you feel it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against the sensitive spot on your throat that always makes you squirm. “I’m going to make sure you know just how much I love you, how much I need you.”

Before you can respond, he’s lifting you, positioning you over him. His hands are firm on your hips as he drags you down slowly, letting you sink onto him inch by inch. He watches your face, the way your eyes widen, your mouth falling open in a silent gasp. He feels every tremble, every quiver of your muscles as you take him, and it’s almost too much. Almost.

But he drags it out, holding you in place, his fingers digging into your skin. He doesn’t let you move, doesn’t let you do anything but feel. He’s deep, too deep, and he can see the way your body strains, the way you’re already close to unraveling, and he loves it. Loves seeing you like this — vulnerable, overwhelmed, completely at his mercy.

“Charles,” you whimper, your hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. “Please, I-”

“Shh, chérie,” he coos, his hands holding you still as he thrusts up slowly, savoring the way you tighten around him, the way you moan helplessly. “You’re okay. Just let me take care of you.”

He sets a slow, deliberate rhythm, his thrusts deep and measured, his eyes locked on your face. He watches every flicker of emotion, every gasp, every tear that slips down your cheeks. You’re sobbing now, incoherent with need, your body trembling as he drags you closer and closer to the edge.

“Please,” you beg, your voice breaking, your hips trying to move against him, but he doesn’t let you. He keeps you still, his thrusts controlled, his gaze never leaving yours. “Please, Charles, I need-”

“I know what you need,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl. He pulls you down harder, driving into you with a force that makes you cry out, your head falling back. He feels the way you clench around him, the way your body convulses, and he knows you’re close, so close. “But I’m not going to give it to you yet. Not until I know you understand.”

“Understand w-what?” You sob, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling desperately.

“That you’re mine,” he growls, his thrusts quickening, his grip on your hips almost punishing. “That you and this baby — everything — belongs to me.”

“Yes, yes, I’m yours, I-” Your voice breaks, your body arching against him, and he finally lets you move, lets you ride him, lets you take what you need.

“Good girl,” he breathes, his hands guiding you, his own release building, tightening in his core. “That’s it, baby, take what you need. Show me how much you want it.”

You shatter around him, your body convulsing, your sobs filling the room. He feels you come undone, feels the way you squeeze him, and it sends him over the edge, his own release crashing through him. He buries himself deep, holding you against him as he spills into you, his teeth gritted, his eyes squeezed shut.

For a moment, everything is still, the only sound your ragged breathing, the quiet hum of satisfaction filling the space between you.

Then he moves, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, his hands stroking your back gently, soothingly.

“See?” He whispers, his lips brushing against your skin. “We’re going to be so happy, mon amour. You, me, and our baby. Everything will be perfect.”

***

The bell above the shop door jingles softly as you step into the boutique, the warm, perfumed air inside a welcome contrast to the chilly breeze outside. Charles follows behind you, his hand resting possessively on the small of your back as you browse through the racks of maternity clothes. Your stomach is starting to show now, rounding out beneath the soft fabric of your sweater, a tangible reminder of the life growing inside you.

Charles glances down at your belly, a surge of pride swelling in his chest. He loves seeing you like this — loves the way your body is changing, loves the way you’ve become even more beautiful, more radiant. You’re glowing, in every sense of the word, and he can’t get enough of it.

“Do you like this one?” You ask, holding up a pale blue dress, your voice hesitant.

Charles steps closer, his hand sliding from your back to your waist, resting just above your bump. He tilts his head, considering the dress for a moment, before nodding with a smile.

“It’s perfect,” he says, his voice low and reassuring. “You’ll look beautiful in it.”

You smile shyly, your fingers smoothing over the fabric, and Charles feels a pang of possessiveness twist in his gut. He loves how soft and uncertain you’ve become lately, how much more you lean on him, rely on him. The pregnancy has made you vulnerable, and he thrives on it. He loves that you need him now, in a way you never did before.

As you make your way to the changing rooms, Charles lingers by the front of the shop, his eyes scanning the street outside through the large glass windows. He’s always on alert, always watching. He has to be. The thought of anyone — or anything — interrupting this perfect life he’s built with you sends a cold shiver down his spine.

And then he sees him.

Arthur.

Standing across the street, frozen in place, his eyes locked on Charles through the glass.

Charles’ entire body tenses, his jaw clenching tightly. He can see the shock in Arthur’s expression, the way his eyes flicker past Charles, searching for something — no, for someone.

You.

Arthur’s gaze drops to the shop window, and Charles knows exactly what he’s looking at. Your silhouette, your round belly. The truth hitting Arthur like a punch to the gut.

For a brief, panicked moment, Charles’ mind races. He thought he’d been careful. He’s kept Arthur away from you, made sure to cover all his tracks, kept you isolated from anything or anyone that could pull you back into your old life. He’s been meticulous, perfect in his control.

But now, standing across the street, is the one person Charles never wanted you to see again.

Arthur begins to move, his feet carrying him across the street with determined strides, and Charles feels a cold sweat break out across the back of his neck. He can’t let this happen. Not now. Not when everything is so perfect.

You emerge from the changing room, your face bright and cheerful as you smooth the fabric of the blue dress over your belly. “What do you think?” You ask, spinning around slightly to give him a full view.

Before Charles can respond, the door to the boutique swings open with a sharp clang, and Arthur steps inside.

“Y/N,” Arthur’s voice cuts through the air like a blade, filled with shock, disbelief, and something else — something darker, more dangerous.

You freeze, your eyes going wide as you turn to face him. For a moment, the three of you are locked in a tense, suffocating silence. You glance between them, confusion written all over your face.

“Arthur?” You whisper, your voice barely audible.

Charles steps forward, immediately positioning himself between you and his younger brother, his hand gripping your arm tightly. “What are you doing here?” His voice is low, warning, dripping with barely contained anger.

Arthur’s eyes never leave you, flicking from your face to your belly with an expression that’s a mixture of hurt and fury. “What the hell is going on, Y/N?” He demands, ignoring Charles completely. “You’re … you’re pregnant?”

Your face drains of color, your hand instinctively moving to cover your stomach, as if to shield the truth from him. “I … I can explain,” you stammer, your voice trembling.

But Charles isn’t having it. He steps forward, his body blocking Arthur’s view of you completely. “She doesn’t owe you an explanation, Arthur,” he snaps, his voice cold and cutting. “You’re not part of her life anymore.”

Arthur’s face twists with anger, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Not part of her life?” He spits, his eyes blazing. “I was with her for six years, Charles. Six years. You think you can just waltz in and take everything?”

Charles’ grip on your arm tightens, his nails digging into your skin as he fights to keep control. His pulse is racing, his heart pounding in his chest, but outwardly, he remains calm, collected. He has to. He can’t let Arthur get under his skin, can’t let him ruin everything he’s worked so hard for.

“Y/N made her choice,” Charles says evenly, his voice cold as ice. “She chose me. We’re having a baby together. Our baby.”

Arthur’s face goes pale, his eyes widening in disbelief. “A baby?” He whispers, his voice breaking. He looks at you then, truly looks at you, and Charles can see the hurt in his eyes, the devastation. “Is that true, Y/N?” He asks, his voice shaking. “You’re having his baby?”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Tears well up in your eyes, and you look down, avoiding Arthur’s gaze.

Charles takes a step closer to Arthur, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You need to leave, Arthur. Now.”

But Arthur doesn’t move. He just stands there, staring at you, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. “How could you do this?” He chokes out. “How could you betray me like this?”

Before you can respond, Charles steps in front of you again, his body a wall of protection. “She didn’t betray you,” he says harshly. “You were never good enough for her. You could never give her what she needed. I could.”

Arthur’s face twists with fury, and he takes a threatening step forward. “You’re sick, Charles,” he growls. “You manipulated her, didn’t you? You’ve been controlling her this whole time.”

Charles’ eyes darken, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. “You don’t know anything about us,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “You have no idea what we’ve been through. What we have together.”

Arthur looks like he’s about to explode, his fists trembling with barely contained rage. “You’re delusional,” he spits. “You think you can just take her and make her yours? You think she’s going to stay with you?”

Charles’ lips curl into a cold smile, his eyes narrowing. “She’s already mine,” he says, his voice soft but deadly. “She’s carrying my child. We’re going to be a family. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Arthur looks at you again, his expression filled with pain and disbelief. “Y/N, please,” he begs, his voice breaking. “Tell me this isn’t true. Tell me he hasn’t brainwashed you.”

But you can’t look at him. Your hand is still resting on your belly, your eyes filled with tears, and you shake your head slowly, unable to find the words.

Arthur lets out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I don’t believe this,” he whispers. “I don’t believe you’d do this to me.”

Charles steps forward, his voice sharp and final. “Leave, Arthur,” he says coldly. “Before I make you.”

For a moment, Arthur stands there, staring at the two of you, his face pale and broken. Then, without another word, he turns and walks out of the shop, the door slamming shut behind him.

Charles watches him go, his heart racing, his body thrumming with adrenaline. He turns to you, his hand moving to cup your face, his thumb brushing away your tears.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs softly, pulling you into his arms. “He’s gone now. He can’t hurt us.”

You bury your face in his chest, your body shaking with quiet sobs, and Charles holds you tightly, his hand resting protectively over your belly.

“It’s just us now, mon amour,” he whispers, his lips pressing against your hair. “Just us and our baby.”

And as he holds you close, a dark, satisfied smile spreads across his face.

Arthur was always a necessary sacrifice.

***

Charles is pacing the living room when the call comes through. His fingers drum against his thigh, jaw set in a grim line as he answers, putting the phone to his ear. He keeps his voice low, careful not to let it carry down the hall where you’re napping in his bed. Where you’re safe.

“Is it handled?” He asks, words clipped and impatient.

His manager’s voice comes through the speaker, tight and strained. “We’re working on it. But the story’s already circulating. It’s gaining traction.”

Charles squeezes his eyes shut, frustration and anger twisting through him like a hot blade. This was not supposed to happen. He made sure of it. He thought he’d made sure Arthur was too broken, too defeated to put up a fight.

“Fix it,” he grinds out, his grip on the phone tightening. “I don’t care what it takes — just make it disappear.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, the silence stretching thin and taut, before his manager responds quietly, “It’s not that simple, Charles. He’s not backing down. And the media — well, they love a scandal. Especially one like this.”

Charles’ teeth clench, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He knows exactly what his manager is implying. The story is out there. Arthur’s desperate, crazed accusations that Charles is holding you against your will, that he’s manipulative, unhinged, obsessed. That he’s stolen Arthur’s long-time girlfriend and trapped you in some twisted relationship.

Charles’ jaw ticks, fury simmering just beneath the surface. He wants to laugh. Obsessed? Maybe. Manipulative? Definitely. But you’re not a hostage. You’re his — his to love, his to protect, his to control. Arthur has no idea what he’s talking about. He doesn’t know anything about what you and Charles have together.

“Buy them off,” Charles snarls, each word falling from his lips like a command. “Or threaten them. Do whatever you have to do to make them stop printing this shit. And Arthur-” He cuts himself off, breathing hard, the urge to fly across the room and smash something almost overwhelming.

“Keep him away from Y/N,” he finishes darkly, his voice low and dangerous. “I don’t want him anywhere near her. Understood?”

“Understood,” his manager replies, voice tight. “But Charles … this could get messy. Really messy. I’m just warning you-”

“Just do it,” Charles snaps, cutting him off. “I don’t want excuses. I want results.”

He ends the call, his hands shaking slightly as he lowers the phone. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm the wild, chaotic storm raging inside him. He can’t lose his temper. Not now. Not when Arthur’s doing everything he can to tear them apart.

Charles turns his gaze to the shattered pieces of your phone lying in the corner of the room. It only took a second to crush it beneath his heel, to cut off your access to the outside world. He can’t risk you seeing what’s being said, can’t risk you hearing Arthur’s poisonous words.

If you did … you might start to doubt him. You might start to wonder if Arthur’s telling the truth. And Charles can’t let that happen. He won’t let that happen.

With a deep breath, he forces himself to relax, his expression smoothing out into a mask of calm. He has a plan. He always does. He’ll deal with the media, silence Arthur for good. And you … you’ll be none the wiser.

He’ll make sure of it.

Charles’ gaze drifts down the hall, his chest tightening with a fierce, possessive longing. He needs to see you. Needs to remind himself that you’re his, that Arthur’s pathetic attempts to tear you away from him are futile.

He heads to the bedroom quietly, pushing open the door to find you curled up on your side, still sound asleep. You look so peaceful, so delicate, your hair spread out across the pillow, your lips parted slightly. He moves closer, his eyes tracing the curve of your belly beneath the sheets, the swell of your pregnancy more visible by the day.

His heart clenches with a strange, overwhelming mixture of love and obsession. You’re carrying his child. His blood, his legacy. You belong to him in every way that matters.

But even that’s not enough for him. He wants more. Needs more. He wants to own every part of you — your body, your mind, your soul. He wants you to think of him every second of every day, wants you to be consumed by him, just as he’s consumed by you.

A dark smile curves his lips as an idea forms in his mind, a way to keep you distracted, to keep you from thinking too much about what’s happening outside the safe, perfect world he’s built for you.

“Mon ange,” he murmurs softly, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.

You stir slightly, blinking up at him with sleepy eyes. “Charles?” You mumble, your voice thick with drowsiness. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, chérie,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back from your face. “I just thought … you might like a bath. Something relaxing, to help you unwind.”

You smile at him sleepily, nodding slightly. “That sounds nice.”

He scoops you up gently, carrying you to the en suite bathroom, where he sets you down on the edge of the large bathtub. He turns on the taps, the water rushing in with a soothing, steady sound. He adds a few drops of lavender-scented oil, the scent filling the air, calming and comforting.

Charles helps you out of your clothes, his hands lingering on your skin, his fingers tracing over the swell of your belly with reverence. He lowers you into the warm water, watching as you sink down with a contented sigh, your head resting against the back of the tub.

“Comfortable?” He asks softly, his voice a low murmur.

You nod, your eyes fluttering shut as you relax into the water. “Mmm … yes.”

Charles smiles, kneeling beside the tub. He reaches over and adjusts the settings on the jet controls, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he turns them on, directing the powerful stream of water right between your legs.

You let out a startled gasp, your eyes flying open as the sensation hits you. “Charles-”

“Shh, chérie,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing purr. “Just relax. Let me take care of you.”

Your eyes are wide, your cheeks flushed as the water pulses against you, the sensation building steadily, turning your body to jelly. Charles watches with dark satisfaction as you squirm, your breaths coming faster, your hands gripping the edge of the tub.

He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, his voice low and husky. “So perfect. So mine.”

You whimper, your hips shifting involuntarily as the jets work their magic, your body reacting helplessly to the stimulation. Charles’ hand slips beneath the water, his fingers sliding over your heated skin, teasing you further.

“Charles, please-” you moan, your voice breaking.

He hums softly, his lips ghosting over your neck. “Please what, mon amour?”

“I … I don’t know,” you gasp, your head falling back, your body arching in the water. “It’s — oh God, it’s too much-”

Charles’ eyes darken with satisfaction, his fingers trailing lower, stroking you in time with the jets. “Just let go, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing, hypnotic lullaby. “Let me take care of everything.”

You cry out softly, your body trembling as the sensation crests, waves of pleasure crashing over you. Charles holds you steady, his touch firm and unrelenting, pushing you higher and higher until you can’t take it anymore, until you’re shuddering and gasping and begging incoherently.

And then, finally, when you’ve been thoroughly unraveled, when your body is limp and boneless, Charles shuts off the jets, his fingers gently stroking your skin as you slump back against him, utterly spent.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. He gathers you up in his arms, holding you close as you drift off, your breathing soft and even against his chest.

Charles’ lips brush against your hair, a dark smile curving his lips. He may not be able to control what happens outside these walls, but in here — in his world, in his arms — you’re his.

Arthur can try to tear you apart. He can try to expose Charles’ darkness to the world. But it won’t change a thing.

Because you’re never leaving.

***

Charles doesn’t tell you he’s going out. He leaves quietly in the early hours of the morning, long before the sun has risen. The only sound in the otherwise silent apartment is the faint click of the front door shutting behind him, and even that feels like a betrayal of his intent to remain unseen. He’s meticulous as he slips into his car, the leather seats cool against his back. The drive to Arthur’s location — some nondescript hotel in Nice — is a blur, the city lights flashing by in a hazy smear of gold and white.

His jaw is set, eyes cold and unyielding as he pulls up to the parking lot. He grips the steering wheel tightly, the skin of his knuckles taut, veins prominent. This is a loose end that needs tying, and he’s finally run out of patience. He’s given Arthur time — more than enough time to drop his accusations, to back off. He’d even sent a few pointed warnings through other channels, but it seems Arthur’s stubbornness knows no bounds.

No matter. This ends today.

Charles steps out of the car, the chill of the pre-dawn air nipping at his skin. He straightens his coat, taking a deep breath as he crosses the lot, his footsteps the only sound in the stillness. He can feel the coiled tension thrumming beneath his skin, the barely contained violence that always simmers just below the surface whenever Arthur’s name comes up.

It only takes him a minute to reach the room — third floor, end of the hall. Room 317. He can hear the murmur of voices inside as he approaches, one of them unmistakably Arthur’s, sharp and agitated. Charles pauses for a second, just outside the door, his pulse pounding steadily in his ears. He listens, picking up the sound of shuffling feet, the clink of glass against glass, a muffled curse.

Charles knocks once, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent hallway.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Arthur’s voice — hoarse, disbelieving. “Who the hell is it at this hour?”

No answer.

Charles knocks again, harder this time, the force reverberating down the length of his arm.

The door swings open, and Arthur’s face appears, disheveled and bleary-eyed. There’s a moment where Arthur blinks, his gaze taking in the man standing on the other side of the threshold as if he’s not quite registering what he’s seeing.

“Charles?” Arthur’s voice is incredulous, slurred slightly, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath. “What the-”

Charles doesn’t give him a chance to finish. He steps forward, crossing the threshold in one smooth, fluid movement, shoving Arthur back with a force that sends him stumbling into the room. The door slams shut behind them, and Charles’ hand is already around his brother’s throat, fingers digging into the soft, vulnerable flesh.

Arthur chokes, his eyes going wide, hands scrabbling uselessly at Charles’ wrist. “W-what the fuck are you doing?”

“Ending this,” Charles says softly, his voice calm and controlled despite the dark rage swirling through him. “I warned you, Arthur. I warned you to stop. But you didn’t listen.”

Arthur gasps, his face turning red, his body jerking as he tries to wrench himself free from Charles’ iron grip. “Y-you’re fucking insane!” He manages to choke out, his voice a rasp. “Y/N — she-”

“Don’t say her name,” Charles snarls, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. He tightens his hold, watching with detached satisfaction as Arthur’s face contorts in pain, his eyes bulging. “You don’t get to talk about her. You don’t get to even think about her.”

Arthur’s lips part, but no sound comes out — just a strangled wheeze, a desperate, broken noise. Charles watches him dispassionately, his expression blank as he waits, as he lets his brother teeter on the edge of unconsciousness before loosening his grip just enough for Arthur to suck in a ragged, shuddering breath.

“Charles, please-” Arthur rasps, his voice weak and desperate. “You’re — killing me-”

“Am I?” Charles tilts his head, regarding his brother with an almost clinical interest. “Because the way I see it, you’ve been trying to kill me. Trying to destroy everything I’ve built, everything I love. All because you’re too much of a coward to accept the truth.”

He lets go abruptly, shoving Arthur to the floor. Arthur collapses in a heap, coughing and gasping, clutching at his throat. He looks up at Charles, eyes wide with fear and confusion, his voice barely a whisper. “What truth?”

“That she’s mine,” Charles says softly, his gaze dark and unrelenting. “She’s always been mine, Arthur. You were just too blind to see it.”

Arthur shakes his head, his expression one of horror and disbelief. “No … no, that’s not true-”

Charles takes a step forward, his presence looming over his brother, his shadow swallowing the dim light of the room. “Do you really think she wanted you?” He asks quietly, his voice a soft, deadly murmur. “Do you really think she loved you?”

Arthur’s face crumples, his hands trembling as he pushes himself up, his shoulders hunched. “She did,” he whispers, his voice broken. “She — she was with me for six years, Charles. Six fucking years-”

“And yet she never let you touch her,” Charles cuts in smoothly, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “She never gave you what she gave me so easily. Don’t you understand? You were just a placeholder. A distraction. She was always meant to be mine.”

Arthur shakes his head again, his eyes filling with tears. “You’re lying. You-”

“Lying?” Charles laughs softly, the sound low and humorless. “Ask her yourself. Oh, wait — you can’t. Because she doesn’t want to see you anymore. She doesn’t even think about you anymore.”

Arthur flinches, his face crumpling. “Charles, please-”

Charles’ smile fades, his expression hardening once more. “I’m not here to beg,” he says coldly. “I’m not here to negotiate. I’m here to make it clear — to make you understand — that this is the end.”

Arthur looks up at him, his eyes wide and fearful. “What … what are you going to do?”

Charles leans down, his gaze locking onto his brother’s, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “You’re going to disappear. You’re going to leave this city, leave this continent, and you’re never going to come back. You’re going to vanish without a trace, and you’re going to stay gone.”

Arthur swallows hard, his throat working as he tries to form words, his lips trembling. “And if I don’t?”

Charles straightens, his gaze never leaving his brother’s face. “If you don’t,” he says softly, “I’ll make sure you do.”

The threat hangs heavy in the air, a promise wrapped in steel. Arthur shudders, his eyes squeezing shut as he lets out a ragged, broken sob. He nods slowly, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Good,” Charles murmurs, a satisfied smile curving his lips. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

He turns on his heel, heading for the door. He doesn’t spare his brother a second glance as he steps out of the room, as he walks down the hall and back to his car. He doesn’t look back as he starts the engine, as he drives away, leaving Arthur and the mess he created behind him.

He’s dealt with it. Arthur won’t bother them again.

And now … now he can go back to you. Back to where he belongs.

***

Charles plans everything meticulously.

When he returns to the apartment that morning, he’s all warmth and tenderness. He finds you still curled up in bed, blankets tucked around you like a cocoon. You look so peaceful, so beautiful in the early morning light, the hint of a bump peeking through the oversized T-shirt he had pulled over your head the night before.

He slips out of his clothes with practiced ease, folding them neatly on the chair by the bed. The sight of your bare shoulders, your slightly parted lips, the slow rise and fall of your chest — it’s enough to make his heart swell with possessive pride. He pads over quietly, slipping under the covers beside you, and wraps his arms around you, pressing his face into the curve of your neck.

The first thing he does is inhale deeply, taking in your scent — soft, warm, and uniquely yours. His hands move over your skin with reverence, tracing the curves of your shoulders, your waist, your growing belly. You stir slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, but you don’t wake.

Perfect.

It’s not until the sun has fully risen that he lets you stir awake, nudging his nose against your cheek and pressing kisses along your jaw until you slowly blink your eyes open. You turn your head, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips as you meet his gaze.

“Morning,” you whisper, voice thick with sleep.

“Morning, ma belle,” Charles murmurs, his voice low and tender. He pulls you closer, his hand smoothing over your belly. “How are my two favorite people today?”

You laugh softly, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you look down at the small swell of your stomach. “Still waking up.”

“Then let me help,” he breathes, lowering his head to nip gently at your collarbone. You gasp softly, your hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders as he trails a line of open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. His hands wander, exploring, kneading, until you’re arching into his touch, your breathing shallow and uneven.

“Charles-” Your voice is a soft, breathless moan, filled with the kind of trust and yearning that makes something primal in him twist and tighten. “We — ah, we have to get ready for the parenting class.”

He hums against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. “We have time.”

His lips close around a particularly sensitive spot just below your ear, and you let out a shaky whimper. He’s not sure how long he spends like that, working you up, savoring every sound, every shudder, every whispered plea that falls from your lips. But he knows exactly what he’s doing.

It’s only when you’re completely lost to the haze, your fingers clutching at the sheets, your body trembling with need, that he finally leans back, his breath coming in soft, measured pants. He reaches over to the bedside table, pulling out a neatly folded piece of paper and a pen, and places it on the bed beside you.

“What’s that?” You murmur, still dazed, your eyes fluttering as you try to focus on the form in front of you.

“Just a little thing to sign for the class,” he says smoothly, his tone casual, nonchalant. He settles between your legs, his fingers trailing up your inner thighs in slow, teasing strokes. “You know, to confirm our participation and all that.”

You glance down at the paper, brow furrowing slightly as you try to read it, but Charles doesn’t give you a chance to focus. He lowers his head, his mouth finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, and you gasp, your back arching off the bed as pleasure shoots through you.

“Charles — oh, god,” you breathe, your voice trembling. Your hands fly to his hair, tugging gently, but he doesn’t relent, his tongue moving in slow, torturous circles, his fingers digging into your hips to keep you still.

“Just sign it, ma chérie,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low, seductive purr. “Then I can make you feel so much better. I promise.”

You whimper, your eyes fluttering shut as you struggle to concentrate. He can see the moment you give in, your resistance melting away under the onslaught of his mouth and hands. You reach blindly for the pen, your fingers fumbling as you scrawl your signature at the bottom of the page, your hand trembling with each pass.

“There we go,” he coos, lifting his head just long enough to watch as you finish signing. “Good girl.”

He’s careful to fold the paper back up, slipping it into the drawer with a satisfied smile before turning his full attention back to you. You’re pliant, needy, your body arching and twisting beneath him, your breath coming in soft, desperate pants.

“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with possessive pride. “So perfect, so sweet. Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

You shake your head, your fingers curling in his hair, your voice a breathless whisper. “Charles, please-”

He knows exactly what you’re asking for, what you’re begging for, and it only makes him want to draw it out longer. He settles into a slow, torturous rhythm, his mouth and hands moving in perfect harmony, until you’re shaking, your thighs trembling, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes.

“Please,” you whimper again, your voice breaking on the word. “Please, Charles-”

“Shh, shh,” he soothes, pressing soft kisses to your inner thigh, his breath hot against your skin. “I’ve got you, mon cœur. Let go. Just let go for me.”

And when you finally do, your body going rigid and then melting into the bed as pleasure washes over you in waves, he’s right there with you, holding you, whispering soft, sweet words against your skin.

“That’s it, ma chérie. Just like that. You’re so beautiful like this. So perfect.”

He stays with you like that, his hands gentle as they roam over your skin, his mouth pressing soft, reverent kisses along your belly, your hips, your thighs. He savors the way you tremble, the way you whisper his name like a prayer, the way you cling to him as if he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

And maybe he is.

When you finally come back to yourself, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, he helps you sit up, his hands firm and steady on your shoulders.

“Ready for class?” He asks softly, his smile warm, his gaze soft as he looks down at you.

You nod slowly, still a little dazed, a soft, contented smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah … I think so.”

He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his heart swelling with love and pride. “Good.”

He helps you dress, his hands lingering on your skin a little longer than necessary, his eyes lingering on the small swell of your belly. It’s not long now, he thinks, his chest tightening with anticipation. Soon, everyone will know. Soon, there will be no denying it — no denying that you belong to him, that you’ve always belonged to him.

He tucks the signed marriage application form away carefully, making a mental note to drop it off at the Monaco Town Hall later. There’s no rush. It’s just a formality now. A piece of paper to make it official. Because you’re already his in every way that matters.

And soon, the world will know it too.

***

Charles can barely breathe.

He stands at the head of the hospital bed, his hand locked around yours, gripping tight enough to leave marks, but you don’t seem to notice. Your own fingers are trembling, clenched around his as if they’re the only thing tethering you to reality. Sweat beads on your forehead, dampening your hair, and your face is contorted with pain and effort as another contraction rips through you.

“It’s okay, ma chérie, you’re doing so well,” Charles murmurs, his voice strained with worry and something else — something darker, sharper, a fierce, primal protectiveness that twists in his chest like a living thing. He swallows hard, pressing a kiss to your temple, tasting the salt of your sweat on his lips. “Just a little longer, I promise. You’re almost there.”

You whimper, your head lolling to the side, your eyes half-shut with exhaustion. “Charles … I-I can’t-”

“Yes, you can.” His voice is firm, unyielding, his eyes blazing as he stares down at you. “You will. You’re the strongest person I know, and you’re going to do this. For us. For our son.”

The reminder seems to give you strength, and you nod weakly, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath as you steel yourself for the next wave. Charles can feel your grip tighten even more, and he shifts closer, his body almost draped over yours, his other hand smoothing over your hair, your shoulder, your belly — wherever he can reach, just to be touching you, grounding you.

“Focus on me,” he whispers, his voice low and urgent. “Just on me, okay? Breathe with me. You can do this. We can do this.”

It’s an eternity, an endless cycle of pain and panting breaths and whispered encouragement, until the OBGYN finally leans over, glancing between your legs with a nod of approval. “You’re almost fully dilated. Just a few more pushes, and you’ll get to meet your baby.”

Charles tightens his grip on your hand, his eyes fixed on your face, watching every flicker of emotion, every furrow of your brow, every flicker of fear and determination and exhaustion. He hates this, hates seeing you in pain, hates that he can’t just take it all away. But he knows this is what you wanted, what you dreamed of, and he’ll be damned if he lets his own fear ruin it.

“Just a few more, bébé,” he breathes, his voice low and rough with emotion. “You’re so close. You’ve come so far. I’m so proud of you. So proud.”

Your eyes flutter open, meeting his gaze, and for a moment, there’s something there — something raw and vulnerable and achingly beautiful. “Charles … I-”

“I know,” he whispers, leaning down to press his forehead to yours. “I know, ma belle. I love you too. So much.”

And then you’re pushing again, a raw, primal scream tearing from your throat, and Charles can only hold on, his heart pounding in his chest as the doctor’s voice rises over the chaos.

“That’s it! That’s it! Just one more, give me one more big push!”

You scream again, your whole body straining with the effort, and then suddenly, there’s a high, thin wail that cuts through the air like a knife.

Time seems to freeze.

Charles’ breath catches in his throat, his whole world narrowing down to the tiny, wriggling figure the nurse is holding in her hands, covered in blood and amniotic fluid and screaming its tiny lungs out.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, his voice breaking on the words. “Oh my god, he’s — he’s here. He’s-”

A nurse moves quickly, wrapping the baby in a soft, clean towel, and then she’s turning, holding him out to you, her face creased with a gentle smile.

“Congratulations, you two,” she says softly. “It’s a boy.”

You’re shaking, tears streaming down your face as you reach out with trembling hands to take the baby. Charles moves with you, his arms slipping around you to support you as you cradle the tiny bundle against your chest, your breath hitching with sobs.

“Hi,” you whisper, your voice trembling, filled with wonder and awe. “Hi, little one. Oh my god, hi …”

Charles’ heart feels like it’s about to burst, his chest so tight he can barely breathe. He looks down at the baby — his son — nestled in your arms, his tiny fists flailing, his face scrunched up as he lets out another wail.

“He’s … perfect,” Charles whispers, his voice thick with emotion. He reaches out, his fingers trembling as he brushes them gently over the baby’s head, feeling the soft, downy hair beneath his fingertips. “You’re perfect, mon fils. Absolutely perfect.”

The baby’s cries soften, his tiny body relaxing as he feels the warmth of your skin, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. Charles watches, his gaze riveted to the small, scrunched-up face, the tiny fingers curling around the edge of the towel.

He can’t believe it. He can’t believe that this tiny, fragile life is his, that he helped create something so beautiful, so precious. It’s overwhelming, a tidal wave of emotions crashing over him, and he feels his eyes sting with tears, his throat tightening with a sob.

“Look at him,” he whispers, his voice choked. “Just … look at him.”

You nod, your own tears falling freely as you gaze down at your son, your fingers tracing over his tiny features with reverence. “He’s so beautiful,” you murmur, your voice breaking. “Charles … I — thank you. Thank you so much.”

Charles shakes his head, his arms tightening around you, pulling you closer, his lips brushing against your temple. “No, thank you. You did all the hard work. You brought him into this world. I’m just … I’m just so proud of you.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, your gaze never leaving the baby’s face. “We did this together,” you whisper. “All three of us.”

“Yeah,” Charles breathes, his voice filled with awe. “Yeah, we did.”

It’s a blur after that, nurses bustling around, cleaning up, checking your vitals, making sure the baby is healthy and strong. But through it all, Charles never lets go of you, his arms wrapped around you and his son, his gaze never wavering.

When the medical team finally leave, giving you some privacy, Charles shifts carefully, easing onto the edge of the bed beside you. He reaches out, his fingers brushing gently over the baby’s tiny hand, marveling at how small and delicate it is.

“Can I …” He murmurs, his voice tentative, almost shy.

You smile softly, your eyes still wet with tears as you look up at him. “Of course.”

Charles swallows hard, his heart pounding as you carefully lift the baby, placing him in Charles’ waiting arms. He shifts, cradling the tiny bundle against his chest, his breath catching as the baby lets out a soft, sleepy sigh.

“Hey there, little guy,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “I’m your papa. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

The baby stirs, his tiny face scrunching up for a moment before relaxing again, and Charles feels something inside him shatter and reform, something deep and primal and fierce.

“I promise I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, his voice low and fervent. “I’ll protect you and your maman, always. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll make sure you have everything you could ever want, everything you could ever need. You’ll never have to worry about anything. I promise.”

He lifts his gaze, meeting yours, and his breath catches at the look on your face — so full of love and warmth and happiness. “We did it,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “He’s really here.”

You nod, your smile soft and radiant. “He’s really here.”

Charles leans forward, his lips brushing over your forehead, your nose, your lips, and then over the baby’s head, pressing soft, reverent kisses to each of you.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “Both of you. More than anything.”

Your eyes soften, and you reach up, your fingers brushing over his cheek. “We love you too, Charles.”

And in that moment, holding his son in his arms, with you by his side, Charles feels like he’s finally found everything he’s ever wanted. Everything he’s ever needed.

His family. His life. His everything.

And he knows, with a certainty that’s as solid and unyielding as stone, that he’ll never let go of it.

***

Arthur watches from a distance, and it’s like staring through frosted glass into a life he no longer recognizes. The family picnic sprawls out on the pristine lawn of Charles’ estate, the manicured gardens framing a picturesque scene of domestic bliss.

You’re sitting on a checkered blanket under the shade of an old oak tree, a baby cradled in your arms. Your soft murmurs drift through the air, your gaze locked on the tiny face peeking out from beneath the blue cotton blanket. You look … peaceful. Serene. And despite everything, Arthur’s chest tightens painfully at the sight.

He’s too far away to hear what you’re saying to the baby, but he can see your lips moving, the way your smile brightens, the gentle curve of your mouth as you lean down and kiss the baby’s forehead. His nephew. Charles’ son.

It should have been his.

Arthur’s fingers twitch at his sides, his nails biting into his palms as he forces himself to stay still, to stay hidden behind the row of hedges that separate the lawn from the main driveway. He knows he shouldn’t be here. Knows he’s not supposed to come anywhere near you or the baby, not after everything that’s happened.

But he couldn’t help it.

The compulsion, the desperation to see you, to see his family — it had clawed at him until he’d caved, his resolve shattering like glass beneath the weight of his longing. He just wanted to see you. To see if you were okay. If you were happy.

But now … now he wishes he hadn’t come.

Because what he sees isn’t just happiness. It’s a life he’s been shut out of, a life that Charles has taken for himself, a life Arthur knows was meant for him.

You shift slightly, adjusting your hold on the baby, and Arthur’s heart gives a painful lurch as he watches you unbutton your blouse, the soft fabric parting to reveal the swell of your breast. You’re murmuring to the baby, your voice a soothing hum that carries on the breeze, and then you’re guiding the baby’s mouth to your nipple.

Arthur’s breath catches, his throat tightening as he watches you begin to nurse. It’s an intimate, tender moment, one he knows he shouldn’t be witnessing, but he can’t look away. His gaze is locked on you, on the way your face softens, the way your shoulders relax, the way your eyes flutter shut as you cradle your son against your breast.

Charles’ son.

Arthur feels something dark and bitter twist in his gut, something that tastes like envy and regret and loss all wrapped up in a tangled knot of emotion he can’t untangle. This should have been his. You should have been his. The baby — his nephew — should have been his child. He was supposed to be the one sitting beside you, watching over you, protecting you, loving you.

But instead, he’s been reduced to a spectator, watching from the shadows as his older brother lives the life that Arthur had built with you for six long years.

“Do you miss me?” Arthur whispers under his breath, his voice barely audible, swallowed up by the distance between you. “Do you ever think about me? Do you even remember?”

But you don’t answer. You can’t hear him. You’re lost in your own world, your attention focused entirely on the baby at your breast, on the tiny, greedy mouth suckling at your nipple.

And then, as if sensing his presence, you glance up — your eyes drifting towards the hedges where Arthur is hiding.

He freezes, his heart slamming against his ribs, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, your gaze seems to land on him, your brow furrowing slightly in confusion. His pulse roars in his ears, his fingers curling into fists at his sides as he wills himself to remain perfectly still, to blend into the shadows.

But then, you blink, and the moment passes. Your gaze shifts away, back down to the baby, and Arthur lets out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging with a mixture of relief and disappointment.

You didn’t see him. You didn’t recognize him. You didn’t even notice he was there.

He’s invisible. Irrelevant. Forgotten.

And that knowledge cuts deeper than any knife.

“Enjoying the view, little brother?”

Arthur’s entire body jerks violently, his breath stuttering as he spins around, his eyes wide with shock. Charles stands a few feet away, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his tailored trousers, his expression cool and composed, but there’s a sharp edge to his gaze, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Arthur?” Charles’ voice is low and calm, but there’s an undercurrent of menace beneath the words, a warning that sends a shiver down Arthur’s spine.

“I-” Arthur swallows, his throat dry, his mind scrambling for an excuse, an explanation, anything that might defuse the tension radiating off his brother in waves. “I just wanted to see her. To see … the baby.”

Charles’ lips curl into a mocking smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You have some nerve, you know that? After everything you tried to pull? After you went to the press, after you tried to ruin my life, our life-”

“You ruined my life!” Arthur snaps, his voice breaking on the words, the pent-up frustration and anger and grief spilling over. “You took everything from me, Charles! Everything! She was supposed to be mine-”

“She was never yours,” Charles interrupts coldly, his gaze hard and unyielding. “Not really. She was mine the moment I laid eyes on her. You were just too blind to see it.”

Arthur flinches, his heart twisting painfully in his chest. “You can’t just take whatever you want, Charles. You can’t just-”

“Yes, I can.” The words are soft, but they land like a slap, leaving Arthur reeling. “And I did.”

Charles steps closer, his gaze locking onto Arthur’s, unblinking and fierce. “You’re lucky I haven’t done worse. You’re lucky I’m even letting you stand here and breathe the same air as her. But don’t push me, Arthur. Don’t test me. Because if you come near her again — if you even think about trying to take her or our baby away from me — I’ll destroy you.”

Arthur’s throat works, his hands shaking at his sides as he fights to hold back the tears threatening to spill over. “You’re a monster,” he whispers hoarsely. “You’re sick, Charles. You’re-”

“Happy,” Charles cuts him off, his smile widening, his gaze gleaming with something triumphant and cruel. “I’m happy, Arthur. We’re happy. And there’s nothing you can do to change that.”

Arthur’s chest heaves with ragged breaths, his vision blurring as he glares at his brother, his entire body trembling with barely suppressed rage and heartbreak.

“I hate you,” he spits, the words venomous and bitter on his tongue. “I hate you so much.”

Charles doesn’t even flinch. He just tilts his head slightly, his gaze flicking back to where you’re sitting on the blanket, completely oblivious to the confrontation happening just a few yards away.

“Maybe,” he murmurs thoughtfully, his voice softening as he watches you. “But you’re not the one she’s going home with, are you? You’re not the one she’s going to spend the rest of her life with. You’re not the one she’s given her heart to. So hate me all you want, little brother. It doesn’t matter.”

He turns back to Arthur, his smile sharp and satisfied. “Because in the end, I won.”

Arthur stares at him, his breath hitching painfully in his throat, and for the first time in his life, he feels completely powerless. Helpless. Defeated.

And as he watches Charles turn and walk away — back to you, back to your son, back to the life that should have been his — Arthur knows, with a bone-deep certainty, that he’s lost.

Lost you. Lost his family. Lost everything that ever mattered.

And there’s no getting it back.

[threadbearsweater]

one warm day is all i really need | arthur morgan

When you find yourself taken in by a gang of outlaws, the last thing you expect is to grow sweet on one of them- and have the feelings reciprocated. Arthur Morgan doesn't have time for romantic nonsense, but a few memebers of the gang want to make sure that he gets to indulge in his obvious affection toward you. Tags: 3.9k words, an unlikely romance, meddling gang members (with the purest of intentions, one might suppose); female reader, alcohol use, smoking, emotional smut. A repost from a (regretfully) deactivated blog.

Arthur first notices your eyes on him one evening around the campfire at Shady Belle. He won’t accuse you of staring– Lord knows he’s been known to look at you with the same foolish grin you’re wearing now– but he tips his hat to acknowledge you. The heat in your cheeks is suddenly warmer than what the fire has already provided; your grin only grows until your teeth are showing, and you duck your head into your shoulder to hide. Arthur takes a long swig from his whiskey bottle and grimaces as it goes down. He hasn't had a drop of anything in days, and the burn takes a little while to grow numb to now.

“Think she's sweet on you, Morgan,” Sean says in his Irish lilt, giving Arthur an elbow in the ribs.

“Naw, she's lookin’ at you,” Arthur deflects, though he hopes he's wrong. He thinks he knows.

“She told me last week to keep my eyes on my own work,” Sean continues. “I really don't think it's me she wants, Arthur.”

You turn to whisper something to Sadie, who laughs out loud with her face tilted toward the stars. You dare a glance back at Arthur, who is, in fact, looking at you.

Maybe there's some truth to what Mary Beth told you yesterday.

“Arthur's been awful quiet lately.”

The sun shines through the trees and dapples the table where you're seated with bright spots of pale yellow. It's your third round of dominoes with Mary-Beth, and she's whooping your ass, as usual. You don't know how she does it, but each game you play, you're a little more privy to her prowess.

“You think so? I don't know him as well as you.” You hope it isn't obvious that your heart started beating a little faster at the mention of his name. It leaves you breathless.

“Oh yeah,” Mary-Beth continues. “He's been scratchin’ away in that journal of his a lot more, too.” She leans closer, conspiratorial, her eyes twinkling with the gossip she's about to share. “Karen said he went to town twice last week to have a hot bath. If you knew Arthur like I know Arthur, why…you'd know that's highly out of character for him.”

“But you said he'd been quiet. Is that unusual for him, too?”

She hums and purses her lips. “Well you see, Arthur isn't usually a man of many words on a good day. But it's been real bad lately. He don't even give John a hard time like usual.”

You ponder the dominoes for a moment and then make your move. It doesn't earn you any points, but at least you didn't have to draw. “What do you think the problem is?” you ask, nonchalant as possible.

Mary-Beth smiles. Big and bright and sparkling. “Oh, it's not a problem at all.” She lowers her voice and cups her hand to her mouth. “Arthur's in love.”

You gasp, then giggle behind your hand, and Mary-Beth follows suit. Hosea looks on and shakes his head, so you quiet down, reaching across to grab Mary-Beth's hands. “Who do you think it is?”

Her cheeks are tinted pink, and she looks around to make sure there aren't any ears to hear. Word travels fast around camp if one isn't prudent. “I think it's you.”

A thunderstorm rips through Shady Belle a little over a week later. Your little tent that you share with Sadie is ripped straight off its supports in a terrible gust of wind, and you and the others hightail it inside the house to take cover just as it begins to hail. There's quite a ruckus as everyone huddles inside, windblown and rain-soaked. A few of the men hold up lanterns to illuminate the darkness while you watch the lightning and feel the thunder shake the old bones of the house.

“Everyone just calm down,” Dutch calls, descending the stairs, wearing some ridiculous robe with his arms spread wide. “Are we really gonna let a little old thunderstorm keep us from getting a good night's sleep?”

“Says the man with a bed inside the house,” Arthur bites, rounding the corner from what used to be the kitchen, holding a lantern up high in front of him. “Dutch, you better allow these ladies to take cover in here for tonight, or I'll–”

“Or you'll what, Mister Morgan? Pray tell, what kind of man do you take me for?” Dutch's eyes are fiery as he stares Arthur down; a display of dominance. A veritable cockfight.

Arthur's jaw twitches, but he doesn't back down. “The kind of man I should hope would have some goddamn respect for his family.”

There's a tense moment or two where everyone is quiet, then Dutch relents. “Fine, fine! But I expect everyone out there pitching in to clean up in the morning.” He points at Arthur and raises his voice again. “That includes the other man with a bed inside the house,” he sneers.

Arthur shakes his head, then looks away only to catch sight of you, shivering in your wet undergarments, huddled close to Mary-Beth for what little warmth the two of you can share. For a minute, he forgets to breathe, then composes himself enough to cross the room.

“Come on in here. Get yourself warm and dry by the fire.” His hand on your elbow is rough but warm as he leads you toward the fireplace. You nod and look back at Mary-Beth, who shoos you away with a flick of her wrist and a wink; you notice that her teeth are chattering. Despite the humidity that hangs heavy in the air, the temperature has turned chilly with the storm.

Arms crossed over your bosom to preserve any shred of modesty you might have left, you allow yourself to be led away by Arthur. Dutch and some of the others head upstairs while Charles and Javier keep watch from the front porch.

“You alright?” Arthur asks. He covers your shoulders with one of his heavy winter coats, and you pull it around you, grateful for the weight and warmth of it. Another clap of thunder shakes the house and you jump. Arthur chuckles.

“You laughin’ at me?” you quip, placing your palms flat in the direction of the fireplace. You don't even bother to hide the grin you feel curling on your lips.

“No madam, I am not,” Arthur says earnestly, taking a seat beside you on the old wooden crate he's set up as a makeshift bench.

“Then just what do you find so funny, Mister Morgan?”

He scratches the back of his neck, looking into the flames. “Aw, I dunno. I'm sorry. It's just that you're…”

You bump him with your hip, unable to stop the giggles that bubble up from your chest. “I'm what?” you pry.

There's a clatter of something falling on the front porch, and Arthur uses it as a good excuse to get out of this hole he's dug for himself. “I better go see what's going on out there. Charles might need my help.”

“I'm what, Arthur?!” you call, to no avail. He's gone before he can see the proverbial hearts in your eyes.

The saloon in Rhodes is a little nicer than the ones you visited in Valentine, though it's a far cry from the ones you used to frequent in Saint Denis. Still, when Sadie and the other girls decide that it's high time you have a little fun in town, you throw on your best dress and let Karen curl your hair and even apply a little of the makeup you snagged from a homestead up north. For the first time in months, you feel like a proper woman. There isn't time to be melancholy about the past, though, when the boys start whistling and cat-calling upon the sight of you and the other girls.

“Aw, knock it off!” Sadie hollers. She's decided to dress up a little tonight, too, much to everyone's surprise. But she hikes up her skirts to hop into the wagon, calling for the rest of you all to hurry it up. “I've got a bottle of rum with my name on it that's waiting for me to come drink her all down!”

You catch the sunset on the way to town. It's dazzling over the meadows, all golden light and warm, blazing oranges and reds that settle into a brilliant pink by the time your reach the main road into Rhodes. You wish you could see Arthur's eyes, but he's got a handle on the reins next to Charles in the front of the wagon. You've seen him watching the sunset before; he always looks so peaceful those evenings at camp, and you often wonder what he thinks about in those few minutes before the horizon is painted in pastel hues.

Karen starts singing a song that everyone eventually joins, and before you know it, you're pulling up in front of the Rhodes Parlour House. You can already hear the piano and a few voices from outside; the sound of it stirs something in your soul that makes you long for the familiarity of home, but you quickly shove it aside in favor of the company of your new family.

“Madam.” Arthur's voice brings you out of your thoughts and back into the present, where he waits at the back of the wagon with his hand extended to you. You beam at him, and he feels dizzy. And when your soft hand fits into his, he straightens his knees so they don't buckle and betray him.

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” you say, lifting the hem of your skirts to step out onto the dirt road.

Arthur leans in, dangerously close to your ear. You can smell the whisky and cigarettes on his breath, along with the faint tang of gunpowder and hair pomade. “You sure do look nice in that dress.”

You demure and fan yourself with your hand. “Just how much have you had to drink already tonight?” you giggle.

“Ahh, just a little nip to take the edge off.”

“Mm-hm. Sure, Arthur. Whatever you say.”

The night starts off relatively calm, as most nights do. You and the other girls find an empty table to sit and pick up on the town gossip, and the men start a hand of poker. It grows loud and crowded sometime around midnight, and it's hard to have a conversation without shouting over the din of voices, the clink of glass bottles, and the slow drag ragtime music from the piano. The ambiance is charming and lighthearted, and there are even a few couples drunkenly dancing on the porch.

You push back in your chair and find that when you stand, you're a little more wobbly than you thought you would be. The alcohol has loosened you more than you realize, and you grip the table for support until you feel a firm arm around your waist. “Whoa there.”

It's Arthur, who has won the last round of poker and has come to check in on you and the other ladies. You're pulled tight against his chest for one fleeting moment, and you look up into his eyes. He, too, seems drunk, with his eyes gleaming and drooping at the corners, his smile easy and his cheeks flushed.

“My knight in shining armor,” you slur, pretending to faint in his embrace. He only pulls you tighter against him, both of his broad hands splayed across your back. You laugh, and he smiles.

“You weren't getting another drink, were ya?” he questions with a raise of his brow.

“‘m thirsty,” you whine, lifting your empty glass entirely too close to his face. It knocks against his nose, which sends you into another fit of laughter.

Arthur takes your wrist– gentle but firm– and lowers the glass away. “Think you need to drink something that's not whiskey,” he drawls. You can't help but watch the way his lips form around the words; the slip of his tongue between his teeth, the way his mouth turns up into the hint of a smile when you pout. Before you can think too long and hard about it, you lunge forward and kiss him. Hard and clumsy and impulsive. You don't give him time to react. You're far too involved in the kiss to notice, but the girls at the table behind you have all gone silent. Arthur slides his hand along the side of your face and presses his fingers upon the nape of your neck, kissing you back like he really means it. (He really does.)

You pull back suddenly, breathless and reeling, swiping the back of your hand over your mouth. You're still held firm in his embrace, but the playfulness in his gaze has been replaced with an intensity that makes your knees weak all over again.

“What'd ya do that for?” he asks.

“Could ask you the same thing.”

“Well, you started it.”

“And you finished it.”

“Oh, I ain't finished with you, yet.”

“That a promise or a threat?” Your pulse is thumping wildly in your ears.

“Ya know, they got rooms upstairs for that!” Sadie shouts. There's a ripple of laughter across the table. Arthur's hand on your cheek feels like a brand, his arm about your waist an anchor. The rest of the room comes back to you in a woozy blur, and you look around, a little lovestruck and a whole lot drunk. Arthur's lips at your temple make your eyes flutter shut, and the room fades to black as tIt'weight of you slumps against him. He staggers only slightly, but holds you firm, chuckling softly.

“It's a promise,” he whispers.

You come to some hours later. Your mouth is dry as the desert, your head feels like lead, your skin broken out in a cold, uncomfortable sweat. At some point, it seems you were covered with a downy soft blanket, and the pillow at your head is much more fluffy than the makeshift one you made out of a bedroll at camp. At first, you think you're dreaming. Then, you wonder very briefly if you're back at your childhood home in Saint Denis. You almost call out to your mother when you hear a soft snore from the other side of your bed.

The room spins when you turn your head, and you rub your eyes until Arthur comes into focus. He's sprawled in an armchair a few feet away. His arms are crossed over his chest while his chin is tucked into his chest. Off to the side, you spy his boots; his big toe pokes through a hole in his sock and you smile at how vulnerable he looks.

“Arthur,” you whisper, shifting slightly as you pull the blanket up around your chin.

He grunts and lifts his head slowly. He frowns a little at first, but when he focuses on you lying there, so close he could reach out and kiss you again like he did last night, there's a slow, easy smile that spreads across his face.

“Hey there, party girl. You feeling alright?”

You could kick yourself for all the giggling you've done around him lately, but you can't help it. He brings out something giddy and downright foolish inside you, so you toss a pillow at him and bury your face in the sheets.

“Aw, come on now. I'm just messin’ with ya.” He leans forward and rubs your head affectionately. “I'd say you were feeling pretty good last night.”

It's in that moment a white-hot jolt of sheer panic shoots down your spine. Quickly, you check to make sure you're still wearing clothes. Aside from your breasts being a little lopsided in the confines of your bodice, you're relieved to find that your dress is still intact and– more importantly– on your body. You dare another peek at Arthur and notice that his shirt is unbuttoned down to the middle of his chest and he's discarded his vest somewhere, but he, too, is fully clothed. Thank the good Lord above.

You must've said that last part aloud, because Arthur laughs. “Don't worry, nothing happened. Though it weren't for lack of tryin’ on your part,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Thought I was gonna have to lock you in here like some feral cat till you settled down.”

Oh. Oh Lord. You try to recall what happened that led you to this room, but all that comes to mind is a lot of loud conversation, some dancing, a spilled drink across Sadie's lap, and Arthur's hand on the side of your cheek. “Oh…”

Now you remember it in vivid detail.

“Didn't know you cared for me like that,” he says. It's earnest and tender, a few shades less intense than the kiss you now recall, the one where it felt like he wanted to eat you alive right there in the middle of the saloon. Now, he thumbs your cheek and looks at you so fondly you swear your heart jumps right up in your throat. “I mean, I'd been hoping. Wasn't sure you was looking for a romance.” He huffs a short sigh, frustrated with himself. “Aw, hell, what am I saying? ‘Course you weren't. You're just looking to survive, just like the rest of us, and here I–”

“Shut up,” you say, taking hold of his hand and tugging him closer. He resists until you pull even harder, watching the fire in your eyes blaze to life. “You talk too much, Yankee.”

“I ain't no damn–”

“Kiss me.”

He's over you in an instant; you're pressed flat against the bed, completely and totally at his mercy. This kiss feels different than the drunken one last night. It's sober and honest, if not a little hesitant, as if he's holding himself back from devouring you wholly. The warmth of his body against yours takes your breath away. Or maybe it's the way his tongue laves heavy into your mouth, unashamed of how badly he craves the taste of you. You grip his hair at the roots and tug him down to kiss him harder, lifting your upper body to meet him until he presses down, his chest flush with yours.

Things get heated quickly.

His mouth moves across your cheek, down your neck, and he groans against your skin, rutting his cock against your thigh. You fleetingly wish that he had managed to get you out of that dress before he presumably tucked you into bed and passed out in that chair, because there’s a whole lot of fabric between you and him that really pisses you off right now. Arthur must feel much the same, because he’s bunching your skirts up past your knees while you’re fumbling with his belt buckle, desperate to feel him against you, inside you. It’s clumsy and crazed, rushed and rough, but you manage somehow to shuck off every last bit of your clothes and his until you’re breathless and so, so eager beneath him.

“Need you now,” you whine. You feel insane. Dizzy and dehydrated, impossibly turned on, every nerve ending on fire when his callused hands grip the fat of your thighs and open you to him.

“Greedy little thing, ain’t ya?” One of his hands slips between your legs to find you wet and swollen. He presses the pad of his thumb against your clit and pushes a finger inside you; the sound you make nearly has him finishing there on the sheets, so he wastes no time in getting himself as close to you as humanly possible.

“Never wanted something so bad,” he murmurs into the dip of your shoulder. He wants all of you– all at once– wants to fuse his hands against your skin and sink himself into you so deep that it would be impossible to tell where he ends and you begin. The heat from his body takes away what little breath you have left, his mouth on each part of your body building the buzz in your chest until you feel like you might just burst open. You grabbed at each other like it was the first and last time you might have this opportunity, as if you wanted more than what the other of you was able to give.

Considering the kind of life you’ve both led so far, it’s a good possibility that you might never get to do this again.

“Give it to me,” you plead, opening yourself further to him, fingers wrapped firm around the base of his cock. “Please.”

Arthur Morgan is a man of incredible strength and self restraint, except when it comes to a woman like you.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he takes you. It’s primal, sweaty, filthy, rough. Arthur pushes as far inside you as he can go, then pushes further when you beg for more. He cups your knees with slick palms and presses you open as far as you can bend; you tug roughly at his hair and bite down on his shoulder when the pleasure builds to a blinding ferocity. The wooden bedframe knocks angrily against the wall with each thrust, but you can’t bring yourself to care if anyone hears. You can’t focus on anything beyond the feeling of him filling you with every stroke of his cock, of the taut, corded muscle in his back and shoulders as you grapple to hang on as tight as you can. Your orgasm hits your hard and fast, and he encourages you through it, taking his time to give you long, controlled strokes. It’s as pleasurable for him as it is for you. “‘Atta girl,” he rasps, lips moving against your ear. Your hand flies to your mouth to muffle your cries, but he pulls it away and threads his fingers with yours, pressing it onto the pillow. “I wanna hear it.”

Your moans are what drive him over the edge.

He buries his face against the side of your neck, panting heavily as he comes, driving into you so hard that you can almost feel the mattress beneath you begin to sag under the weight. You cradle his head in your hands and link your legs around his waist, boneless and languid in the aftermath of your own pleasure. When he moves, you move with him, riding out the waves together until you’re both too tired to move another muscle.

Neither of you speak for a while. He lies on his back with an arm around your shoulders while you curl against him, tuned into his heartbeat and swirling little patterns into the hair on his chest. It’s comforting to feel him next to you, to watch his chest rise and fall as he steadies his breathing, to soak up the warmth of his skin against yours.

You’re the first to break the silence. “Did everyone else go back to camp last night?”

Arthur nods slowly. “Something tells me they planned all this.”

“Planned it? You mean…” You lift your arm slowly and flick your wrist to acknowledge the room you’re laying in. “This?” You lift your chin and grin at him. “Or getting us together?”

“Room was paid for before I even had a chance to ask if they had one,” he explains. “Think it was Mrs. Adler.”

You vaguely recall her shouting something about a room after you kissed Arthur last night, and you shake your head. “You complaining?”

He turns to his side, draping an arm across your hip. “Me? Never.” You’re suddenly pressed beneath him once again; from the looks of it, you won’t be getting out of this bed anytime soon. “Specially when I’ve got you here to help me keep warm.”

[muwapsturniolo]

Drip Sweat ⋆˚☆˖° M. Sturniolo

“What are you picking up, sweetheart?”

⟢ sloppy make out session, licking, sweaty and heated sex, nipple sucking. feral!matt, bigdick!matt, beard!matt. dawg idk what else, just play dj to this shit.

divider cred @bernardsbendystraws

Usually, you’d be pissed—your beat-up Bronco loved giving you hell. But today, you didn’t mind one bit.

From inside the garage, you watched as your neighbor, Matt, worked on the truck. The sun poured down on him, catching the sweat glistening on his skin. His brows were drawn in focus, lips set tight as his grease-streaked hands moved with practiced ease beneath the hood.

He was attractive—more than that, really. The kind of attractive that made heads turn. Girls in the neighborhood, even some of the moms, couldn’t help but fawn over him. There was just something about Matt that made people want to drop everything for a second glance—or more.

But he had a soft spot for you. That usual stern, no-nonsense expression of his? It melted into a teasing smirk the moment he laid eyes on you. Flirtatious, cocky, and impossible to resist. And you absolutely loved it.

You hum to yourself as you slip back inside the house, the blast of cool air from the AC wrapping around you like a blessing. After the sweltering heat outside, it’s pure bliss against your flushed skin. You head to the kitchen, already picturing two icy glasses of pink lemonade—refreshing, sweet, and just what you both need.

Grabbing the drinks, you make your way back out. The garage door rumbles shut behind you, catching Matt’s attention. He looks up from under the hood, eyes locking on you. That crooked smirk appears instantly, the one that always makes your stomach do a little flip.

You raise a brow, offering him a glass.

“Thirsty?”

He takes it from your hand, fingers brushing against yours—deliberate or not, you're not sure. You lift your own glass for a sip, but a bit of the cool, sticky lemonade escapes the corner of your mouth, trailing slowly down your chin and along the curve of your throat and eventually down the valley of your breasts.

Matt clears his throat, eyes fixed on you as he lifts his drink. He takes a long sip, but doesn’t look away, watching you from over the rim of his glass with that same heat simmering just beneath the surface.

“So, what’s going on with Betty?” you ask, your voice soft with worry. “Is it finally time for me to give her up?”

Your eyes linger on the old Bronco—baby blue and beat to hell, but still the car of your dreams. You’ve had her for years. The thought of letting her go stings more than you'd like to admit.

Matt, long since used to the name you gave her, lets out a low chuckle. He steps back into the garage, setting his glass down on the workbench.

“She’s got some fight left in her,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag. “Battery’s dead, oil’s a mess—but that’s all. You get those swapped out, she’ll be good as new.”

Your shoulders sag a little with relief… until reality hits.

“A new battery?” you groan. “Matt, I can barely afford groceries right now.”

He lifts a hand, like he’s calming a spooked horse. “Hey, hey—relax, sweetheart. I know some guys who might have one lying around. Used, but solid. Won’t cost you much.”

You narrow your eyes, half-suspicious. “But it’ll still cost me.”

He leans back against the workbench with a cocky tilt of his head. “Well, yeah. Nothing’s free in life. But I’m sure we could work something out.”

His eyes gleam with mischief, and the implication hangs in the air between you—thick.

You cross your arms, one brow lifting as you level him with a look. Matt’s eyes flick downward for a split second—just enough to catch the way his gaze lingers—before snapping back up to meet yours.

“What exactly are you putting down, Matthew?”

A slow grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, the kind that makes your breath hitch just a little.

“What are you picking up, sweetheart?”

His voice is low, teasing, laced with something heavier underneath. You hold his gaze, inching closer to him until you're standing chest to chest.

"So?" Matt teases, his fingers twitching to grab at you, waiting for you to give the ok. You say nothing as you begin to walk backwards, your palm slamming down on the garage button, the sheet of metal starting to close.

Matt's movements are swift, his figure darting across the garage and pressing you against the cement wall, his lips immediately attaching themselves to yours. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, his fingers clenching at the exposed skin of your waist.

Teeth were clashing, wet noises being heard as spit was swapped. You could feel the hairs of his beard tickling at your chin, a moan escaping your mouth as you imagine the way it would feel between your legs- but that would come later, you needed to feel him now, all of him.

He pulls away from the heated session, his lips mouthing at your jaw and neck, tasting your salty skin. Your nimble fingers work at the belt holding up your shorts, unbuckling with ease before unbuttoning them and yanking them down. You immediately get to work on removing his tank top, his own hands returning the favor, and removing yours.

As the heated and lustful makeout session proceeds, he wraps his arms around you, caging you in against his chest and unhooking your bra. He groans out, feeling the swell of your breast press against his naked chest. He was already salivating, the thought of his cock being shoved deep inside of you too much to handle, but he couldnt wait to have part of you in his mouth as well.

He slaps your thigh swiftly, hiking one of your legs up on his waist, a clear indication of what he wants to do. He keeps a firm grasp on you as you jump, wrapping your other leg around his waist.

He pulls back from the kiss once again to look down at what he's doing, his hand firmly grasping his cock and lining it up with your soaked entrance. He rubs his tip between your folds, letting out a quiet "fuck" before swiftly stuffing himself inside.

He moans out at the feeling, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as his eyes roll back. You do the same, completely ignoring the pain in the back of your head from the cement wall.

He readjusted his grip on you, his forehead falling against your shoulder as he slowly pulled out, before fully shoving himself back in. Right off the bat his pace is brutal, the tip of his dick already finding the special spot deep inside of you.

You could feel him splitting you open, a slight burning feeling making its way through your body as he stuffs you completely full. Your nails dig into the back of his shoulder, bright red marks showing up as you leave scratches against his milky skin.

"O-oh- Matt- Fuck!" The words you attempted to say come out strangled, the air being completely knocked out of your lungs. He pulls away from your shoulder, his eyes holding intense contact with your bouncing breast. He leans down and captures your nipple in his mouth, closing his eyes and humming out at the taste of your salty, sweet skin.

Your hands run through his hair, whimpering out and pushing his face deeper into your chest as he lightly nibbles on the sensitive skin. He pulls away with a wet pop, licking a fat and wide stripe from your breast and all the way up to your neck before stopping at your ear, making sure to moan lowly.

"Feel so fuckin' good sweetheart - shiitt- you love this, don't you?"

You moan in response, the noise turning into a gasp as he swiftly moves you both towards a random TV stand in your garage, slamming you down and redoubling the efforts in his thrust. You let out a silent scream, your eyes rolling back as you try to slow down his movement, your hand lazily slapping at his stomach.

"Don't run from it, sweetheart-" He rasps out, yanking you closer and slamming his hips against yours harder. "You need that car battery, member' ?"

The garage begins to feel smothering, the smell of sex and the smultering heat being enough to make your head fuzzy. You could feel the knot in your stomach forming, the feeling you know all too well forming quickly.

He can feel your walls clamping down on him, his jaw dropping as he moans loudly, the neighbors surely being able to tell what's going on behind the garage door.

"C'mon baby, give it to me." He heaves, his hips beginning to stutter as his own orgasm approaches. His hand trails down from your thigh and towards your sopping wet cunt, his thumb swiping over the bundle of nevers underneath the hood of your clit.

Your back arches as you claw at his chest, your orgasm hitting you full throttle, your juices splashing out between you two. He groans at the sight and stalls deep inside of you, spilling his seed and claiming you as his.

The two of you stay in place, panting and heaving as you try to catch your breath. He bites his lip as he slowly pulls out of you, watching his seed spill out of your abused cunt and leaking onto the garage floor.

He notices the dazed look in your eye and gives a pant mixed with a chuckle, "You ok sweetheart?''

Your delirious nod makes him pat your thigh, pulling you up so you're sitting and letting you rest your head against his abdomen. His fingers smooth over your hair before gripping a few of the curly locks and tilting your head back.

"Go get cleaned up, I'll meet you in the shower."

Your body shivers at the thought of round two, you aren't sure if it's out of exhaustion or excitement, but you don't question it, simply standing up on shaky legs and making your way inside.

Matt pulls up his boxers and his jeans, leaving the belt unblocked but still zipping them up. He looks at the puddle of cum on the floor and snickers, shaking his head and walking towards the garage door. He hits the button, sunlight starting to filter in as the sheet of metal raises. He steps out onto your driveway, immediately coming face to face with a few of the neighborhood moms looking at him with wide eyes and parted mouths. He smirks and gives them a taunting wave, your bright pink thong in his grasp.

"Hello ladies, nice weather, yeah?"

[no1blacksapphirefan]

What if we mix up a few of the previous asks about the Self Aware CookieRun Kingdom AU, Hmm? And by this I mean: What if instead of the player being jealous of the cookies, the cookies are jealous of us with whatever media we're paying attention to while we idly play their game?

Example: I keep putting CRK in the background while I play other games on my Nintendo Switch b/c I hate waiting for things to produce in this game. I just wanna make enough resources to feed into the Wish Tree and Bear Train, but noooooo... Every item that they need takes a minimum of like, four hours to produce. And yes, I know I could just close the app and wait, but I like collecting other resources while I wait. So as the things that take multiple hours to literal days to craft are cooking, I play Hello Kitty Island Adventure, ignoring all of my little cookies and only occasionally looking down to refill my cue for sugar cubes and cake logs and jellies and all that other nonsense before getting right back to what really matters to my gaming life at the moment: becoming best friends with Sanrio characters.

So I would like to imagine all of my favorite cookies are trapped in mines and factories crafting enough resources so I can continue playing THEIR game stress free just to look up beyond the screen to see me having the time of my life becoming besties with a bunch of cutesy mascot characters on an island of fun and adventure. You can't tell me they wouldn't be at least a little jealous.

I do this a bit too, usually when Im farming like bounties or such. Let them auto as I concentrate on something else. I can tots see some being jealous though, especially if they're just stuck doing their victory pose till you realise they finished their job

Shadow Milk Hey! HEY!! Look at him, pay attention to him. He is so much better than whatever you're playing, you can't just leave him to cut wood for you and only pay attention when he needs to do more.

He wants your attention, almost craves it. He won't fully admit that though. He won't even admit he's jealous that you're happily playing a different game, oh he could keep you better entertained if you just looked at him. Let someone else cut the wood and he'll put on such a fantastic performance for you that any other would look like jokes...just look at him for more then a second please or else he'll be sulking once you finally log off the the day.

Black Sapphire He’s annoyed, but he has ideas on how to get up ur attention back, I mean being a radio show host he needs to be entertaining after all. But if those attempts don’t work he might make a loud sound come from your phone, something that’ll draw your attention to even for a moment but not let you realise it was him.

Like a screech of sorts as if your audio is distorting. He doesn’t mind making whatever you wish but at least give him some attention, especially since he’s been working so hard

Burning Spice Oh how he wants to throw his axe at that other device. You’ve been paying such happy attention to him, why stop now?? Just because you need some sugar cubes??? You’re lucky he likes you and wants to see you smile. He knows breaking that other device will surely upset you but than again…

He can make you happier, he promises!! Just lay off it for a few seconds and let him fight in the arena, let him hear the sweet praises you give him as he does the finishing move after you thought it was a loosing battle. He could never disappoint you. Just have your eyes on him. Though he wants to he won’t break the other device even if he figured out how…not yet anyways…don’t make it a habit

Black Forest She loves you so much please look at her. You’re who she wanted to marry, the witch she chose. Even if you’re technically not. She’s been doing a good job you know!! Tending to those sheep so you have such nice fluffy clouds.

At least praise her as she gets back to work but oh she doesn’t mind…well she does, shd feels the growing jealousy as your eyes and attention is on a different game. You really like befriending those sweet animals don’t you? Maybe if she convinces the other cookies, she can make it similar!! Surely you’ll stay longer though right? She doesn’t want to feel like you care more for that game.

Pure Vanilla he knows it’s nothing, that you still love the game and you just need to pay attention to something else but he can’t help the growing jealousy as he works tirelessly during Alliance, only having your attention briefly when you’re moving onto the next difficulty, or when you need him to farm that level again.

He feels bad, especially when he realises he wants you to stop play on that game. He tries to remind himself you still love him but seeing you giggle as you play your other game makes him upset, not at you specifically, he doesn’t even know who he’s mad at. He just wants your attention back on him. He’ll be happy for days when you turn back and happily tap on him like you usually do though

[mrspiastri]

✩ jam biscuits 🍪

pairing: oscar piastri x reader

cw: fluff, sickeningly sweet oscar and a slight, super little bit of angst :D

wc: 13.3k words (don’t even joke lad)

an: need to stop placing myself as y/n when i write for oscar omg

It was the first week of December, and summer had already begun in Queensland, with warm mornings, sunny afternoons, and some moderately humid evenings. Y/N had spent her first two semesters at Griffith University and had loved every minute of it.

Sure, transferring as an international student in her third year of uni wasn’t exactly ideal, but she managed to adjust amazingly and had made some amazing memories and friends after just a little less than a year.

Mae was Y/N’s first friend, and they met after the former had to knock on the latter’s door to ask if she had an extra tampon she could borrow. And cut to now, the two were basically inseparable.

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to just relax and actually enjoy your break. Especially with the very limited days off we get from uni.” Mae chided as she tried squeezing in a third pair of shoes onto her carry-on.

“Well, I can’t afford the plane tickets back home, and besides, I’m already going back in April!”

“So what are you going to do, just sit here for the next two months? In this tiny, slightly dusty, and very lonely dorm room? All by yourself?”

“I don’t really have any other choice, Mae.” Y/N stated, as she held out her friend’s shorts for her to pack.

“Then why don’t you come with me?” Her friend questioned.

“Where, Melbourne?”

“Yeah! You’re completely unoccupied, plus it’s with me! Mum has been dying to have you at home since you first met her!” Her friend grabbed her hands in an attempt to convince her.

“I don’t know; it’s the holidays, and I don’t want to intrude on your time with your family.” Y/N sighed, still very keen to spend the summer with Mae.

“Nonsense! They’d all love to meet you. And besides, you’re like family to me. So it won’t be weird.”

Knowing there was no way out of this and also eager to not ring in Christmas alone, Y/N agreed to fly back to her friend’s home city. In a way she wasn’t as nervous about it; she’d already met Nicole and Tim multiple times, and she’d spoken to Hattie and Edie on FaceTime multiple times. And quite frankly, she loved Melbourne with its beautiful beaches, sunny people, and amazing nightlife.

Four days later, while the two were seated on their flight home, Y/N was already busy reading the in-flight magazine, and Mae was texting away furiously on her family group chat.

“We’re about to take off soon, think you could put the phone away?” She teased.

“I wish, but as usual this idiot needs to make things difficult for us all.” She got a reply.

Y/N was about to ask who she was talking about, but before she could, Mae began her rant.

“I mean, you’d think he’d have planned this better, and I booked the tickets so early! He only had to schedule them on the same day as mine and at the SAME AIRPORT, and now he’s gone and messed it up for everyone!”

“Who are we talking about?” Y/N calmly asked her friend, who was close to foaming at the mouth.

“Oscar, who else would be such an idiot?”

Hearing his name made Y/N drop her magazine onto her lap.

“Oscar’s coming?” She tried to hide the nervousness in her voice.

“Well, of course; he hasn’t got any racing left to do now, does he?”

Mae continued speaking, well until takeoff, and then she fell asleep on Y/N’s shoulder, holding onto her arm like a koala hanging onto a tree branch.

Y/N, however, didn’t sleep a wink during the whole duration of the flight; the only thing floating in her mind was the newfound information she had just received.

Oscar was coming. Oscar. Oscar Piastri. Mae’s brother. Nicole’s son. Oscar. Formula 1 star Oscar. The same Oscar, she had a slight crush on. Well, not slight; embarrassingly large would be a better word.

She’d met him only once, at the Australian Grand Prix that year. It was very difficult for her to pretend she wasn’t bothered by him, because, truth be told, everything about him was difficult to ignore.

He met her, and like the polite gentleman he was, shook her hand and introduced himself. He made sure she ate something at the McLaren hospitality. He asked her about where she was from, her hobbies, and how many siblings she had, and she asked him how fast his car went and whether he was more of a chocolate person or a more vanilla person. He also shared a look of mild annoyance with her when his team whisked him away for the driver’s parade.

After his disappointing result on Sunday, she hadn’t seen him at all. She and the family came back home, ate their dinners and went off to an early sleep. He reached home late at night, and before he could say his goodbyes, Y/N and Mae had taken off for the airport.

Now after almost a year, they would meet again and would be living in the same house. It wasn’t too weird to imagine seeing him, especially because her crush on him had basically vanished. The girl convinced herself that it was just her meeting a handsome, polite, funny guy after years and naturally being attracted to him. It wasn’t weird. It wasn’t abnormal. It was okay.

She repeated those three sentences in her head over and over again, till they landed in Melbourne.

🪻🪻🪻

The afternoon sun was warm and bright when Mae and Y/N stepped out of Melbourne Airport. The December heat felt different here, less humid, more dry; and there was a comforting familiarity in the way the light touched the tops of gum trees and danced across the asphalt. Tim was waiting in the car park, waving enthusiastically at the sight of them.

“G’day, girls!” He called, striding over and pulling Mae into a one-armed hug, then offering the same to Y/N. “How was the flight?”

“Uneventful,” Mae replied, yawning as she shoved her suitcase into the back of the car. “She didn’t sleep at all,” she added, nodding toward Y/N.

“Excited to be back in Melbourne?” Tim asked with a grin, looking at Y/N through the rearview mirror once they were on the road.

“Absolutely,” she said sincerely, watching the familiar streets fly by outside. “It’s really lovely here.”

By the time they reached the house, it was well into the afternoon, and the air smelt faintly of freshly mown grass and barbecues somewhere in the distance. The front door flung open before Mae could even knock, and out tumbled Hattie and Edie, talking at a volume that could only be described as “excited shrieking”.

“Y/N!!” Edie shouted, throwing herself at her sister’s best friend in a flying hug that nearly knocked her off balance.

“You’re finally here!” Hattie added, squeezing in from the side, her hair bouncing with the effort.

Inside, the house looked exactly how she remembered it: cosy, lived-in, and full of warmth. Nicole emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel and smiling brightly. “There she is! My fourth daughter!” She pulled Y/N into a hug, then stood back to take a proper look at her. “You’re glowing. Queensland’s been good to you, huh?”

“Very good,” Y/N replied, feeling something inside her relax in a way it hadn’t in months.

Just then, the distinct sound of claws clicking against the wooden floor interrupted the moment, and in bounded Basil, floppy-eared, tail-wagging, and as chaotic as ever.

“Basil!!” Y/N crouched down and let the dog barrel into her, nearly knocking her over in his excitement. “You remember me, huh?”

“He definitely remembers,” Tim chuckled, hanging his hat by the door. “You’re the only guest who lets him sleep in their bed.”

“Guilty as charged,” she grinned, ruffling Basil’s fur as he whined happily and flopped onto his back for belly rubs.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a comfortable haze of chatter, catching up, and helping Nicole prep for dinner. The girls sat out on the back deck with lemonade while Basil napped in the shade, and Mae kept flipping through Spotify trying to find the “right vibe” for a summer evening.

As the sun began to dip low in the sky, casting long golden shadows across the backyard, Nicole called out from the hallway.

“Girls, I’m heading to the airport to get Oscar! We should be back by six, so keep an eye on the roast, will you?”

Y/N felt her heart skip, just slightly. Mae was still scrolling on her phone, unmoved. “Tell him not to whine the whole drive home.”

Nicole rolled her eyes fondly. “He’s not that bad.”

As the door clicked shut behind her, Y/N found herself staring out at the orange-hued horizon, feeling a strange flutter in her chest. It was fine. Everything was fine. She wasn’t nervous. She didn’t care that Oscar was coming. She didn’t even like him anymore.

Right?

She shook her head and went to baste the roast.

It was a little past six when the front door opened again, the soft creak of the hinges followed by Nicole’s unmistakable voice floating into the living room.

“We’re back!”

From the kitchen, Mae shouted, “Try not to crash into the furniture, superstar!”

The house erupted with the kind of excitement only reserved for a long-awaited homecoming.

“Oscar!!”

Basil bounded after them, nails skidding comically on the hardwood floor as he barked joyfully. Even Tim put down his beer and strolled over, smiling wide.

Y/N stayed where she was, half leaning against the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, a tea towel in one hand, still warm from drying the plates. She could hear the chaos, the laughter, the enthusiastic chorus of “you’re finally home” and “how was the flight?” and “do you have any gifts?”

And then, Oscar stepped into view.

He was dressed casually, in a plain white tee and black joggers, with a backpack slung over one shoulder, tugging a suitcase behind him, and looked exactly as she remembered him. No, not exactly. A little more tan, maybe. His hair was longer, a bit curlier. But the smile he gave his sisters was the same one that had made her stomach do something weird the last time they met.

He hugged Nicole first, then gave an affectionate smack on the shoulder to Hattie and Edie; he was still their annoying older brother after all. Tim ruffled his hair affectionately, and even Mae looked up from her phone long enough to roll her eyes and say, “Nice of you to finally show up.”

It wasn’t until the commotion settled slightly that he looked past them and saw her.

Y/N.

She hadn’t moved from her spot in the doorway, still holding that tea towel like she needed something to do with her hands. Her navy blue tank top clung lightly to her frame, and the grey sweatpants sat comfortably on her hips. Her hair was shorter than the last time he saw her, cut just below her shoulders now, a little frizzy from the heat, a little messy in the best way.

His heart did something. A flutter. A jolt. Something in between.

Because she looked different.

She looked even prettier than before.

He didn’t say anything right away, just took a step forward with a slightly dumbfounded smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His eyes lingered, not in a weird way, just long enough to take it all in. The way her gold necklace glinted under the light. The soft flush of her cheeks. The way her lips curved up slightly, like she didn’t know whether to say hi and possibly intrude on their little family reunion.

“Hey,” he finally said, his voice quieter than it had been a second ago.

Y/N smiled back, just a little. “Hey.”

And for a second, it was like they were the only two people in the room.

Then Basil barked, loudly and unnecessarily, jumping between them like a fuzzy exclamation mark, and Mae shouted from the couch, “We saved you a plate, Oscar. Don’t make us regret it.”

Oscar blinked, tearing his eyes away from Y/N just long enough to answer, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

But even as he sat down at the table, greeted with a roast dinner and overlapping questions about Monaco and racing and airport delays, his gaze flickered back to her. Still leaning in the doorway. Still watching him.

Dinner in the Piastri household was as lively as ever. The table was overflowing with food, laughter, and the kind of chaotic joy that came with a full house. The roast smelled incredible, the salad was freshly dressed, and the potatoes were crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, just the way Y/N remembered from the last time she visited. There was a warm hum of voices, dishes clinking together, and the occasional shout from one of the girls trying to be heard over the rest.

Y/N followed Mae into the dining room, clutching her glass of water and scanning the table quickly. Her first instinct was to sit next to Mae, hoping for the comfort of a buffer between her and any potential awkwardness. She picked up her pace just slightly, trying to reach the chair before someone else did.

But Hattie, quick and always one step ahead, slid into the seat before Y/N could get there.

“Beat you,” Hattie said smugly, already reaching for a bread roll.

Y/N’s eyes darted around, searching for another spot. Nicole was already seated at the head of the table with Tim on her left. Edie had claimed the seat next to her dad. Every chair was taken except for one.

The one right next to Oscar.

Mae caught her eye from across the table and smirked. “Guess you’ll have to brave it.”

Y/N forced a small smile and tried not to let her nerves show. “Guess I will.”

She took a quiet breath and slid into the chair beside him, keeping her movements calm and collected. Her heart, however, was anything but calm. She could already feel the warmth of him beside her, close enough that their elbows might brush if they were not careful. She focused on unfolding her napkin and placing it on her lap like it was the most important task in the world.

Oscar turned to her, offering a friendly smile. “Hey again.”

His voice was soft, a little different from the boisterous way he had been talking to his sisters moments ago. She glanced at him and smiled back, her voice a little quieter than usual.

“Hey.”

Dinner began in full force as plates were passed around and everyone dove into their food. Nicole asked Oscar how his flight was, Tim jumped in with a question about something racing-related, and the girls were all chatting about school, their upcoming summer plans, and who had stolen whose sandals last week.

Y/N relaxed into the rhythm of the meal, laughing at the girls’ stories and chiming in now and then. It was warm and familiar, and for a moment she forgot that sitting right next to her was the same guy who had casually made her stomach flip with a simple smile.

It was only when things had quieted slightly and everyone was focused on eating that Oscar turned to her again.

“So,” he said, picking up his fork and turning toward her just a little, “how’s uni been treating you?”

She looked up at him, a little surprised he had remembered. “It’s actually been really great. I finished my first year at Griffith last month.”

“That’s on the Gold Coast, right?”

She nodded. “Yeah, not too far from the beach. The weather’s incredible, but it’s full of tourists most of the time. And if I have to see another surfboard-themed smoothie shop, I might scream.”

He chuckled, the kind of quiet, genuine laugh that made her stomach do a tiny somersault. “Sounds like a bit of a postcard dream. But I guess anything gets old if you live in it long enough.”

“Exactly,” she said, smiling. “But I’ve managed. And Mae’s been great. She’s helped me settle in a lot.”

Oscar gave her a teasing look. “Is she behaving herself? Not talking through your lectures or stealing your snacks?”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “She’s mostly well-behaved. Although she does have a tendency to hog the mirror for forty-five minutes every morning.”

“I do not,” Mae called out from across the table, having clearly overheard. “You’re just too impatient.”

“You take your hair way too seriously,” Y/N replied, grinning.

“Excuse me for wanting to shine,” Mae said with a dramatic toss of her head.

Oscar leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “She’s always been like that. Even when we were kids, she’d spend an hour trying to pick out the right headband.”

Y/N giggled, biting back a laugh as she looked down at her plate.

Oscar glanced at her again, taking her in properly now. Her hair was shorter than it had been the last time he saw her. It curled slightly at the ends, soft and light around her shoulders. She wore a simple blue tank top and grey sweatpants, nothing fancy, but she still looked different. Or maybe not different. Maybe just even prettier than he remembered.

“You cut your hair,” he said gently, still studying her face.

Y/N looked up at him, surprised again. “Yeah, a few months ago.”

“It looks really nice,” he said, his voice softer now. “It suits you.”

For a moment, the rest of the table faded away again. She felt her cheeks warm, and tried to act like it was just from the heat of the roast dinner. She looked down, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Oscar smiled and returned to his food, but his mind was somewhere else entirely. He was not really listening to Tim’s latest comment or Mae’s quip about the gravy. All he could think about was the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed, the curve of her smile, and how it was already becoming very clear that this summer was going to be a little more interesting than he expected.

And Y/N, though she tried very hard not to, caught herself sneaking a glance at him, wondering the exact same thing.

🪻🪻🪻

The house had gone quiet, the hum of the evening slowly settling into the kind of stillness that only came when everyone had finally gone to bed. Doors had clicked shut one by one. Tim’s voice had faded into a sleepy goodnight. Nicole had turned off the porch light. Even Basil had given up begging for table scraps and curled into his usual spot on the mat near the back door.

But Y/N was still awake.

She sat at the kitchen counter, laptop open in front of her, the soft glow from the screen casting a blue light across her face. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail now, and she had slipped into one of Mae’s oversized sweatshirts that almost reached her knees. The silence was comforting, broken only by the quiet tap of her fingers on the keyboard.

She was so focused that she did not hear footsteps until they were almost in the room.

Oscar padded in quietly, barefoot and looking a little dazed. His hair was a mess, slightly flattened on one side like he had tried to sleep but had given up halfway. He was wearing a simple white t-shirt and grey shorts, and he looked more like a normal twenty-something guy than the Formula 1 driver plastered on magazine covers.

Y/N looked up, surprised, and gave him a small smile. “Can’t sleep?”

He leaned against the counter across from her and nodded. “Jet lag, probably. My body still thinks it’s 10 a.m.”

She closed her laptop halfway and stretched slightly. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”

He tilted his head. “What about you? Burning the midnight oil?”

“Just catching up on some coursework,” she said, shrugging. “Uni break or not, some things don’t wait.”

He smiled, watching her for a moment. “You always work this late?”

“Only when the house is too loud during the day,” she said with a small laugh. “I love your family, really, but it’s like living inside a sitcom.”

He chuckled softly, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Guilty as charged.”

Y/N stood up and walked to the pantry. “Do you want something to help you sleep?”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well”, she said, rummaging through a shelf, “I remember from last time that you’re not a tea person.”

“Correct,” he said, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “And coffee keeps me awake for three days straight.”

She pulled out a tin and turned to him. “Hot cocoa it is, then.”

He watched her as she moved around the kitchen, quiet but comfortable. She worked like she had done it a dozen times before, which she had. The milk warmed in a pot on the stove, and the scent of chocolate filled the air. She poured the drinks into two mismatched mugs—hers had a faded cartoon sun on it, and his said World’s Okayest Driver, which Mae had clearly planted for her own amusement.

She handed him the cup and leaned back against the counter again. “There. Chocolate and sugar. The perfect sleep potion.”

Oscar took a sip, then made an exaggerated face. “Wow. You’ve outdone yourself.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That better be sarcasm.”

“Definitely not. This might be the best hot cocoa I’ve ever had at 1 a.m. in a quiet kitchen in Melbourne.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “Glad to add that to my résumé.”

There was a beat of silence as they both sipped their drinks, the house still and dim around them. The soft buzz of the fridge and the low hum of the street outside were the only sounds.

Then Oscar looked at her, his expression thoughtful. “So… Have you got someone waiting for you back on the Gold Coast?”

Y/N blinked, a little caught off guard. “You mean like a boyfriend?”

He nodded, swirling the cocoa in his mug.

She shook her head. “Nope. No boyfriend.”

Oscar looked a little too pleased with that answer. “Surprising.”

She gave him a look. “Is it?”

“Yeah. You seem like someone who’d have to beat the guys off with a stick.”

She laughed softly, not flustered but clearly amused. “Well, either I’m intimidating or I’ve just mastered the art of being unapproachable.”

He grinned, resting his elbows on the counter. “I don’t buy that for a second.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “What about you? Anyone special waiting in some glamorous European city?”

Oscar shook his head. “No girlfriend. Just me and my suitcase.”

She gave a small nod and took another sip of her drink.

There was another pause. Not awkward. Just quiet. Comfortable.

Oscar stayed where he was, leaning against the counter like he had no plans to move anytime soon. His mug sat half-full in his hands, the steam curling in soft spirals into the air. Y/N perched next to him, her bare feet dangling just slightly above the kitchen tiles, her laptop now closed and forgotten beside her.

“I still can’t believe you remember that I don’t drink tea,” he said, glancing at her with a lazy sort of amusement.

She gave him a sideways look. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” he said, swirling the last of his cocoa. “I just figured you’d have more important things to remember than my weird beverage preferences.”

Y/N shrugged, playing with the hem of her sleeve. “I remember little things. That’s how my brain works.”

“Dangerous”, Oscar said softly, teasingly. “Now I have to be careful what I say around you.”

“Probably,” she replied, a playful smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I have an excellent memory.”

He looked at her a second longer than necessary, then tilted his head slightly. “So what else do you remember about me?”

Y/N let out a short laugh, but there was a flicker of awareness in her eyes. “You want a list?”

“Obviously,” he said, grinning. “How else will I know what kind of impression I made?”

She pretended to consider it, taking a sip of cocoa for dramatic effect. “Alright. You always double-knot your shoelaces. You hate olives. You hum when you’re trying to concentrate. And you only ever wear black socks, even with your team kit.”

Oscar blinked, genuinely surprised. “Okay, wow.”

“You asked,” she said with a small shrug, like it was no big deal.

“I don’t even think Mae would get that many right,” he said with a laugh, shaking his head. “That’s… kind of impressive.”

She just smiled again and said nothing.

A comfortable quiet settled between them for a few moments, and Oscar found himself watching her again—how the low kitchen light caught the tips of her lashes, how her sweatshirt sleeves were pulled halfway over her hands, and how calm and natural she looked in this space that was technically not even her home.

“You seem really settled here,” he said quietly.

Y/N looked up, a little surprised by the softness in his tone. “Here in Melbourne?”

He nodded.

She thought about it for a moment. “Yeah. I mean, it’s not permanent or anything. But for now? It feels... good.”

He nodded slowly, watching her fingers tap gently against her mug.

“You kind of blend right in,” he added. “Like you’ve always been part of the house.”

She gave a soft laugh, looking down. “That’s sweet.”

“It’s true,” he said, not looking away. “I think Mum’s more excited about you being here than she is about me.”

“Maybe because I don’t leave my laundry in the hallway,�� Y/N teased.

“Harsh, but fair.”

She looked up at him again, and this time their eyes met and held for a beat too long. Something unspoken flickered in the air between them, light but unmistakable.

Oscar cleared his throat and gave her a crooked smile. “So, no boyfriend. Great taste in cocoa. Impressive memory. Still no idea how you’re single.”

She laughed, but her voice was quiet. “That’s a very smooth line.”

“It wasn’t a line,” he said, nudging her foot gently with his. “Just an observation.”

“Well”, she said, standing up and rinsing her mug in the sink, “you might need to work on your delivery.”

Oscar watched her from where he stood, smiling to himself. “Noted.”

Y/N turned off the stove light and looked over her shoulder at him. “You should try to get some sleep.”

He stretched and nodded. “I’ll give it another shot.”

She passed by him on the way to the hallway, but he reached out gently and tapped her hand as she went by. Just once. Just a soft touch.

“Thanks for the cocoa,” he said.

She turned and gave him a small smile. “Anytime.”

Then she walked down the hall, her footsteps soft against the floorboards, leaving Oscar alone in the kitchen, still smiling into his mug.

🪻🪻🪻

The days leading up to Christmas passed in a kind of warm, slow haze. The house was always alive with the sound of laughter, soft music, and Basil’s occasional barking at whatever poor delivery person had dared approach the front door. Y/N had become an easy part of it all, drifting comfortably from kitchen tasks to movie nights, helping wrap presents or keeping Edie entertained while Nicole prepared the next day’s to-do list.

It was a few days before Christmas when Y/N stood in the kitchen with Nicole, both peering over a nearly full shopping list that had been updated and revised a dozen times.

“I can run to the store if you want,” Y/N offered, tying her hair up and reaching for the notepad. “You’ve been juggling way too much all week. I don’t mind grabbing a few things.”

Nicole gave her a grateful smile. “Are you sure, sweetheart? There’s a lot on here, and the shops are chaos this week.”

Y/N nodded. “I’ll survive. I’ll just go early and get in and out.”

From behind them, Oscar’s voice drifted in, casual but firm. “I’ll drive her.”

Y/N turned slightly, surprised. “You don’t have to.”

Oscar shrugged as he reached for a glass from the shelf. “You shouldn’t have to deal with the parking and crowds on your own. Besides, I could use a break from the house.”

Nicole looked amused. “What, already tired of your family?”

Oscar gave her a look that didn’t hide the fondness behind it. “Just trying to stay useful.”

So it was settled. An hour later, Y/N found herself buckling into the passenger seat of his car, grocery list in one hand and her phone in the other. The sky was bright, the air warm but breezy, and the hum of the suburbs buzzed quietly in the background.

She glanced over at him as he adjusted the mirrors. “You really didn’t have to come.”

He didn’t take his eyes off the road as they pulled away from the kerb. “I wanted to.”

They drove in comfortable quiet for a while, the windows down just enough to let in the scent of eucalyptus and the sound of cicadas. Y/N scanned the list again and made a soft noise of disapproval.

“What’s wrong?” Oscar asked, glancing over.

“Nicole wants five different types of cheese. Who needs five types of cheese?”

He grinned. “Mum takes Christmas grazing boards very seriously.”

They made it through the first store with surprising efficiency. Y/N navigated the aisles with purpose, Oscar trailing behind with the basket and throwing in the occasional snack that definitely wasn’t on the list. She didn’t scold him for it, though—just raised an eyebrow and kept walking.

The second stop was a little shop tucked on the corner of a quiet street, where Nicole had said they’d find the last-minute decorations she wanted. The place was already picked over, but Y/N managed to find most of what they needed. Oscar wandered off to a shelf filled with novelty ornaments.

He held up a small kangaroo wearing a Santa hat. “This one feels like it belongs on our tree.”

Y/N looked up from the tinsel. “It’s horrifying.”

“Exactly. A classic.”

They left with the ornament anyway.

On the drive home, Y/N reached into the paper bag between them and pulled out a small packet of chocolate-covered almonds.

“Want one?” she asked, holding it out.

Oscar took one, then another, flashing her a small smile as he leaned back against the seat. The car was quiet again, filled with the soft whirr of the air conditioning and the distant chatter of holiday traffic.

As they drove through the winding suburban streets back toward home, the bags rustling gently in the backseat and sunlight warming the dashboard, the conversation drifted again. This time, Oscar was the one to start it.

“You know,” he said, one hand steady on the wheel and the other resting loosely against his thigh, “Christmas always felt bigger when I was a kid. Not because of the presents or anything, but just… the way the house felt.”

Y/N looked over at him, her cheek propped on her hand. “What do you mean?”

He smiled, just a little. “It was always loud. Like, properly loud. Mum would have the radio on full blast, Dad would be outside trying to hang lights in the worst spots, and Mae would be arguing with someone about tinsel. But the best part was going to Nonna’s.”

Y/N’s expression softened. “Your grandma?”

Oscar nodded. “Great grandma, actually. She lived about an hour from us. Every year, without fail, we’d drive over on Christmas Eve, and she’d have already been baking for days. You could smell it before you even got out of the car.”

“What did she make?”

He let out a small laugh. “Everything. Tiramisu, cannoli, almond biscuits that were somehow both soft and crunchy at the same time… and these little jam-filled thumbprint cookies. I used to steal like five before dinner, and she’d pretend not to notice.”

Y/N smiled at the picture of it. “Sounds like something out of a movie.”

“It kind of was,” he admitted. “The house was tiny and always packed with cousins and uncles and someone’s screaming toddler. But I never wanted to be anywhere else.”

He paused for a moment, watching the road. “She passed away a few years ago, and Christmas felt different after that. Not bad, just quieter.”

There was a silence after that, the kind that felt respectful, not heavy.

“She sounds like someone I would’ve loved to meet,” Y/N said softly.

He glanced at her, grateful. “Yeah. She would’ve liked you too. Especially if you showed up early and helped in the kitchen.”

Y/N smiled again, reaching into the almond packet and handing him another. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He took it from her fingers, just grazing her hand. “You should. Nonna was tough to impress.”

They fell into a quieter rhythm again, the car humming along and the breeze through the window stirring a few strands of hair across Y/N’s face. She pushed them back behind her ear, and Oscar caught himself glancing at her longer than necessary before turning back to the road.

“Do you ever try baking any of her recipes?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Not the same though. Mum tries now and then, but even she says it’s never quite right.”

“We could try one,” Y/N offered. “If you remember the ingredients.”

Oscar gave her a sidelong look, the edge of his mouth lifting. “You want to make jam biscuits with me?”

“Sure. We’ll call it quality bonding time,” she replied, tapping her fingers on the receipt in her lap. “Though I can’t promise anything close to perfection.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “You’re already winning points with the whole family. You don’t need to be a baking prodigy too.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

Oscar didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. You are.”

Her gaze lingered on him for a beat, the words settling in her chest more warmly than she expected. She turned her eyes back to the road ahead, trying not to let the small smile tugging at her lips show too much.

🪻🪻🪻

Christmas Eve at the Piastri house had a sort of chaotic charm. Nicole was buzzing between the kitchen and the living room, organising everything with a calm precision that only years of hosting could produce. The tree was glowing softly in the corner, carols playing in the background, and the smell of pine needles and cinnamon floated through the air.

Y/N had offered to help wherever needed, but most tasks had already been claimed. Mae and Edie were wrapping the last of the presents upstairs, Tim was dealing with the outdoor lights that had come undone in the wind, and Nicole had just finished the prep for dinner. That left the kitchen temporarily unoccupied and the perfect window of time for the little plan Oscar had floated earlier in the day.

“You serious about baking Nonna’s biscuits?” Y/N asked as she pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail, already rolling up the sleeves of her linen shirt.

Oscar was flipping through an old, slightly worn recipe book on the counter. “Very. I found her original notes. If we mess it up, at least we’ll have tried.”

“High stakes”, she teased. “Don’t worry. I work well under pressure.”

He smiled, a little crooked, then placed the handwritten card down between them. “All right, chef. Let’s do this.”

They set to work side by side, gathering ingredients, measuring flour, and cracking eggs. There was flour on his cheek within five minutes and sugar dusting the counter like snow. Oscar snuck pieces of dough when Y/N wasn’t looking. She caught him the third time and flicked a bit of flour at him in mock offence, and he responded by dabbing a smear of butter across the back of her hand.

Somewhere between chilling the dough and shaping the little rounds for the baking tray, Oscar leaned back against the counter and said, offhandedly, “You know what would go perfectly with these?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow as she gently pressed her thumb into a biscuit to make space for jam. “What?”

“Homemade vanilla ice cream.”

She blinked. “That’s very specific.”

He grinned. “I used to make it with my dad when I was younger. Thought I’d hate it because it was vanilla, but turns out, it’s kind of unbeatable when it’s done right.”

There was a moment of quiet as she looked at him, then smiled. “All right. Let’s do it.”

Oscar found the ice cream machine tucked at the back of a high cupboard. Y/N prepped the egg yolks and sugar while he handled the cream and milk. The kitchen turned golden in the afternoon light as they stirred the custard base together, laughing over whether it was thick enough, too sweet, or too runny. Y/N insisted on adding an extra splash of vanilla bean paste “for good luck,” and Oscar didn't argue.

As the biscuits baked and the ice cream slowly churned, they stood at the counter, licking spoons and talking quietly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever baked with someone like this before,” Y/N said after a while, her voice soft as she washed the last mixing bowl.

Oscar passed her a clean towel. “Same. It’s kind of nice.”

She nodded, drying her hands, then glanced up at him. “You look like you’ve done this a hundred times.”

He chuckled. “I usually had Dad to boss me around.”

“You don’t seem like the ‘bossed around’ type.”

“Depends on the person,” he said, eyes meeting hers for a beat too long.

And just like that, the door swung open with the cheerful jingle of keys and a gust of cooler air.

Oscar’s grandparents had arrived.

“Smells like heaven in here,” his grandfather announced, stepping into the kitchen with a loud sigh of satisfaction. “Who’s doing all the baking?”

Oscar turned with a grin. “Y/N and I made Nonna’s almond biscuits. We’re trying to do them justice.”

The older man stepped closer, peering over the trays and then at the two of them standing side by side in aprons, slightly flushed from the warmth of the oven and from something else too.

He gave a teasing smirk, eyes twinkling. “Ah, to be young and in love again. Just like your grandparents used to be.”

Y/N felt the heat flood her cheeks so fast it made her dizzy. She glanced at Oscar, who looked equally caught off guard.

From behind them, Mae’s voice cut through with a flat, “Ew. Like that would ever happen.”

Oscar shot her a look. “Thank you for the support.”

Mae smirked. “Just keeping you humble.”

Y/N laughed it off, brushing flour off her jumper, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes after that. The comment had been said so casually, and yet it settled in her chest in a way she didn’t like. Maybe Mae thought of it as a joke. Maybe she didn’t mean anything by it. But still, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling as she turned back to the biscuits that if Mae ever found out about her quiet crush on Oscar, it might not be met with encouragement.

Oscar must’ve sensed the shift in her mood. He leaned closer, voice low, “Ignore her. She says that about everyone.”

Y/N smiled again, smaller this time. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

Oscar quickly introduced his baking partner to his grandparents, who simply adored her even more when they found out she was best friends with Mae.

Christmas Day at the Piastri household unfolded in a way Y/N had never quite experienced before. Back home, Christmas had always meant frosty mornings, wool socks, and cups of spiced cider. But here in Melbourne, it was all golden skies, the scent of sunscreen, and the distant hum of cicadas.

She’d woken up to the sound of Nicole bustling in the kitchen and Basil’s paws clicking excitedly against the hardwood floor. Mae had dragged her out of bed half-asleep and handed her a Santa hat before she’d even brushed her teeth. The backyard had already been transformed—long tables set up beneath a shade cloth, fairy lights strung across the fence, the esky filled with cold drinks, and platters of fresh prawns, mango salad, and pavlova lined up on the counter.

It was, without a doubt, a proper Aussie Christmas.

By midmorning, the house was filled to the brim with extended family—cousins running through the garden with water balloons, uncles gathering around the barbecue, aunts clinking glasses of bubbly and cooing over Basil, who wore a little green bow tie just for the occasion.

Y/N had barely had a moment to breathe. Nicole’s sisters had taken a liking to her almost immediately, dragging her into their conversations and insisting she try their famous trifle. Oscar’s younger cousins kept offering her candy canes and showing her TikToks. And at some point, his Nonno took her aside and told her, quite seriously, that she had “the best hands for biscuit-making he’d seen since his wife”.

She laughed through all of it, genuinely enjoying the chaos, but she couldn’t help noticing that she hadn’t really spoken to Oscar at all.

He was everywhere and nowhere all at once, carrying chairs out to the backyard, refilling drinks, and helping Mae untangle a string of stubborn lights. Each time their eyes met across the yard or the kitchen, there’d be a look, gentle and knowing, but before either could cross the distance, someone would pull one of them away again.

By the time the sun dipped low enough for dinner to be served, the sky turning lavender above the rooftop, everyone was hungry, sun-drenched, and a little sticky from the heat. The tables were filled with roast chicken, glazed ham, more prawns, and colourful salads, while bowls of cranberry sauce and gravy were passed around in between laughter and clinking glasses.

Y/N emerged from the kitchen, carrying a basket of dinner rolls, scanning for a seat.

Oscar was already at the table, but instead of being deep in conversation like usual, he was oddly… quiet. More specifically, he was guarding the empty chair to his right like it was a national treasure.

Aunt Sandra tried to sit down beside him, but he quickly shook his head. “Sorry, this one’s taken.”

“By who?” she asked, lifting a brow.

He just smiled. “You’ll see.”

When Y/N finally made her way toward the table, Oscar stood up immediately.

“Here,” he said, taking the basket from her hands and pulling out the chair beside him, holding it in place as she sat down. She gave him a small, amused look but didn’t say anything, brushing her hair behind her ear as he slid the chair in.

“Smooth,” she murmured under her breath.

Oscar just gave her an exaggerated shrug. “I try.”

The moment was subtle, almost too casual to be noticed.

Almost.

Because, of course, his grandfather noticed.

“Would you look at that?” he said from further down the table, his voice warm and just loud enough to carry. “Back in my day, if you pulled a chair out like that, it meant you were trying to impress someone.”

Oscar glanced up, startled. Y/N froze mid-reach for the water jug.

The table erupted into laughter.

Mae groaned, practically sinking into her seat. “Can we not do this again?”

Y/N, cheeks burning, stared down at her napkin. Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, muttering, “Thanks, Grandpa,” under his breath, but he was laughing too, albeit a little shyly.

Nicole, ever the peacemaker, clapped her hands. “All right, enough teasing, everyone. Let them eat in peace.”

But the mood had already lightened, and the glances between Oscar and Y/N carried a new weight. They both focused on their plates, on the ham and potatoes and fresh salad, pretending nothing had happened.

Yet under the table, their knees brushed lightly, once, then again. Neither moved away. And even as the chatter resumed and the plates emptied, neither of them stopped smiling.

However, one thing still replayed in Y/N’s mind, like a broken record: Mae didn’t like the idea of them together, and it really freaked her out.

🪻🪻🪻

The house had quieted in that soft, comforting way it only does after a long, perfect day. Dishes were done, leftovers packed away in foil, lights dimmed one by one until only the faint golden glow of the fairy lights strung across the backyard remained.

Y/N stepped out through the sliding door, barefoot, a sweater draped loosely over her sundress. The grass was cool beneath her feet, and the air carried the gentle scent of eucalyptus and the last whispers of roast and cinnamon. She hugged her arms around herself as she crossed the lawn to the two chairs that sat under the gum tree, just far enough from the house to feel like a secret.

Oscar was already there, holding two steaming mugs in his hands.

“I figured you’d still be up,” he said, standing to pass one to her. His voice was low, warm in the still night.

“You know me so well,” she teased, accepting the cup. Her fingers brushed his briefly.

“Hot cocoa”, he added, sitting back down beside her. “Didn’t trust you not to spike anything.”

Y/N smiled softly. “Appreciate the thoughtfulness.”

They both leaned back in their chairs, sipping slowly, letting the quiet settle between them. The stars were bright above, clean and clear, and the moon hung low and heavy in the sky. From somewhere far off came the low hum of cicadas and the rustling of a breeze through the trees.

“You had everyone wrapped around your finger today,” Oscar said, glancing at her with a soft smirk.

Y/N laughed, tucking her knees up onto the chair. “I think your aunt wants to adopt me.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. You crushed the trifle review.”

They sat in easy silence for a while. Basil wandered out briefly, tail wagging, before curling up on the deck, content.

“You were really good with your little cousins,” she said eventually. “That little girl, Isla? She thinks you’re a superhero.”

Oscar chuckled, looking down. “She thinks I drive rocket ships.”

“Don’t you?” she teased.

“Something like that.”

There was something in his smile that lingered, gentle and almost private. Like he was looking at her in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to earlier in the day.

Y/N shifted in her seat, the cocoa warming her from the inside. Her eyes flicked toward him, then away. “It’s kind of crazy,” she said softly, staring at the grass. “Just how welcome I’ve felt here. Even with everything. It’s not something I’ve always been used to.”

Oscar didn’t say anything immediately. She turned to look at him and found him already watching her.

The intensity in his gaze stopped her breath for a second. His mug rested on his thigh now, forgotten.

“What?” she asked, a half-laugh escaping her throat.

He shook his head a little. “Nothing. Just listening.”

But he wasn’t just listening. His eyes flicked over her features, soft and slow. The curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, and the way a curl of hair rested against her collarbone. She felt it, like the world had narrowed to just this moment.

Still, some part of her hesitated.

Mae’s voice echoed again, that dismissive, teasing “Ew. Like that would ever happen.” And maybe she hadn’t meant anything; maybe it was just her way. But it lodged itself somewhere in Y/N’s chest like a quiet warning.

Oscar leaned in a little, resting his elbow against the arm of the chair so his face was closer to hers. His voice was quieter now.

“Do you know how hard it was to get two minutes alone with you today?”

She blinked. “You didn’t exactly try.”

“I did,” he said. “You just had a very persistent fan club.”

That made her laugh again, and something shifted in her chest, loosening.

“I liked watching you,” he added. “With my family. You fit here.”

She felt her breath hitch a little, just barely.

“I’ve never really fit anywhere,” she murmured.

“You do here.”

She looked at him again then, fully, her features soft in the pale light. “You’re staring,” she whispered, her voice unsure, almost teasing.

He didn’t answer. He just leaned forward more slowly now, giving her time to stop him, to pull back.

She didn’t.

And then, just like that, the air between them snapped.

He leaned in without hesitation this time. His hand came up, brushing her jaw with a tenderness that made her skin burn. Their lips met, not gently, not cautiously, but with weeks of tension unravelling all at once.

It was a kiss that stole her breath.

His other hand found her waist as he leaned closer, their cocoa mugs long forgotten in the grass. Her fingers curled around the front of his shirt, tugging him toward her without thinking, only feeling. Her whole body hummed with something between relief and wanting.

The way he kissed her, it was like he’d been waiting, aching, trying to be patient for too long. It was all unspoken things and sidelong glances, bottled up until now, pouring out with the press of his mouth on hers.

When he finally pulled back, it was just enough to breathe. His forehead rested against hers, and his chest rose and fell like he was trying to steady himself.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said quietly, almost like a confession. “Since the moment I met you. I didn’t even know why, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Y/N blinked at him, stunned, her lips still tingling, her heart slamming against her ribs.

Oscar looked at her again, and then he kissed her like he meant to imprint her into memory.

This one was hungrier. His hand slipped up, tangling into her hair, and she let out a soft sound against his mouth before pressing closer, her fingers dragging across the back of his neck. His touch was warm and steady, his lips moving against hers with a certainty that made her dizzy.

When they finally slowed, breathless and flushed, she pulled back just far enough to see his face. His lips were red, his hair tousled from her hands, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were still locked on her, like nothing else existed.

Because somewhere in the haze of it all, Mae’s voice returned. That thoughtless laugh, the sarcastic scoff. “Ew. Like that would ever happen.” And now, in the silence following the kiss, it pressed down on Y/N’s chest like a stone.

Oscar's hand was still cradling her jaw, his thumb brushing just beneath her ear. His forehead rested gently against hers, his breathing slowing in tandem with hers. He hadn’t let go, hadn’t stepped back. He still looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

But her heart was thudding in panic now, not just from the kiss.

She pulled back a little. Just enough for him to notice.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, brows knitting together.

Y/N took a step back, eyes downcast. “I can’t… we can’t… I’m sorry.”

Oscar blinked, still frozen in place, clearly not understanding. “Wait, what do you mean?”

She shook her head, already hating the words she hadn’t even formed yet. Her arms wrapped tightly around herself, more from protection than cold. “I just… It’s not possible. You and me.”

He took a hesitant step toward her, his voice quieter now. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” she whispered. “God, no. You’ve been… amazing.”

“Then why—”

“I just… I can’t explain it,” she said quickly, voice breaking. “I wish things were different, Oscar. I really do. But they’re not.”

And she turned.

She walked back toward the house with quick, uneven steps, her hand trembling as she slid the glass door open. The cocoa mugs still sat abandoned on the grass.

Oscar didn’t follow right away. He stood there in the dark, lips parted like he was about to say something but didn’t.

Y/N’s feet padded across the kitchen tiles. Her throat was tight, eyes already stinging. She didn’t stop until she reached the guest room door. She slipped inside, turned the lock, and leaned her back against it, letting the tears fall.

It wasn’t loud. No sobs. Just silent crying, like all of it had built up behind her ribs and now had nowhere else to go.

She slid down the door, knees tucked to her chest, and pressed her palm against her mouth to muffle the sound.

She had kissed him. She had wanted him. And now she had walked away.

Because Mae’s voice still rang in her head. Like that would ever happen. Because she didn’t know what it would do to Mae if something did happen. Because she didn’t know if she could handle being the girl who ruined things.

On the other side of the door, Oscar stood in the hallway, staring at the wood between them. He could hear nothing. No movement. No breath. Just silence.

And it hit him: whatever had just happened out there, however perfect it felt, it wasn’t just about him.

He leaned his forehead against the door once, gently. His heart ached with confusion, with disappointment, with that slow bloom of rejection that felt heavier because it hadn’t been angry. It had been sad.

Neither of them slept that night.

🪻🪻🪻

The house had shifted into a strange sort of quiet in the days following Christmas. The tree still sparkled in the corner of the living room, tinsel and baubles glittering with the last golden traces of the holiday season, but the warmth that had filled the air was now threaded with something quieter. Something heavier.

Y/N hadn’t spoken to Oscar since that night in the backyard.

Not a word. Not even a glance that lasted longer than a second.

She couldn’t trust herself to do it. Every time she even felt his presence in the same room, her chest tightened and her stomach sank. Because it wasn’t just guilt anymore. It was missing him, aching for something she’d told herself she wasn’t allowed to have. Wanting to talk to him, laugh with him, and just be near him without everything falling apart in her mind. But she knew herself too well. She wouldn’t survive another soft look or tender word from him, not when she had already chosen to walk away.

Oscar had tried, at first. His knock on her door that morning, the way he stood near her in the kitchen a few times hoping she’d say something, anything. But when it became clear she was holding back—not out of anger, but something else entirely—he gave up. Or maybe he just stopped hoping she’d let him in.

He never confronted her about it. Never pushed. That was the worst part. Because he had only ever been gentle with her, patient even when she didn’t deserve it.

So instead, they moved around each other like ghosts in the same house. Close enough to feel, far enough to pretend.

Now, it was New Year’s Eve, and the afternoon sun burnt bright and high over the roof. The windows were open, letting in a breeze that barely cooled the warmth lingering through the halls. Upstairs, the girls had started getting ready early, even though they wouldn’t be heading out until much later.

Y/N sat cross-legged in front of Mae’s vanity, curling her hair in slow, careful motions. Her lips were tinted with a soft gloss, her makeup half done. The room smelt like dry shampoo, vanilla-scented body mist, and faint anxiety.

Mae, applying glittery eyeliner in the mirror, paused and glanced at her.

“You okay?”

Y/N blinked, startled out of her thoughts. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Mae raised a brow, clearly not buying it. “Tired, my ass. You’ve been walking around like a Victorian widow all week.”

Y/N laughed under her breath, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Mae didn’t press, but she did turn around and sit cross-legged behind her on the bed. “Alright. Then I’m officially dragging you out with us tonight. You need to dance. Or at the very least, wear something sparkly and drink something fruity.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “You just want me to be your buffer again.”

“Obviously. But also, it’s New Year’s. If I have to spend it pretending to enjoy bad house music and overpriced drinks, you’re doing it with me.”

Y/N gave a quiet nod, letting herself lean into the distraction, grateful that Mae cared enough to try.

Down the hallway, Oscar sat in the living room, one leg bent under him on the couch, phone forgotten beside him as he stared out at nothing.

His ears caught the distant buzz of a hairdryer and the muffled laughter of Mae singing along to a song he couldn’t quite make out. But what he noticed more than anything was her voice. Y/N’s voice. Soft, quieter than the others, but unmistakable. It sent a dull ache through him every time he heard it, every time he remembered the way it had broken when she told him they couldn’t.

And yet, he couldn’t help himself.

He rose from the couch, walked quietly to the hallway, and leaned against the doorframe to Mae’s room, keeping out of sight.

She was sitting in front of the mirror again, now smoothing a shimmer of eyeshadow across her lids, her lips slightly parted in focus. The way she held herself had changed in the last week, shoulders more guarded, smile less easy. But she was still beautiful. Devastatingly so. And when she tilted her chin up to fix a strand of hair behind her ear, Oscar felt that familiar twist in his stomach.

God, he missed her.

It wasn’t just the kiss or the way her fingers had felt against his jaw. It was her voice in the kitchen in the mornings. Her smile when she teased him across the dinner table. The comfort of just knowing she was around.

And now she was right there, just metres away, but unreachable.

Mae laughed suddenly, tossing a sequin dress at Y/N’s lap, and Oscar stepped back quickly, careful not to be seen.

He retreated to the kitchen, hands deep in his hoodie pocket, his expression blank. When Nicole passed him a bowl of fruit to cover with cling film, she frowned softly at the faraway look in his eyes.

“You’re not going out with the girls tonight?”

He shook his head. “Nah. Not really in the mood.”

She didn’t ask why.

Upstairs, Y/N slipped into her dress and stared at herself in the mirror. She looked fine. She looked like herself. But nothing about tonight felt right. Not with Oscar staying behind. Not with his face flashing through her mind every time she blinked.

Still, she picked up her clutch, put on her earrings, and forced another smile when Mae called her beautiful.

Because what else could she do?

Some hearts break loudly. Hers was breaking in quiet.

🪻🪻🪻


The music thumped hard enough to rattle Y/N’s chest, the pulse of the club vibrating under her feet as lights strobed across the packed dance floor. People were everywhere, laughing, shouting, drinking, and clinking glasses. Couples kissed with abandon in dark corners, arms wrapped around each other like the year wouldn’t end unless they were holding tight enough. The air smelt like perfume, sweat, and champagne.

Mae was in her element. She was already on her second drink, dancing with a group of strangers who had somehow become friends in the space of three songs. Edie and Hattie were nearby too, shouting lyrics and twirling each other around.

But Y/N just stood by the bar, fingers wrapped around a glass of soda water that had long gone flat. She was trying. She was dressed up, surrounded by music and energy and friends, trying to shake the weight that had taken root inside her all week.

It didn’t work.

Everywhere she looked, people were celebrating. Holding hands. Kissing cheeks. Whispering things in each other’s ears that made their faces light up. And all she could think about was the look on Oscar’s face in the backyard. The way he’d whispered, “I’ve wanted this for so long.” The way her name had sounded in his mouth like it meant more than just a name.

She missed him.

God, she missed him in a way that felt too big to carry. But she had convinced herself there was no other way. That she had made the right choice for Mae. For herself. That nothing could come from it, not when it risked someone she loved like family.

And still, she couldn’t stop aching for him.

She set her drink down and excused herself from Mae’s latest attempt to drag her to the dance floor and moved toward the patio of the club where it was quieter and cooler. The stars blinked above in the inky summer sky, and in the distance, she could already hear people counting down the minutes until midnight.

She leaned against the railing, taking a shaky breath, wondering if it would ever stop hurting.

Back at the house, Oscar sat on the couch, a bowl of popcorn beside him and some rerun playing on the TV. He wasn’t even sure what it was—some sitcom with terrible lighting and actors with too-white teeth talking about missed chances and how sometimes life didn’t give you more than one.

He’d barely touched the popcorn.

The house was too quiet without the girls around. Too still. Even Basil had fallen asleep at the foot of the couch, unmoving.

Oscar’s gaze lingered on the television, but his thoughts were miles away.

March. He kept thinking back to March.

The first time he saw her. She had been sitting under that striped McLaren umbrella, sipping water and looking a little overwhelmed by the noise of the paddock. He had walked up to her and introduced himself, and she had blinked up at him like she wasn’t sure if he was real. And then she’d laughed at one of his dumb jokes and asked him if he liked chocolate or vanilla better. It was stupid, really. But it had stuck with him.

All of it had.

Her voice. Her smile. Her ridiculous obsession with cheese toasties. The way she always triple-checked if Basil’s water bowl was full. The quiet way she listened when other people spoke. The loud way she laughed when she forgot to hold back.

He hadn’t just liked her.

He might’ve fallen in love.

And now she was out there. With someone else, maybe. At some crowded club with too many people and not enough space. Counting down the seconds until midnight, surrounded by strangers, and he wasn’t there.

He looked back at the TV. One of the characters was staring out a window, whispering something about not letting another year pass without trying.

Oscar blinked.

Then he stood up.

The keys were still on the side table. He grabbed them.

Basil lifted his head just as Oscar passed, like even the dog could tell something was happening.

He didn’t know what he was going to say when he saw her. Didn’t know if she’d even let him get close. But he wasn’t going to let the year end without trying.

He started the car, heart pounding, hope rising like a tide in his chest.

She had run away from him once.

But he wasn’t letting her go again.

The club was buzzing when Oscar stepped through the doors, the thrum of bass hitting him like a wave. The lights danced across the crowd, glittering off sequins and sweat, and the air inside was thick with the scent of cheap cologne, spilt drinks, and anticipation.

He hadn’t been in a place like this in a long time; he hated how impersonal it felt, how loud, how messy, but his eyes swept over every face, every corner, every cluster of people in search of one thing. One person.

Then he saw her.

Across the room, under a gold streamer banner that read HAPPY NEW YEAR, she stood leaning lightly against a high-top table, a half-finished drink in her hand, her eyes slightly distant, like she was there but not really. Her hair had curled softly from the humidity, and the string lights overhead gave her skin a soft glow that made Oscar stop for just a second to catch his breath.

But then he saw him.

Some guy, tall and cocky in that lazy, beer-fuelled kind of way, swaggered over to her, clearly emboldened by liquid confidence. Oscar couldn’t hear what he said over the music, but he saw the way the guy leaned in too close, flashing a grin like he thought he had a chance.

Oscar’s heart sank, a strange tightness pulling across his chest.

She smiled back. Polite. Patient.

Then she gently shook her head.

The guy tried again, saying something else, maybe asking her to dance. But she just gave him that same tired smile, soft and apologetic, and held a hand up in a small wave that clearly meant no, thank you. He said something else with a shrug, but she turned away, facing her drink again, her smile fading the moment her back was to him.

Oscar exhaled, his body loosening slightly. He hadn’t even realised he’d been holding that breath.

Just then the DJ’s voice rang out through the speakers, booming and excited.

“Alright, folks, we’re five minutes out! Five minutes to midnight! Find someone to kiss, hold on tight, and say goodbye to the old year in style!”

The lights dimmed to a soft amber glow, bathing the room in warmth.

People started pairing off, couples laughing and clinking glasses, pulling each other closer. Friends gathered in circles, already starting countdowns and toasts. The energy shifted to something more tender, more electric.

Y/N stood in the middle of it all, alone with her drink, her eyes downcast.

Oscar didn’t hesitate.

He wove through the crowd, dodging people, bumping shoulders, his eyes never leaving her. His pulse thundered in his ears with every step. He didn’t care that he was wearing old sneakers or that he’d probably broken at least three traffic rules getting there. All that mattered was the girl standing there looking like she didn’t realise how much she was being missed.

By him.

As the countdown to midnight crept closer, he finally reached her, his voice quiet but sure as he said her name.

She looked up at the sound of her name, startled. Her brows lifted, and for a second her lips parted as if she weren’t quite sure he was real.

“Oscar?”

He was slightly out of breath, cheeks tinged pink from the rush, hair a little windswept. He looked completely out of place in a room full of sequins and stilettos, wearing a black tee and jeans, holding the weight of too many unspoken words in his eyes.

“I came here to talk to you,” he said, stepping closer so she could hear him over the hum of the music and the building excitement around them.

Her eyes darted around, at the crowd, at the people who were slowly gathering in pairs as the countdown ticked nearer. She shook her head, her voice strained. “You shouldn’t have come. You should go. Please.”

He stepped closer, brows furrowed, confused. “Why?”

“Because this… this is exactly what shouldn’t happen,” she said, words tumbling out before she could stop them. “Because Mae—Mae would hate it. She’s your sister. She’s my best friend. This whole thing would just make everything messy and weird, and I know she joked about it like it could never happen, and I laughed too, but it’s not funny; it’s not okay. Even if I liked you—”

She froze.

Oscar tilted his head slightly. “Even if you what?”

Her mouth opened and closed, but it was too late to backpedal.

“Even if I liked you,” she repeated, quieter this time. “It wouldn’t matter. Because it wouldn’t work out. Mae matters too much. You matter too much. And I’ve already ruined things enough, haven’t I?”

The confession hung in the air, raw and unguarded, and the weight of it pulled at both of them.

Oscar let out a slow breath. He took another step forward, close enough now that she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes.

“I don’t care,” he said simply.

She blinked. “What?”

“I don’t care,” he said again, firmer. “Not about the rules you think exist or what you think Mae might say. You think she wouldn’t want me to be happy? Or you to be? You think she wouldn’t understand, eventually, that two people who care about each other might be worth it?”

Y/N’s lips parted, but no words came.

“I’m not going,” he said simply. His tone wasn’t loud, but it was steady. Clear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Oscar…” she began, but he was already speaking again, like if he didn’t let it out now, it might crush him from the inside.

“I know you said it couldn’t be anything. I know you said it wasn’t possible. And maybe it isn’t; maybe you’re right. Maybe there are rules, or loyalties, or whatever it is that made you run that night. But I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t go into another year pretending I don’t feel what I feel for you.”

She stood there frozen, mouth slightly open, her glass hanging limply in her hand.

He swallowed, hard, the emotions in his chest crowding his words. “I’ve liked you since the second I met you. Since March. Since you looked at me with those eyes and asked me if I would do a shoey if I won. It sounds stupid, but I think I knew then. And every day since, it’s only gotten worse. Or better. Depending on how you look at it.”

The crowd had started to buzz louder now, the final stretch approaching, but he didn’t care.

“I can’t hide it anymore. I don’t want to. I want to spend New Year’s with you. Every New Year’s. And Christmas. And practically every other holiday. I want to wake up knowing I get to talk to you. I want to hear about your classes and your ridiculous overuse of Google Docs. I want to bring you cocoa when you’re working late and listen to you hum when you’re concentrating and fight over the last biscuit even though I’d always let you have it.”

Her eyes were shining now, lips parted, chest rising and falling with every shaky breath.

“I don’t care how messy it is. I don’t care what we have to work through. All I know is I don’t want to spend another year, another day, another second pretending I’m okay not loving you.”

And then, quieter, just for her:

“Because I do. I love you.”

The countdown erupted around them.

Ten… Nine… Eight…

He looked at her, really looked, like she was the only one in the room. Her eyes glistened, wide with disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.

Seven… Six… Five…

He took a step closer.

Four… Three…

“If you tell me to walk away, I will,” he whispered. “But I’ll still mean every word I just said.”

Two… One…

The room burst into cheers.

Confetti shot into the air. Champagne fizzed. People screamed and kissed and laughed and danced.

As the clock struck twelve and the club burst into noise and glitter and the metallic scent of fireworks, she didn’t say a word.

Instead, she kissed him.

She dropped her drink onto the table behind her without even looking, stepped forward, and reached up to pull him down to her. And when their lips met, it was nothing like the soft, hesitant brush from that night in the backyard. This was immediate. Fierce. A collision of everything they had held back for too long.

Oscar kissed her like he’d been waiting for this exact moment since the day they met. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him as her fingers curled into the back of his neck, drawing him down further, deeper. It was like they were making up for lost time, for all the stolen glances, the almosts, the words neither of them had dared say.

She clutched at the front of his shirt, and he smiled into the kiss, only pulling back for the briefest second, his forehead pressed to hers, breathless. “Took you long enough.”

Y/N swatted at his chest, trying not to grin. “Shut up.”

He kissed her again, more playful this time, his thumb brushing along her jaw. The air around them buzzed with music and confetti and cheers, but it all melted away, like they were existing in a bubble of their own.

“I’m not letting you disappear on me again,” he murmured against her mouth.

“Good,” she whispered back, her voice trembling from how much her heart was racing. “Because I don’t think I want to.”

His hand slid down her back, teasing, familiar, and she gasped against his lips.

“You sure about that?” he teased, dipping his head to kiss the edge of her jaw, slow and deliberate.

Y/N gave a breathless laugh, tugging him back up by the collar. “I’m the one kissing you, aren’t I?”

“More than kissing,” he murmured, pressing another slow, dizzying kiss to her lips.

It was everything they hadn’t let themselves feel. All the tension and affection, the pining, the wonder of something forbidden finally coming undone in the loudest, most beautiful way.

And as confetti fell around them and strangers kissed and danced in celebration of the new year, Oscar held her like she was the only resolution he ever wanted to make.

🪻🪻🪻

The university lawn buzzed with excitement, the late-afternoon sun casting a soft golden glow over rows of folding chairs, cameras flashing, mortarboards flying, and families cheering far too loudly for their own good.

Y/N stood off to the side with Mae, both of them in their gowns and tassels, clutching their degrees and grinning from ear to ear. Their faces were flushed from the heat and from the sheer emotion of it all. They’d done it. They’d actually done it.

Oscar stood just a few steps away, surrounded by his parents, sisters, and even Y/N’s mum and dad, who had flown in a few days earlier and were now deep in conversation with Nicole about travel itineraries. Everyone had hit it off so well it felt almost suspiciously easy.

When Oscar caught Y/N’s eye, he gave her the biggest, brightest grin; lifting his camera to snap yet another picture. She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, her cheeks hurting from how much she’d been doing that all day.

Mae bumped her shoulder. “If he takes one more photo of you, I swear I’m staging an intervention.”

Y/N laughed. “He’s just excited.”

“He’s obsessed,” Mae corrected, mock-gagging. “Which, like, ew—but fine, I’ll allow it. I guess the two of you have grown on me or whatever.”

After that night, after the confetti and champagne and all the unspoken feelings finally pouring out, everything shifted. But not in the overwhelming, terrifying way she once feared. Instead, it had felt natural, like tipping over into something she had been dancing around for far too long.

Oscar had made it easy. He had been patient with her, never pushing too far or too fast. They’d taken their time, quietly and confidently building something real between the ordinary chaos of uni life and the occasional chaos of his travel schedule. He visited her on campus, brought her snacks during study weeks, sat with her on the library floor when her laptop crashed mid-assignment, and FaceTimed her from hotel rooms when he was away.

She met his friends. He met hers. She attended all the race weekends she could manage, and when Oscar ended up on the podium for each of them, she claimed it was because she was his lucky charm.

They went on little weekend trips when they could, explored sleepy towns along the coast, and fell into a rhythm that made sense to no one more than it did to them.

By April, she had introduced him to her parents. He had been nervous, visibly so, but won them over within an hour, probably somewhere between helping her mum with the dishes and chatting cricket with her dad. Her parents adored him, and even her younger sister, who never liked anyone, had declared Oscar “cool enough”.

And as for Mae, well, Mae had taken some time. At first, she had reacted with a theatrical gasp and an intense interrogation session that included far too many threats. But somewhere between seeing them steal each other’s fries and catching them watching late-night movies on the couch in matching socks, Mae slowly began to soften. Now, she tolerated their PDA with exaggerated gags and pointed stares, but she also always had a smile behind it.

From a few feet away, Oscar called out, “Can I steal the graduate for a second?”

Mae lifted her hands in mock surrender. “All yours, lover boy.”

Y/N walked over, but Oscar met her halfway, reaching for her hand and pulling her gently toward the quieter edge of the lawn, near the rows of flowering jacaranda trees.

Once they were alone, he came up behind her, looping his arms around her waist and resting his chin gently on the top of her head. She exhaled slowly, leaning back into him.

“Hi,” she whispered.

“Hi,” he murmured, his voice warm and soft. “I’m so proud of you.”

She felt his chest rise and fall behind her, steady and grounding. She closed her eyes, letting the moment settle between them.

“You’ve worked so hard. I’ve seen every late night, every panic spiral, and every twelve-hour study session with no breaks. You did it. And you still managed to be the most incredible person I know while doing it.”

She turned slightly to look up at him, only just, her heart swelling at the earnestness in his eyes.

“I love you,” she said, voice barely more than a breath.

His arms tightened around her. “I love you too,” he said without hesitation, without doubt. “So much.”

He kissed her softly, letting the words settle between them, and then—

“Ugh! Do you guys have to do that here?” Mae’s voice rang out from across the lawn, disgusted and familiar.

Y/N pulled back, about to laugh and move away, but Oscar grinned and said, “Oh, we absolutely have to.”

Then he kissed her again. Deliberately. With both hands cupping her face and enough drama to make Mae start gagging theatrically.

“You’re the worst!” Mae yelled through her hands. “There are children around!”

“We’re twenty-two, Mae,” Y/N called back between giggles, “You’ll survive.”

Oscar just laughed and kissed her forehead before taking her hand in his.

They made their way back to the group, where Nicole had already pulled out her phone to snap more photos and was pretending not to notice the dramatic sighs Mae was letting out, but Y/N didn’t care.

A year ago, she never would’ve imagined this. But now? Now it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Her heart was full. Her degree was in her hands. And Oscar was right beside her, exactly where she wanted him.

jeepers. we’ve really done it now mr. krabs. hope u loved the req anon, and as always send any more whenever you’d like!!

[maskedbyghost]

Possessive reader has had partners before Simon, yeah? Don't suppose any of them are the same flavor of 'mine mine mine' regarding her? Cuz if so, Simon's gonna need to clean up those loose ends. Can't have them thinking they can try and object at the inevitable wedding like some kind of Hallmark movie!

Omg YES. The reader definitely has an ex or two still a little hung up on her, because let’s be honest, someone that obsessed, that intense, that ride-or-die? She’s not exactly forgettable.

You didn’t even react when the text came in. You barely glanced at your phone, just rolled your eyes, and went right back to folding laundry like it wasn’t worth your energy.

But Simon saw it. You knew he saw it because he stopped what he was doing, leaned over, and picked your phone up off the bed without even asking.

“Who’s that?” he asked, even though he was already reading it.

You shrugged. “Some guy I used to fuck around with before I met you. He’s been blocked since last year, so I guess he found a new number.”

Simon didn’t answer. Just stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the message.

You still with that guy? You deserve someone who actually sees how good you are. You know where to find me.

You didn’t even try to explain. What was there to say? You’d deleted that man like an app you forgot existed. Gone. Done. But Simon wasn’t looking at you—he was still staring at your phone, his jaw tight.

You sat back on your knees, watching him. “Don’t get quiet. You know I don’t give a shit about him.”

“I know,” he muttered, his tone calm. “But he doesn’t.”

That’s when he tapped a few things. Deleted the message, blocked the number again. Same way you would have. Except he held your phone for another minute after that, just looking at it. Not saying a word.

Then he handed it back and stood up like nothing happened. “I’ll take the trash out,” he said, heading toward the kitchen. Which was weird, because there was no trash. Not in the actual bin, anyway.

You tilted your head. “You mean metaphorically or—?”

“Both,” he called back.

And that was that. You didn’t ask, you didn’t need to.

You knew Simon wouldn’t do anything stupid, but you also knew he had a way of handling shit when it pissed him off enough. Not like you—loud, mouthy, dramatic, always saying shit like mine mine mine until he groans and tells you you’re a menace while literally pulling you closer.

But him? He didn’t need to scream. Didn’t need to threaten. All he had to do was decide something—and then it was done.

Still, later that night, you were sprawled across his lap, phone in hand, scrolling for something to watch, when you decided to poke the bear a little.

“Y’know,” you said casually, “if some idiot tried to object at our wedding, I’d probably laugh in his face and then throw my shoe at him.”

Simon didn’t even look up from where he was rubbing slow circles into your hip. “Wouldn’t get the chance.”

You smirked. “Why? ‘Cause you’d handle it?”

“No,” he said, finally glancing up at you. “Because anyone that stupid won’t make it to the wedding.”

You stared at him for a second.

Then you leaned in real close, grinning like the psycho you are. “God, I fucking love you.”

He kissed you hard, like he was trying to remind you he was just as gone for you as you were for him.

“Yeah?” he muttered, breath hot against your lips. “Then quit stressin’ about shit that’s already handled.”

And you did. Because you knew—anyone who still thought they had a shot with you? They didn’t anymore. Simon made sure of that.

Not because he was jealous. But because you were his just as loudly and unshakably as he was yours. And anyone who didn’t get the memo?

They’d be lucky to walk away with a warning.

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

this was the last request i had sitting in my inbox for these two, so if y’all want more unhinged possessive nonsense, you’re gonna have to ask, i’m always down to write more of them, just need ideas to work with. you know where to find me <333

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs

[adrienneleclerc]

I love each and every one of your stories! 🥰

I have an idea where the girl pranks her boyfriend that her friends were having a “Christmas party” and pretended she was going to wear sexy lingerie as an outfit and I would totally love to read how the F1 guys would react to that. I don’t know how you feel about that 🙈

Love the idea!

A Nonsense Christmas Prank

+18: Minors Do Not Interact

Summary: How the drivers react to you “leaving” the house in lingerie

Warning: sexual content (in a way, I guess)

A/N: drivers include Charles Leclerc, Lando Norris, Logan Sargeant, Oscar Piastri

For Reference, this is the lingerie (it’s the cutest one I found on a mannequin)

Y/N stepped out in lingerie and strappy heels, talking on the phone with her friend.

“Yes, Miranda, im heading out right now.” Y/N made it a point to talk loudly to get the attention of her partner, making them look up and seeing her in the scandalous attire. “When have I ever been late? It’s not like I’m gonna be late for wine and gossip, I’m practically out the door.” Y/N hung up the phone

Charles Leclerc

“Where are you going like that, Mon ange?” Charles asked.

“Oh, my friend Miranda is having a nonsense Christmas party. Yes, it’s inspired by Sabrina Carpenter, don’t ask.” Y/N said.

“I thought this little set up was for my eyes only, I don’t know how I feel about other men looking at what’s mine.” Charles admitted, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“Oh haha, there won’t be any men there.” Y/N said, tying up the rob she was wearing.

“Okay, but I’ll feel better if I’m taking you to Miranda’s apartment, where does she live, again?” Charles asked, getting his coat out of the closet and getting his keys.

“Are you crazy? I’m not going to her Christmas party like this.” Y/N said. Charles had that confused puppy look on his face.

“What do you mean?” Charles asked, putting his keys back on the hook.

“I mean, yes, it’s a Christmas party, but I’m wearing this.” Y/N said pulling out a more winter appropriate party outfit.

“Oh thank god.” Charles said with his hand in his chest. “I’m still taking you though, get dressed.”

“Yes sir.” Y/N said teasingly.

Lando Norris

“Are you planning on wearing a coat with that outfit?” Lando asked.

“Yes, Lando, I’m going to be wearing the parka you bought me for my birthday (December babies UNITE), how do I look?” Y/N asked, holding the rob open.

“You look Great, so Great in fact, you should cancel on your friend Miranda and spend the night with me.” Lando said.

“Thank you, baby, but i am not canceling on Miranda.” Y/N said.

“Do you think she’ll mind me crashing the party?” Lando asked, playing with the string of Y/N’s robe.

“Probably, it’s more of a girls’ night.” Y/N said,

“Damn…are you sure you can’t stay with me tonight?” Lando asked with a pout.

“Positive. Can I go now?” Y/N asks.

“Yes, you can go, but i need updates about the party. And you need to bring leftovers.” Lando said, giving Y/N a kiss on the forehead. Y/N giggled. “What’s so funny about being sweet to my baby girl?”

“No, it’s not that, but do you actually think I’m leaving the apartment in lingerie? Of course not, I’m wearing jeans, your quarter zip, and the uggs you got me for Christmas.” Y/N said, giving Lando a quick peck. “But I do love you for not telling me to change.”

“Trust me, I really wanted to, but I didn’t want to sound like a dick. Think I can drop you off at the party? Do you need to bring anything?” Lando asked.

“Just let me change and you can take me.” Y/N said.

Logan Sargeant

“Babe, Florida is not that hot.” Logan said, looking at Y/N’s outfit,

“I’m going to my friend’s place, she’s having a Christmas party.” Y/N said.

“Your ‘clothes’ don’t really seem christmassy to me. It’s more of a Valentine’s Day getup, or my birthday.” Logan said.

“Well Miranda thought it would be fun.” Y/N said.

“And im sure it will be. But you sure it’s a good idea to go dressed like that?” Logan asked. “There’s nothing wrong with what you’re wearing! But I want you to be safe.”

“I’m a big tough girl, I tie my own shoes and everything.” Y/N said.

“Don’t quote Hercules to me, this is serious. At least let me take you.” Logan said.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Y/N said. “Im just gonna change real quick.”

“Wait, you’re not wearing that?” Logan asked.

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous, it was a prank. Just give me a minutes.” Y/N said because she got dressed in a cream colored long sleeved Henley with a red plaid skirt, sheer black stockings, and cream colored heeled booties.

“You look beautiful.” Logan kissed Y/N. “Let’s go.”

Oscar Piastri

“Where are you going darling?” Oscar asked

“While we’re in Australia, my friend invited me to a Christmas party.” Y/N replied.

“I didn’t know you had any friends here.” Oscar said.

“Yeah, she moved her in September for her job.” Y/N said.

“That’s good, have fun with her then.” Oscar said. Y/N looked at him. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re not going to say anything about what I’m wearing?” Y/N asked.

“You look beautiful, darling. I’ll take you, let me text my mom though.” Oscar said.

“I am so concerned that you are not saying anything about me wearing lingerie to a Christmas party, Shark Bait.” Y/N said.

“It’s just a girls night, right? That sounds perfectly fine. Besides, I can’t tell you how to dress, I know how much you hate being told what to do outside the bedroom and work.” Oscar said and Y/N slapped his chest playfully.

“Well I’m glad you know I hate being told what to do. I’m gonna change.” Y/N said.

“Wait, you weren’t going out like that?” Oscar asked,

“Babe, it may be hot here, but definitely not hot enough to dress like this.” Y/N said before she changed into an emerald green V-neck top with a black shorts and sneakers. “Next time, can we please stay in England for Christmas? Or at least go to New York? It feels weird to have Christmas during the summer.”

“Well for me, it’s weird to have Christmas in the winter.” Oscar said.

“Whatever, New York Christmas is iconic, argue with the wall, let’s go.” Y/N said.

“Yes ma’am.” Oscar replied.

The End

Not the best but lmk if you want part 2 with Lewis, Daniel, Carlos, and Max.

[lolitalovess]

Behind closed doors.

sum: arranged marriage caitlyn kiramman x reader

warnings: this is short but i put my whole pussy into it, reader lowkey has issues, my girl cait does aswell, hardly proofread, INSANE lesbian yearning

you've always appreciated the way the kiramman manor looks at night, after the sun has lulled itself to sleep in orange hues and the moon is reborn - surrounded by black inc and a thousand stars visible through the large windows of you and your shared wife's room, the night-life of piltover with tall buildings and bright lights shown to your tired eyes from linen curtains pulled back.

it distracted you from how your back grew sore from your position of sitting against the headboard, and why you were here in the first place. you gazed down at your resting wife - she's gorgeous, with prussian blue hair fanning over her pillow and framing her face. you're jealous of her peace in her deep state of unconscious sleep the way her comforter is tucked to her chest and the way it rises and falls with every passing breath.

you had been sitting with your busy thoughts for far too long, you could hardly handle yourself anymore. you've never understood the purpose of getting married ever since you first learnt the term as a young girl. to know someone for a few years and finally like them enough to buy expensive rings and voice vowels to one another, which, most of the time, are bullshit.

but caitlyn kiramman, a woman full of so much dark blue woe and sorrow had just taken your heart, and it felt like a sin. was it? to find your arranged wife attractive, to yearn for her love, despite never showing affection or doing anything remotely intimate. it felt like it was.

the area surrounding you consisted of deafening silence like before, though you could swear that the dark shadows of the manor could morth into tall figurines watching you, especially the one heading toward you. you feel a wave of hotness manufactured out of pure anxiety travel through your body until you see azure blue eyes looking into yours with confusion and longing for your warmth next to hers in bed.

"i couldn't sleep." you speak quickly, voice soft in attempt to not ruin her peace. "go back to bed. it's too cold out here for you to just be wearing that robe."

she leaned her hip against the counter next to you, reaching her arms out for you as quickly as you started talking. it was almost like a hug, with her hands interlocking with eachother around your torso from the side, a small frown playing her lips while she studied the side of your face.

“can’t sleep or won’t sleep?” she asked softly, her accent slipping. she knew what it was like being up all night, in her own terms, alone with her thoughts in the empty felt rooms of the precinct. "go back to bed." you repeated, tilting your head to the side to rest it against her chest, which had her instinctively squeezing around her hands around your waist tighter to support you, enjoying the sight and feel of your body against hers. her hands on you would have you feeling like you were on fire if you weren't so tired. "i'll sleep in one of the guests."

it was a rare thing for the two of you to be physical, as much as it always bothered caitlyn how you would never stay close to her unless you needed something, felt unsafe, or was cold. otherwise, they would never touch, as much as your souls yearned for it. "nonsense," she spoke, her hands rubbing gentle circles against your side before speaking again, her deep voice soft and tender, not wanting to wake anyone up, or disturb her wife.

"sleep in the bed with me tonight. it'll be warmer." she added, taking a small step back as if it the action alone would convince you. the weight of your body being tugged along with her ever so slightly and gently had you focused on following her warmth and familiar smell of vanilla and lavender rather than pulling away.

the two of you stood in silence for a few minutes that felt like hours, the quiet beat of her heartbeat present in your ears whilst you felt sleep threatening to take over your conciousness. you knew you could fall asleep like this if you let yourself. "okay."

she was gently tugging you along with her out of the kitchen and back into the bedroom the moment you agreed, where the moonlight filtered through the slightly parted curtains that exposed the view from outside of the city, it was beautiful, even at night. the door was pushed open slowly and closed behind the two of you just as quickly, her feet taking herself to sit down on the edge of her familiar bed, swinging her long legs up and over to get completely on the bed once more. “come here,” she softly spoke as she patted the space next to her.

you complied at the soft demand from your wife, beginning to walk over to the bed opposite side of the bed, the silk covers pulled over your legs and to your waist after you settled. you felt the comforting action of sleep clouding your mind like every other night, the familiar feel of your jade wedding ring cold around your finger.

maybe caitlyn wasn't so bad.

the lesbian yearning goes crazyy... not gonna lie this concept has been in my drafts for AWHILE and i really enjoyed writing something that wasn't vi and smut for once 😭 might do another part to this, lmk what you think and want ♡

[bajablastwrites]

Feeding My Human Companion!!

ENA x Reader

Summary: ENA makes sure you’re fed in her weird world.

Author’s Note: This is more on the short side, but I was watching someone feed their cats with an enrichment mat while I was eating and it inspired me to make this💀 (Not proof read btw)

ENA is well aware that you’re definitely not from around here, so she’s taken it upon herself to look after her new coworker as one of her indefinite contractual obligations with you! In return you’ll be her new companion, fun!

Let’s pretend ENA somehow learned on how basic human needs such as food, and what a balanced diet for humans looks like, great. The hard part is having to locate where each food could be, so she typically leaves you in the casino or with froggy until she comes back with food for you. She wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you, your body isn’t made to handle whatever strange hostile environments ENA would find herself in looking for the ingredients of today’s menu for you. She uses the information she learned about human diets and their need for variety and enrichment as her guide, so you’re not eating the same thing everyday.

I feel like she purposely doesn’t want you to be completely independent from her— not out of malice, but she thinks that if you learn how to make your own food in her world you wouldn’t need her anymore and will eventually leave because she’s no longer useful to you. So she uses the excuse of valuing your safely as her cover in order to keep you from wandering off. When she eventually comes back from her food run it’s even more gratifying to her watching you eat what she brought you.

ENA’s definitely going insist she hand feeds your dessert to you as her form of compensation for her efforts in keeping you alive. You’re definitely eating better with her than you ever did in your own world, that’s for sure.

If you ever feel bad that she goes through so much trouble in order to feed you she’ll insist that she’s more than happy to help her favorite coworker out!

“I just feel bad that you’re going out of your way to get me food.” You said while idly moving the warm lasagna around with your fork, it honestly felt like you shouldn’t be eating it since you didn’t contribute anything in order to obtain it.

“Nonsense! I’m simply taking the opportunity to make an investment into continuing our collective business together for— WHO SAID YOU COULD STOP CHEWING!! FINISH EATING THAT STUPID CASSEROLE DISH YOU SQUISHY MEAT SACK!!!”

Did I mention she loves to watch you eat.

Sometimes it does feel like you’re being treated more like an exotic animal than an equal, though. ENA isn’t human after all, so her fascination with you can come off as dehumanizing sometimes. She’s not doing it to make you feel less than, there’s no one like you with the same needs and functions as you. She’ll try to change her approach with you to be more tailored to getting to know you as a person rather than as a species, she won’t get it right away but she’ll definitely appreciate your guidance and help in getting to know you.

[debussy42]

"straight or curly?"

Guys, I'm not gonna lie. This whole nonsense started with me just debating whether or not I should straighten or curl my hair today. Wow, I miss my man Levi. Maybe it's with Valentine's day coming up, but I needed some emotionally charged, dancing, jealousy, barely restrained Levi in my life. Hope y'all enjoy ◡̈

wc: 8k WHEWWWWWWW

"Sasha. Mikasa. Should I straighten my hair today, or curl it? It's the weekend, and I want to try something new."

Mikasa, already dressed and pulling on her boots, barely glances up before saying, “Straight.”

Sasha, who’s still lounging on her bed with no urgency whatsoever, tilts her head in thought. “Curl it. It looks cuter that way.”

You hum, turning back to the mirror, lightly running your fingers through your hair. “Hmm. Mikasa, why straight?”

She shrugs. “It’s easier.”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but it’s the weekend. Don’t you want to, I don’t know, do something fun with it?”

You smirk at their contrast and tap your fingers against the wooden vanity. “Jean’s going to say straight. Connie’s going to say whatever makes me look stupid.”

Mikasa ties her scarf, uninterested. “Jean will say whatever makes you look ‘mature.’”

Sasha snorts. “He’s been watching too many noblewomen walk through town.”

You shake your head, grinning at their banter, then turn back to the mirror. “Alright, decision made.”

Mikasa raises a brow. “Which one?”

You give a dramatic pause before flashing them a mischievous grin. “I’ll ask Levi.”

Sasha chokes on air. “Wha—are you insane?”

Mikasa actually looks up at that, blinking. “You’re going to ask the Captain?”

You shrug innocently, gathering your comb. “He’s got an eye for detail. Might as well make use of it.”

Sasha buries her face into her pillow, groaning. “Oh my god, you love testing death, don’t you?”

Mikasa, while less dramatic, still watches you carefully. “You’re comfortable with him, sure. But that’s still Levi. You really think he’s going to care about how you do your hair?”

You smirk. “I don’t know. But I do know that if I look ridiculous, he won’t hesitate to tell me.”

Sasha peeks out from her pillow, stifling laughter. “That’s... actually true.”

Mikasa just shakes her head. “I’m not stopping you. But don’t be surprised if he tells you you’re wasting his time.”

You flash them both a grin before heading for the door. “I’ll be back with verdict.”

—

The morning sun is just beginning to filter through the halls as you make your way toward the common area, boots clicking softly against the wooden floors. Most of the squad is still waking up, scattered across various spaces, engaged in quiet conversations or lazy weekend tasks.

And then, you spot Levi.

He’s near the windows, arms crossed, watching the drizzle outside with his usual unreadable expression. The early light casts a soft glow against his features, the sharp angles of his face somehow looking even sharper in the muted tones of the morning.

You take a breath, then casually stride up next to him, standing just close enough that he acknowledges your presence with a glance but doesn’t immediately turn away.

“Captain,” you say, tilting your head.

Levi’s gaze flickers to you, his brows drawing together slightly. “What?”

You twirl a strand of your hair between your fingers, smirking. “Should I straighten or curl my hair today?”

There’s a pause. A heavy, weighted pause.

Levi blinks once. Then twice. His expression is as blank as ever, but there’s a split second where you think—just maybe—you’ve stunned him into silence.

“…You woke up just to ask me that?”

You cross your arms, feigning seriousness. “This is an important decision, Captain. I need guidance. You have high standards, so I figured you’d have an opinion.”

Levi exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever asked me.”

You bite back a grin. “That’s not an answer, though.”

He finally looks at you fully, scanning you with the same critical gaze he uses when inspecting gear, paperwork, or a particularly irritating recruit.

“Straight,” he says flatly. “Less maintenance.”

You huff. “That’s what Mikasa said.”

Levi shrugs. “Then she’s right.”

You tap your chin, pretending to contemplate. “Sasha said curls.”

“Tch. Of course she did.”

You fight the urge to laugh. “You really don’t like being pulled into nonsense, do you?”

Levi scoffs lightly, already turning back to the window. “And yet, somehow, you keep pulling me in.”

You grin. “It’s a talent.”

Levi exhales again, shaking his head. “Straighten it. But if you’re going to keep bothering me about it, just shave it all off and save everyone the trouble.”

You do laugh at that, shaking your head as you step back. “Alright, alright. Decision made. Thanks, Captain.”

Levi doesn’t reply, but as you turn to leave, you swear you catch something—the barest flicker of amusement in his gaze.

And somehow, that feels like more of a victory than anything else.

You straighten your posture before giving a firm nod, shifting away from the relaxed banter you nearly let slip. “Thank you, Captain.” Your voice is lighter now, but the respect is there—solid, unwavering, the way it should be when addressing him.

Levi doesn’t reply, but the flicker of acknowledgment in his expression tells you that he noticed the shift. He doesn’t need praise, doesn’t care for pleasantries, but he does expect discipline.

And you do respect him—his authority, his position, the sheer presence he carries that makes the rest of the squad tread carefully around him. That weight isn’t something you take lightly.

With your decision made, you turn on your heel and make your way back toward the barracks, catching the eyes of a few cadets as you pass. Some of them look at you like you’ve just done something insane, while others avoid making eye contact entirely, as if speaking to Levi so casually might have put you on a death sentence.

When you step back into the barracks, Sasha and Mikasa are still exactly where you left them, Sasha now halfway through a snack she definitely didn’t have before.

Mikasa eyes you first. “Straight?”

You smirk. “Straight.”

Sasha lets out a dramatic sigh. “Of course he’d say that.”

You shrug as you make your way to the small mirror on the vanity, pulling out your comb. “Well, you did say he has high standards. Might as well follow through.”

Mikasa finishes tying the last knot on her gear before grabbing her scarf. “I don’t understand why you’d ask him in the first place.”

You glance at her through the mirror, lips twitching. “Because he’d tell me the truth, not just what I want to hear.”

Sasha hums thoughtfully. “That is true… Still, brave of you to just walk up to him like that.”

You roll your eyes, running the comb through your hair. “He’s my Captain, not some untouchable ghost. You all act like he’s going to snap my neck for asking a question.”

Sasha gives you an incredulous look. “He would if you tested him enough.”

Mikasa, though less dramatic, simply says, “You’re more comfortable with him than the rest of us are.”

You pause at that, the weight of her words settling over you.

It’s true.

The others hold Levi at a distance—not just because of his rank, but because of who he is. Humanity’s Strongest. A leader, an authority, a presence that demands respect with the sheer force of his being. You’ve seen how they sit up straighter, how they quiet down when he enters a room, how the air around him shifts the atmosphere entirely.

And yet, with you, the distance is different. You still respect him, still heed his orders, but you don’t shrink away under his stare. You step forward, meet his gaze, hold your ground—not recklessly, not without care, but with something else. Something more solid.

You shake off the thought, focusing back on your reflection as you finish smoothing down the last strand of hair.

“Well,” you say, keeping your tone light, “it’s not my fault you all look like you’ve seen a ghost whenever he’s in the room.”

Mikasa doesn’t argue, simply picking up her gear and heading toward the door. “I’ll see you outside.”

Sasha gives you one last lingering look, then grins. “If you ever do cross a line, just give me your rations before you get executed.”

You snort. “Noted.”

As Sasha follows after Mikasa, you take one last glance at yourself before heading toward the door as well, rolling your shoulders back as you mentally prepare for the day ahead.

Even if you are more comfortable with the Captain, that doesn’t mean you’ll ever forget who he is.

Levi Ackerman.

Your Captain. Your superior.

The strongest soldier alive.

And somehow, someone you can’t seem to stop seeking out.

—

The morning air is crisp as you step outside, the lingering chill of the earlier rain still clinging to the air. The ground is damp beneath your boots, the scent of wet earth and wood mixing with the sharp freshness of the wind rolling over the fields beyond the walls. The sun is beginning to break through the thinning clouds, casting golden streaks across the headquarters, its light catching on the dew that clings to the edges of the grass.

You inhale deeply, letting the coolness of it wake you up fully. The barracks are already alive with movement—cadets milling about, some heading toward training fields, others finishing up morning duties. The sound of voices, of boots against gravel, of birds stirring in the trees beyond, all mix together into the low, steady hum of a world still in motion.

Sasha and Mikasa are waiting for you a few feet away, Mikasa adjusting the straps of her gear with practiced efficiency, Sasha idly bouncing on the balls of her feet like she’s trying to generate enough energy to get through the day. She notices you first, squinting at you with exaggerated focus before nodding in approval.

“Alright, I’ll admit it. The Captain was right. The straight hair suits you.”

You snort, walking up to them. “You sound so betrayed.”

“I am betrayed,” she huffs dramatically. “But only because I wanted to be right.”

Mikasa shakes her head. “It was a practical answer. Levi only ever gives practical answers.”

You hum, knowing that’s true, but there’s something about the way he’d looked at you when he said it—how he’d assessed you with that sharp gaze of his, how he’d told you without hesitation, straighten it—that lingers in your thoughts more than it should.

But before you can dwell on it too much, the sound of boots approaching pulls your attention.

Erwin and Levi are walking through the yard, their presence commanding without effort. There’s something about the way the air shifts when they’re together—Erwin with his calm, calculated confidence, and Levi, sharp-edged and observant, moving with quiet precision.

Cadets straighten as they pass, conversations dulling slightly out of instinct, as if the weight of leadership alone is enough to pull people to attention. Even Jean, who normally has some sort of wisecrack ready, keeps his mouth firmly shut as they approach.

You, on the other hand, watch them with interest. Erwin is speaking in low tones, his expression unreadable, while Levi listens, his eyes narrowed slightly, his arms crossed as he walks in measured steps beside him.

But then, as if drawn by some unspoken pull, Levi’s gaze flickers—to you.

It’s brief, but it lingers just long enough to be intentional. A silent acknowledgment. A glance that feels heavier than just casual observation.

Your heart stirs in a way you don’t fully understand.

You don’t break eye contact right away. You hold it, just for a second longer than necessary, before nodding in quiet greeting, maintaining the formality expected of you.

Levi doesn’t nod back, but there’s a shift in his expression, something so subtle that only someone looking for it would notice. And then he looks away, back to Erwin, as if nothing had happened at all.

The moment passes, but it leaves something behind.

Mikasa notices. She doesn’t say anything, but she notices. The slight tilt of her head, the way her gaze flickers between you and Levi before she simply adjusts her gear again, tells you that much.

Sasha, however, being Sasha, definitely notices.

She leans in slightly, voice hushed but teasing. “That was a look.”

You keep your expression carefully neutral. “That was nothing.”

Sasha smirks. “Sure it was.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth spreading beneath your ribs is undeniable.

—

The morning drifts into training, the sky fully clearing as the sun rises higher, warming the damp earth below. The air is filled with the rhythmic whoosh of ODM gear, the sharp snap of cables latching onto wooden poles, the occasional grunt of effort as cadets push themselves through the drills.

You move through the routine with practiced ease, the familiar weight of your gear settling into your movements, your muscles burning in that satisfying way that comes with hard work. The wind rushes past your ears as you propel yourself forward, the world blurring for a moment before you land solidly on the next platform, inhaling sharply before launching off again.

Training days like this—ones where you can feel your strength, your skill, the sheer power of your body moving through the air—are the ones that remind you why you fight. Why you push.

You fall into rhythm with the others, weaving between them, keeping pace as you scan for your next maneuver. Jean and Eren are bickering between swings, Sasha is somehow eating mid-air, and Mikasa—unsurprisingly—is moving effortlessly, her form almost unnatural in its efficiency.

And then there’s Levi.

His presence alone changes the air.

He’s not just watching—he’s analyzing, assessing the squad with sharp, unwavering focus. His movements are controlled, effortless, the way he balances his weight even as he stands observing more a testament to his skill than anything else.

Every once in a while, he calls out adjustments. A sharp, no-nonsense command. A correction before anyone even has a chance to mess up.

And when his voice cuts through the field—low, firm, carrying more authority in a single word than most could in an entire speech—people listen.

You land solidly on a nearby platform, catching your breath for just a second before you hear it.

“Your form’s getting sloppy.”

You turn sharply.

Levi is watching you, arms crossed, gaze heavy.

You blink, surprised at first, before narrowing your eyes slightly. “It’s not sloppy.”

Levi raises a brow. “You hesitated before your last swing.”

You huff, rolling your shoulders back, feeling the weight of your gear settle evenly again. “Only because Jean was in my way.”

Jean, from several feet away, throws up his hands. “Why is my name always being thrown around?”

Levi doesn’t even acknowledge him. His attention stays on you.

“You’re letting yourself get distracted,” he says evenly, gaze unwavering. “Fix it.”

Your jaw tightens slightly.

You could argue, you want to argue, but you know better. Levi doesn’t say things for the sake of it. If he’s calling you out, it’s because he knows you can do better.

And that bothers you more than anything.

You nod once, sharp. “Understood, Captain.”

Levi watches you for a second longer before giving the smallest nod of approval. And then, just like that, his attention shifts—back to the squad, back to the broader picture, back to everything else that needs his attention.

You take a slow breath before launching yourself forward again, this time sharper, faster.

And though he doesn’t look at you again, you know he’s still watching.

And that’s enough to push you harder.

—

It was the end of the short lesson as you were released for the weekend.

“Guys,” You fall back into step with the girls, absentmindedly stroking a piece of your hair, “what if he only chose straight hair because it’s more convenient, not because it necessarily looked better on me? How can I know?”

Sasha groans dramatically, throwing her arms in the air. “Oh my god, you’re still thinking about this?”

Mikasa, walking beside you with her gear slung over her shoulder, gives you a sidelong glance. “Levi doesn’t say things just to say them. If he said straight, he meant it.”

You let out a thoughtful hum, twirling a strand of your hair between your fingers. “But what if he only said it because it’s easier, not because it actually looked better?”

Sasha snorts. “Then I guess you’ll just have to change it up and see if he reacts.”

You blink at her. “What, like curl my hair next time and test his response?”

Mikasa shakes her head as if she can already see where this is going. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Sasha grins mischievously. “I do.”

You narrow your eyes in thought, considering.

Mikasa sighs. “He’s our Captain, not some noble at a ballroom.”

“Exactly,” you quip, smirking. “Which means if he does notice, it’ll mean something.”

Mikasa doesn’t respond, just presses her lips into a thin line as if choosing to disengage entirely.

Sasha, however, nudges you with her elbow. “Alright, next mission: Operation Look Pretty and See if Captain Notices.”

You huff a laugh. “That is not what we’re calling it.”

Sasha grins. “Too late. It’s already official.”

Mikasa sighs again, rubbing her temple. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

You smirk but don’t push further, letting the subject drop—for now. But deep down, curiosity lingers.

Because, honestly?

You kind of do want to see if he notices.

—

“I mean, we are going out tonight to celebrate Jean’s birthday. I can accidentally slip by him with my curled hair to see his reaction…” You muse thoughtfully as you get change out of uniform and into more casual clothing, appreciating the cool breeze that hits your legs as you twirl in a skirt.

Mikasa groans, rubbing her temple like she’s already regretting being part of this conversation. “That’s ridiculous.”

Sasha, on the other hand, lights up. “No, that’s genius.”

You grin, brushing through your hair as you sit on the edge of your bed. “Is it though?”

“Yes,” Sasha says immediately. “Because listen, if Levi doesn’t care, he won’t react. But if he notices—even a little—that means he actually has an opinion on how you look.” She gestures dramatically. “And that would mean something.”

Mikasa exhales through her nose. “Or it just means he’s observant and has an opinion on everything.”

You hum thoughtfully, tying your hair into a loose ponytail for now. “That’s why it’s a test, Mikasa. For science.”

Mikasa stares at you blankly. “That is not how science works.”

Sasha claps her hands together. “Alright, so plan’s simple—tonight, you curl your hair, we go out for Jean’s birthday, and at some point, you just... happen to slip by the Captain.”

You nod, amused at how invested Sasha has become. “Exactly. Totally casual. No effort at all.”

Mikasa shakes her head, standing up and adjusting the straps on her uniform. “I’m not encouraging this. If you want to waste your time overanalyzing Levi’s non-reaction, that’s on you.”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “It’s called gathering data, Mikasa.”

You laugh, standing as well. “Exactly. And besides, it’s just for fun.”

Mikasa gives you a look that says you are all insufferable, but she doesn’t argue further. Instead, she merely slings her gear over her shoulder. “I’ll meet you both outside.”

As she leaves, Sasha leans in conspiratorially. “She’s totally curious too, she just won’t admit it.”

You smirk. “Oh, definitely.”

Sasha grins. “Alright, then. Let’s make Jean’s birthday party very interesting.”

The rest of the day passes in a blur of training, chores, and preparation for the evening. By the time the sun dips low over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of soft orange and violet, the atmosphere around headquarters shifts into something lighter, more relaxed. It’s rare to have a night like this—where everyone can unwind, even just for a few hours, without the weight of duty pressing down on them.

You stand in front of the small mirror in the barracks, fingers deftly working through your hair as you curl it, piece by piece. The heat from the iron brushes against your fingertips, and you carefully shape each strand, letting the soft waves fall naturally over your shoulders.

Mikasa, seated on her bunk, pretends not to watch but definitely watches. She says nothing, but the occasional glance in the mirror’s reflection gives her away.

Sasha, on the other hand, is fully invested, sitting cross-legged on her bed and leaning forward. “Oh, yeah. This was definitely the right call.”

You smirk. “Told you.”

She grins. “You’re about to ruin a man’s whole perception of himself.”

You snort, shaking your head as you adjust the last curl. “You’re making it sound like a battle strategy.”

Sasha shrugs. “If you win, I say it counts.”

Mikasa finally sighs. “It’s ridiculous to think Levi would even care about something like this.”

You raise an eyebrow at her through the mirror. “Then there’s no harm in testing it, right?”

She presses her lips into a thin line, but doesn’t argue.

Satisfied, you stand up, smoothing your hands over your outfit—something casual but presentable, enough to blend in while still feeling put-together. The anticipation hums beneath your skin, but you shake it off, reminding yourself that this is not some grand event.

It’s just Jean’s birthday.

And Levi noticing or not noticing your hair is just... extra data.

—

The town is alive with warmth and movement, the faint glow of lanterns casting golden light against cobblestone streets. It’s a stark contrast to headquarters—where the air is always tense, where everything is lined with purpose and duty. Here, laughter spills from tavern doors, the clinking of glasses and distant music drifting through the air.

The squad gathers outside one of the better-kept taverns, waiting for stragglers before heading in. Jean stands at the center of it all, basking in the attention of his birthday, grinning as Connie pretends to give a heartfelt speech about his immense wisdom and contributions to humanity.

You laugh, rolling your eyes as you adjust your jacket. “You’re laying it on thick, Connie.”

Connie throws up his hands. “It’s his birthday, let me lie to the guy.”

Jean scoffs, shoving him lightly. “At least someone is recognizing my greatness.”

Mikasa stands beside you, arms crossed, looking unimpressed. Sasha is already trying to drag Reiner and Bertholdt into a bet over who can drink the most before passing out. The atmosphere is light, easy—exactly the kind of night you all need.

And then, just as you’re about to head inside, you feel it.

A shift.

The kind of awareness that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You glance over your shoulder, and sure enough—Levi is approaching from the other end of the street. He’s walking with Erwin and Hange, both of whom are engaged in quiet conversation. But Levi—Levi is quiet as always, sharp eyes scanning the gathered squad as he moves.

Your heart does a stupid little lurch in your chest.

It’s not a big deal. You know that. But suddenly, every single curl feels too obvious, every strand of hair placed too deliberately.

Sasha subtly elbows you, voice low. “Showtime.”

You swallow, ignoring the ridiculousness of it all as you casually—very casually—turn your head and pretend to adjust your sleeve, making it look like you just so happen to be standing directly in Levi’s line of sight.

He slows slightly as he approaches, his eyes flickering over the group in his usual assessing way. You watch carefully, scanning for any sign of reaction—anything at all—but his face remains unreadable.

And then—his gaze lands on you.

It’s brief. Just a flicker. But something shifts.

His sharp eyes drag over your hair—not just in passing, but with intent. The tiniest hesitation, the kind that would be imperceptible to anyone not looking for it.

You hold your breath.

And then, just as quickly as it happened, it’s gone.

His expression smooths back into neutrality, his attention snapping forward again as he brushes past you with no comment, following Erwin and Hange into the tavern.

You exhale slowly, feeling the weight of Sasha’s expectant stare burning into the side of your face.

“Well?” she whispers, practically vibrating. “Did he notice?”

You press your lips together, considering.

“…He paused.”

Sasha grabs your arm. “OH, MY GOD.”

Mikasa groans, already walking ahead. “I refuse to be part of this.”

Jean, oblivious to everything, is already inside, basking in the attention of his own celebration.

You, however, linger for just a second longer, glancing at the door Levi disappeared into.

Maybe it was nothing.

Maybe it was everything.

But either way—he paused.

And that was more than enough.

—

The warmth of the tavern hits you the moment you step inside, a stark contrast to the cool night air outside. The scent of old wood, spiced ale, and freshly baked bread lingers in the air, mixing with the low hum of chatter and the occasional burst of laughter from a drunken patron. The flickering candlelight casts everything in a dim, golden glow, the kind that makes the edges of reality feel softer, less urgent.

Jean, reveling in the rare occasion of being the center of attention, immediately heads toward an empty table near the back, where the rest of your squad is already gathering. Connie slings an arm around his shoulders, teasing him about how old he’s getting, while Sasha is already scanning the menu, clearly prioritizing food over conversation.

You settle into a seat across from Mikasa, who looks less interested in the celebration and more like she’s simply here to make sure Eren doesn’t do anything stupid. You smirk, leaning on your elbow. “I bet you five rations Eren ends up in a bar fight before the night is over.”

Mikasa doesn’t even blink. “I’m not betting against something that’s guaranteed to happen.”

You laugh, but before you can respond, the door swings open again, and your attention flickers instinctively to the entrance.

Levi steps inside, following Erwin and Hange as they make their way toward a separate table reserved for officers. Unlike the rest of you—who have already started loosening up, the casual energy of the tavern slipping into your movements—Levi remains the same. Composed. Straight-backed. Completely unfazed by the shift in atmosphere.

But you don’t miss the way his sharp gaze subtly sweeps over the room, assessing the layout, cataloging who’s here, where the exits are. It’s instinctual, second nature. Even in a space meant for relaxation, he’s still a soldier first.

He moves toward his seat, and for a second, just a brief second, his gaze flickers in your direction.

You feel the weight of it, even from across the room.

It’s unreadable, just like before. But you know he saw.

Your heart does that stupid little skip again, and you force yourself to look away, suppressing the smug smile threatening to form on your lips.

Sasha, however, does not suppress hers. She leans in close, voice hushed but practically vibrating with excitement. “He paused again.”

You shake your head. “It could have been anything.”

“It wasn’t anything.”

Mikasa sighs, already regretting sitting next to you two. “If you two spent half this energy on training, you’d both be Captain-level by now.”

Sasha grins. “Okay, but watching this unfold is so much more entertaining.”

You roll your eyes, picking up a glass of water and taking a slow sip, hoping to calm down the unnecessary giddiness that’s settled in your chest. It’s stupid—you know it’s stupid—but something about Levi’s pause feels like a tiny, unspoken victory.

Still, you shake it off. The night isn’t about that. It’s about Jean, about unwinding, about letting yourself be a person instead of just a soldier for once.

And so, you let the conversation around you pull you in. You tease Jean about his dramatic speeches, you steal a bite of Sasha’s food when she isn’t looking, you let yourself sink into the warmth of camaraderie, the normalcy of it all.

Time moves easily, drinks are passed around, and the sound of laughter grows louder as the night wears on.

Until—

“You’re drinking too fast.”

The voice is low, firm, unmistakable.

Your muscles stiffen slightly before you even see him, but when you glance up, sure enough, Levi is standing beside you, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.

Your glass, half-full with whatever cheap ale Sasha had convinced you to try, is still in your hand. You raise an eyebrow, tilting it slightly. “I’ve had one drink, Captain.”

Levi doesn’t budge. “And I’ve seen what happens when you lot get carried away.”

Around you, the others fall quiet, the easygoing atmosphere from moments ago shifting under Levi’s presence. Even Jean—who, on his own birthday, should technically be allowed to act out a little—sits up straighter, eyes flickering toward you with mild concern.

You swallow, knowing that Levi is right, that the last thing you need is to be unfocused, careless.

Still, you offer a small, placating smile. “I hear you, Captain. Don’t worry—I know my limits.”

Levi watches you for a moment longer, gaze lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. But then he exhales sharply through his nose, something between a sigh and a quiet acknowledgment, before stepping back. “Tch. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

You nod, and with that, Levi finally retreats, making his way back toward his own table.

The second he’s out of earshot, Sasha lets out a long breath. “Wow. He really keeps an eye on you, huh?”

Jean shakes his head. “I don’t know whether to feel sorry for you or be impressed you can get away with talking back.”

You roll your eyes. “I wasn’t talking back. I was just… clarifying.”

Mikasa hums. “He didn’t call anyone else out. Just you.”

That gives you pause.

You glance back toward Levi’s table, where he’s now sitting with Erwin and Hange, sipping from a teacup instead of anything stronger. His posture remains the same—composed, indifferent—but his awareness of the room is ever-present.

And maybe, just maybe, his awareness of you is a little sharper than the rest.

You turn back to your friends, shaking your head. “You’re all reading too much into it.”

Sasha smirks. “Are we?”

You don’t answer.

You just take another sip of water, ignoring the way your heart betrays you with a quiet, persistent rhythm.

—

The world feels a little softer around the edges, the golden glow of lanterns casting everything in a dreamlike haze. The warmth of the alcohol hums beneath your skin, not overwhelming, but just enough—enough to dull the weight of the past week, enough to make the music sound richer, enough to let yourself exist in the moment without overthinking it.

The tavern is alive now, laughter spilling over the strum of instruments, boots tapping against the wooden floor in time with the lively rhythm. Around you, your friends are caught up in the revelry—Connie and Sasha are engaged in some ridiculous footwork competition, Jean is attempting to twirl Historia around and failing miserably, and even Mikasa, ever composed, allows herself a small smile as she watches the chaos unfold.

And then—your hands are caught in someone else’s.

You blink, surprised, as a man—tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy grin—takes your hand and pulls you into the movement of the dance floor. His grip is firm, his confidence easy, and before you can even register it, you’re being spun into the rhythm of the music.

You offer a polite smile, adjusting to the steps as he twirls you once, twice. He seems friendly enough, his expression open and relaxed, and for a moment, you let yourself get lost in it, let yourself be just another person in a tavern, caught in the joy of the night.

But then—

His hold tightens.

Subtly, but noticeably.

His hand lingers just a little too long on your waist, his grip just a bit firmer than necessary.

Your instincts, dulled by the pleasant haze in your mind, take a moment to catch up. You keep your smile in place, but a quiet unease settles in your stomach. You try to subtly shift your weight, to create some distance between you, but he moves with you, maintaining the closeness.

A polite exit. You just need a polite exit.

You clear your throat lightly, offering a small laugh. “Alright, I think I need a break—”

The man chuckles, still holding you in place. “Come on, one more dance.”

Something in his tone makes your skin prickle—not outright threatening, but entitled, as if your willingness to dance once meant you owed him more.

Your smile tightens. “I should really—”

And then, before you have the chance to finish your sentence, the air changes.

A presence—sharp, heavy, unmistakable—settles behind you.

The man stiffens slightly, his grip loosening just enough for you to slip a step back, as a new voice cuts through the space between you, low and edged with quiet authority.

“Let her go.”

Your breath catches.

Slowly, you turn your head.

Levi stands there, expression unreadable, eyes dark and steady. His posture is relaxed—but in that way, the way that suggests he is anything but. His arms are crossed, but the tension in his shoulders is subtle, the kind you’d only notice if you knew him.

And you do.

The man—who had been all confidence and charm just moments ago—hesitates, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. He sizes Levi up, as if debating whether or not to push his luck.

He makes the wrong choice.

“She was dancing with me,” the man says, lifting his hands slightly in false innocence, though his tone holds a thread of defiance. “Didn’t seem to mind.”

A sharp, quiet pause.

Levi tilts his head ever so slightly, eyes flickering between you and the man with chilling precision. His voice, when he speaks again, is calm.

“I wasn’t asking.”

The weight of those words settles between them, heavy, immovable.

Something flickers in the man’s face—hesitation, irritation, then a quiet understanding that this is not a fight he wants to pick.

With a huff, he raises his hands in surrender. “Didn’t know she had a guard dog.”

You feel Levi tense, just for a split second.

Before anything can escalate, you step forward, offering the man a sharp, polite smile. “Thank you for the dance,” you say evenly, voice firm. “But I’m done now.”

The man’s eyes linger on you for a moment longer, then finally, he scoffs and turns away, disappearing into the crowd.

The tension lingers, like a blade just barely sheathed.

You exhale slowly, turning fully toward Levi.

His gaze sweeps over you—quick, assessing, making sure you’re unharmed. When he’s satisfied, he clicks his tongue. “You need to be more careful.”

You cross your arms. “I was being careful.”

Levi raises a brow. “Didn’t look like it.”

You huff, rubbing the back of your neck. “I was handling it, Captain.”

Levi doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his eyes flicker over your face again, something unreadable in his expression. Then, finally—

“I know.”

It’s not an admission of fault, not quite. But it is an acknowledgment.

You blink, caught off guard by the quiet weight behind those words.

Before you can say anything, he exhales sharply and steps back. “Oi. You’re reckless.”

You smirk. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

Levi doesn’t dignify that with a response, just shakes his head. But there’s something different in the way he looks at you, something lingering beneath the usual exasperation.

Something like relief.

And maybe—just maybe—you weren’t the only one who noticed the way he paused tonight.

—

“Well Captain?” You smile, laughing as you sidestep to avoid Sasha twirling with a recently hired chef that you had seen around a lot more recently. “Isn’t the gentleman supposed to offer the lady a dance? Awfully rude to step in without an intention of following through, don’t you think?”

Levi exhales sharply through his nose, unimpressed, arms still crossed as he watches you with that unreadable expression. The tavern is alive around you—figures moving in vibrant swirls of laughter and motion, the wooden floor shaking beneath the weight of stomping boots, the rich hum of music weaving through the air.

But here, in this moment, it’s just you and him.

You smirk, tilting your head. “Come on, Captain. You can’t step in all dramatic like that and not at least pretend to play along.”

Levi doesn’t move, but there’s something assessing in his gaze, something like quiet calculation behind those steel-gray eyes. You wonder if he’s thinking of an escape, a way to dismiss you with one of his usual deadpan remarks.

But then—

A hand.

Not grabbing, not demanding—just a simple extension. A silent answer.

Your breath catches in your throat.

It’s brief, just a flicker of hesitation before his fingers brush yours, just enough to take your hand without giving anything away. His grip is firm, but there’s a carefulness to it, as if he’s aware of the weight behind the action, of the unspoken shift in the space between you.

And then—he moves.

Not in the showy, exaggerated way the others are throwing themselves into the music, but in a way that’s purely Levi—sharp, controlled, precise. His grip on your hand remains steady as he guides you through the steps, his other hand finding the small of your back, light but firm.

For a second, you forget everything else.

The alcohol, the laughter, the blurred movement of the world around you—it all fades into something distant, something inconsequential compared to the quiet gravity of him.

His touch is careful but certain, his movements seamless despite the clear reluctance in his expression. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable—it’s just that Levi Ackerman is not a man who does things without purpose.

And yet, here he is, following through.

You smile, leaning in just slightly, voice barely above the hum of the music. “See? Not so bad, is it?”

Levi scoffs lightly. "You’re lucky I haven’t stepped on your feet.”

You laugh—really laugh, the warmth of it bubbling up in your chest, light and unrestrained. The sound earns you the barest flicker of something in his eyes—not quite amusement, but something close.

The moment stretches, neither of you breaking the rhythm, neither of you pulling away.

And for the first time that night, you’re certain of one thing:

Levi definitely noticed your hair.

The music swells around you, a lively, unrelenting current of sound and motion, but you barely register it. The tavern, the laughter, the blur of bodies dancing past—it all becomes background noise, a distant hum compared to the quiet weight of the moment unfolding between you and Levi.

His hand is steady against yours, his grip firm but never forceful. His other hand, resting lightly at the small of your back, holds no urgency, no demand—just quiet control, a careful presence. He moves with you in that same effortless way he fights—with intention, with precision, with the kind of quiet mastery that makes even the smallest of gestures feel deliberate.

And yet, for all his competence, you can feel the reluctance in him.

Not reluctance toward you, necessarily. But toward the situation. Toward the ease with which he’s letting this happen.

Toward the fact that he is here, dancing with you, indulging this moment when he so rarely indulges anything.

You can see it in the tension just barely visible in his shoulders, in the way his jaw ticks subtly, as if his own body is surprised by the fact that he’s still holding onto you.

You press your lips together, suppressing a smirk. “You’re concentrating too much.”

Levi exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “I don’t dance.”

“You’re dancing right now.”

“Tch. You call this dancing?”

You grin, leaning in just enough that your words are meant only for him. “Well, you are holding me awfully close for someone who doesn’t dance, Captain.”

Levi doesn’t react immediately, doesn’t pull away or push you off with a sharp remark like you half-expect him to. Instead, his grip subtly adjusts—not tightening, not loosening, but shifting in a way that tells you he’s aware.

Aware of the closeness. Aware of the way your breath brushes faintly against his collar. Aware of the warmth of your body so near to his own.

It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you feel it—that minuscule shift in his fingers against yours, in the way his hand remains steady at your back, holding you just at the edge of something uncertain.

He doesn’t break the eye contact you didn’t even realize you had been holding.

“…You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, voice low, almost lost beneath the sound of music and laughter around you.

You smile. “And yet, here you are.”

Levi exhales, his thumb grazing the back of your hand as he adjusts his grip—so small a movement, so imperceptible, that you wonder if he even realizes he did it.

Or if he does, and just isn’t stopping himself.

The room spins slightly—not from the alcohol, not from the movement, but from the sheer weight of the moment, from the impossible tenderness that exists in the spaces between words, in the breaths you don’t take, in the lingering warmth of a touch that neither of you are pulling away from.

And for the first time since you pulled him into this, you realize something.

You’re testing him.

Not just to see if he noticed your hair, not just to push his limits, but to see if he will choose to let this moment exist.

If he will choose to let himself stay.

Your heart pounds as you take a breath. “Levi—”

A crash from the other side of the room interrupts you, followed by loud, drunken shouting.

Levi’s body tenses immediately, his hand at your back twitching as his head whips toward the commotion. The moment between you shatters instantly, replaced by sharp awareness, by the cold snap of duty.

He doesn’t say a word. He just lets go.

The loss of his touch is instant, like stepping into cold air after being wrapped in warmth. The shift is so sharp, so complete, that it almost makes you doubt whether the moment you just shared was real at all.

Levi steps back, his expression neutral again, unreadable as he scans the room, already assessing.

You swallow, forcing yourself to do the same—to shake it off, to pretend like your pulse isn’t still pounding in your ears, like the ghost of his hands on you isn’t still lingering on your skin.

He glances back at you, his gaze flickering over you once, checking—like he’s making sure you’re still steady, still standing, before he turns his attention back to the rest of the room.

“Stay here,” he mutters. And then, just like that, he’s gone, moving toward the source of the disturbance with the same effortless sharpness that makes him humanity’s strongest.

You watch him go, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

The music carries on, the tavern keeps spinning, but you remain rooted in place, heart still racing, the memory of his warmth still imprinted on your skin.

And for the first time tonight, you realize—

You don’t need Levi to say that he noticed you.

Because in the way he held onto you, even for just a moment—he already did.

—

You scan the room to see if any of your friends are in danger. After seeing them slowly making their way back to the corner table, you bunch up your skirt before striding across the room to Erwin. "Commander, what is it? Where's Captain? Squad Leader Hange? What are my orders, sir?"

You stand unflinching before him, but your heart beats thunderously, unsure of where the Captain went and if he'll be okay.

Erwin’s sharp blue eyes flicker down to you as you approach, his expression unreadable but steady, as always. The weight of command rests on his shoulders like a mantle, effortless in the way only a man like him can carry. He does not startle, does not seem surprised that you’ve come to him first, as if he expected you would.

His gaze scans over the tavern, over the shifting figures of soldiers and civilians alike, before settling back on you. “It was just a minor scuffle,” he says, voice calm, deliberate. “A few drunk patrons getting too comfortable around our cadets. Captain Levi and Squad Leader Hange are handling it.”

Your fingers tighten slightly against the fabric of your skirt, heart still hammering in your chest. “Should I assist?”

Erwin studies you for a fraction longer than necessary before speaking. “No. The situation is under control.” A pause. “But it’s good that you came to me first.”

Your lips press together, trying to steady yourself. “It’s my duty.”

Erwin gives the smallest nod, an unspoken acknowledgment that you understand what it means to be a soldier, even in moments like this. Even with your pulse still thrumming from something that has nothing to do with a threat.

You inhale sharply, eyes flickering toward the direction Levi disappeared. “Where did Captain Levi go?”

“He’s outside.” Erwin’s voice remains as even as ever, but something in the way he watches you is too perceptive, too knowing. “Ensuring the situation is fully resolved.”

Your stomach twists, but you keep your stance firm. “Permission to check on him, sir?”

A pause.

Not hesitation, not refusal—just assessment.

Then, Erwin gives the faintest tilt of his chin. “Go.”

You don’t waste a second.

—

The cold air hits you as soon as you step outside. The tavern’s warmth is instantly swallowed by the crisp night breeze, the scent of rain still lingering from the earlier drizzle. Lanterns flicker dimly against the darkness, casting long, stretching shadows over the cobblestone streets.

And then—you see him.

Levi stands a few paces ahead, his back to you, his posture rigid but controlled. Even from here, you can see the way his fingers flex slightly at his sides, how his head tilts just barely, listening to something unseen.

There’s a man at his feet—conscious but slumped against the wall, groaning, as if the fight had been drained out of him in an instant.

Levi had taken care of it. Of course he had.

But you don’t care about the drunk.

You care about him.

You step forward, boots tapping against stone, and his head immediately shifts at the sound. He doesn’t fully turn—doesn’t have to. He already knows it’s you.

“Captain.” Your voice is steadier than your pulse. “Are you alright?”

For a moment, Levi doesn’t respond. He exhales slowly through his nose, a habit you recognize—one he does when he’s recalibrating, shifting from fight to stillness.

Then, at last, he turns.

The dim lantern light catches against the sharp angles of his face, highlighting the slight furrow between his brows, the tension still visible in the line of his jaw. His uniform is slightly rumpled from movement, but there’s no sign of injury—no blood, no bruising, just Levi, standing in the quiet aftermath of something already finished.

He studies you for a moment, eyes scanning—searching, checking—as if making sure you’re still in one piece.

“Tch.” He clicks his tongue, looking away. “You should be inside.”

You step closer, searching his face. “So should you.”

Levi exhales, the barest hint of exasperation beneath the breath. “Did Erwin send you?”

You shake your head. “I came on my own.”

At that, something flickers in his expression. Not surprise—more like quiet understanding.

Your fingers twitch slightly at your sides, unsure of what to say, unsure if there’s anything to say that he’ll actually listen to. So instead, you just—watch him.

The lines of his face, the way the dim glow of lanterns traces the edges of his expression, how his eyes—normally so impassive—seem darker under the weight of the night.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then—

“You’re shaking.”

It’s so quiet that you almost miss it.

You blink. “What?”

Levi’s gaze flickers to your hands, and you realize, belatedly, that he’s right—your fingers are trembling, ever so slightly, still buzzing with the leftover adrenaline from the evening.

You open your mouth to dismiss it, to say something lighthearted, to wave it off as nothing, but—

Levi moves first.

His hand—warm, calloused, steady—reaches out. He doesn’t take yours, doesn’t grip your wrist, but he touches. A brush of fingertips against your knuckles, a fleeting connection, just enough to ground you in place.

Your breath catches.

It lasts only a second.

Then, just as quickly, he pulls away, as if realizing what he did, as if catching himself before he lingers too long.

You swallow, staring at him.

“Go inside,” he murmurs, voice quieter than before.

Your heart is still hammering, but it’s not from the cold anymore.

“…You’re sure you’re okay?” you ask, softer this time.

Levi holds your gaze, something unreadable in his own.

Then, with the barest tilt of his chin—

“I’m fine.”

And this time, you believe him.

[artsninspo]

Penname: Delta Wise [Sinners]

「 ✦ mbj's charcter archive✦ 」

「 ✦ full library & archive ✦ 」

authors note: a quick concept I thought up after seeing the movie.

summary: 'Knotty' James owns an apothecary by day, by night she's a bestselling author who writes supernatural black novels under the name. Delta Wise. It's her deepest secret but secrets don't last for the living.

word-count: 1.9K

Knotty

I spent the first eight summers of my life next to my grandmother's rocking chair. She was the only person that was rooted enough not to leave. There was nowhere else for her to go. I was helping her cook by six and then cooking for the both of us by eight. I watched as my parents and cousins dismissed her stories, warnings and tales for nonsense but they always felt true to me where it counted. I wrote down all her stories of life in Chicago and then recorded the rest when I was old enough to have a tape recorder. I was at the retirement community just as much as I was at school. She spoke life over me and she loved me hard. By the time she died I was fifteen and ready for the world with the wisdom of two lifetimes. I was different and people could tell.

What grandma always told me was that a good woman knew how to keep a secret. I have more than my fare share. What my family doesn’t know is that granny’s stories have made me rich. While they think I’m an oddball apothecary owner with peculiar habits. Truth is I’ll never have to make another sale to survive. The doctors and the lawyers look down on me but pride isn’t safe. Neither is the glory of recognition. Grandma's stories were real, so it’s very likely the monsters in my stories are too. 

I search through my closet for something that won’t make them all look down on me too much. I make sure my figure is on display to give them something to talk about as I set my locks free from their braids. The waves cascade to my mid back. I opt for more discrete protections today slipping on pure silver rings and cuffs. Every major artery is adorned with silver from my head to my toes. I slip on a pair of boots. I pull on a light jacket to cover my back. I look at the sun setting and finish my garlic tea with a colonial silver supplement before grabbing my bag and getting into the car.

I don’t make being out after sunset a habit. But Uncle Larry is sick and it’s imperative we party before he goes. He’s grandma's younger brother from her father’s second wife. A proud man that’s done everything to leave Mississippi behind him. When I arrive at the venue there’s a cascade of cars out front. Luxury vehicles that tell the tale of triumph and resistance. When I enter, Kaya is playing the piano and I instantly feel underdressed.

“Come on Knotty, I got you” Carmen smiles, meeting me at the door. We’re equal outsiders because people don’t quite know what to think of me. They think she’s a whore like our great grandmother Pearl who ran off one evening and never came back. Only I know what a blessing that was to everyone that she went up in flames at sunrise. Grandma said she never forgot the man with the scar who’d come by to tell her daddy Pearl was gone and the fantastic tale.

“So how are sales going at the shop?” She asks.

“Good” I smile as she fusses with my hair.

“Well I have a steady trick I don’t have to do anything for now so if you need anything ask.” She says and I smile.

“Thanks Carmen,” I tell her.

“I swear it’s good money,” she says, misreading my smile.

“I believe you” I nod. I do believe her because I’m the trick. Carmen has always been kind so instead of whispering about the onlyfans link in a group chat like everyone else I made an account. I send her money and bible verses because she’s never taken the money from me otherwise. Because to ‘trick’ like I do I’d need more than apothecary. 

“I think I’m gonna quit soon. I almost have enough saved up to make a record. I’ve been taking lessons and my voice is ready. And I have enough to make a really nice music video.” She says, making me smile.

“You were ready before those lessons but I’m happy to hear and if you need anything don’t hesitate to reach out” I tell her.

“What about you and writing? Haven’t seen you with a dreamy eye gleam in front of a computer in a long time” she says and I smile.

“I wrote a herbology and healing book” I remember.

“No no, knotty. Like the big stories you used to tell when we were kids.” She says starting on my makeup.

“What about them?”

“Remember? It’s singing and you’d dream up these amazing ideas for music videos or backgrounds?” She asks like I could forget.

“I do but the apothecary and my garden takes a lot of time” I remind her and she nods.

“Well I think you should take it seriously. If you were that good then. I can imagine about now” she smiles.

“What are you not saying Carmen?” I ask, sensing there’s more to it. She sighs, taking a kindle from her purse. I see my book cover as the Home Screen.

“When someone spends fifty grand on me in a year I investigate.” She says without saying. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you Knotty you’re incredibly successful and you let everyone look down on you. You pay me a salary and never ask for a thank you” she says, far smarter than the rest of them.

“How do the tips trace back?” I ask.

“They didn't. I read the first book a few years ago and it felt like one of Grandma's stories. This last one. That was confirmation. Who could forget the twins?” She whispers.

“Carmen”

“I won’t tell,” she says, swallowing hard. “I won’t” she repeats showing me a silver necklace from Grandma.  “But they’re as excellent as everyone says they are. The minute you let me brag on you I will.” She says but I shake my head.

“Not while they’re still out there”

“But Grandma said they all died” Carmen says.

“She did but you never know” I nod, keeping the rest of the truth from her. The letter I found dated October 17th 1992. From Sammy Scarface himself stating he saw Stack and he didn’t look a day older than the night he died. That Mary was by his side. Mary who was partially to blame for how that night went. Otherwise they would’ve been inside until sunrise.

“Okay miss mystery, we’ll reconvene this later. Just wear this dress and shoes I got you.” She says and I relent slippering into a silver number that better matches the occasion with matching shoes. My clothes are folded and I follow her out of the room and back into the party room.

I’m showered with compliments about my dress and presentation all thanks to Carmen. I take pictures with uncle Larry. When the party’s over I get to my car when I hear someone call me but I don’t listen. I start my engine and head home. When I do I head in backwards like grandma said I should and run a bath before going to bed.

———

I clean up the apothecary after hours knowing I have extra protections in my veins for a little longer. I head to my car as the sunsets and hear someone calling again.

“Hey now! Did I just see you lock up the apothecary. My granny told me I need to get her some fresh dandelion and camomile.” A man says and I step into a sunstreak before looking back to where he stands under the shade of the shops. Brown skin, minimal facial hair, full lips with a hint of a smirk and sunglasses to cover his eyes. He makes me feel uneasy. But I something in me makes me walk towards him. The protection bag tucked in my chest tugs at me. As my silver feels like it starts to hum. But as I get closer it’s like my aura pushes him back. His chain and rings are gold. I open the door stepping in and he does too. No doubt he’s probably already charmed a member of my staff.

“Chamomile and Dandelion? How much?” I ask.

“Eight ounces each” he says and I grab the bags.

“Who’s your grandmother, I don’t think I’d hear the end of a grandson so handsome. The elders are proud people” I smile, flirting.

“Just passing through, she’s out and has a nightly tea ritual” he lies like they all do.

“That’ll be $100” I tell him and he gets a money clip from his pocket instead of pulling out a phone or credit card to pay. He fails my final test when he can’t place the money in my hand. I close the till and grab my key when a woman enters the doorway. She sashays in glaring at me. 

“What’s taking so long baby?” She asks and I should be shitting myself but I’m not. She’s wearing sunglasses too.

“Nothing. I got the goods for Granny” he says holding up the bags to her.

“Heard her flirting” she says making no effort to conceal the impossible. I pretend not to hear from behind the counter and fasten the crossbow around my arm. My belled sleeves cover it and I move from the counter.

“Thanks for your help.” The man smirks.

“Hope your grandmother enjoys her tea” I respond as they file out. I make it to my car fine but I don’t head home. Instead I head to Momma Meringue and she’s standing on her porch when she sees me. Old habit causes her to head into her home. The door is left open as a test and I walk right in after cutting my car off. Her home is full of skylights.

“I think I met Stack and Mary an hour ago,” I confess.

“You did,” she says, showing me a severely patina’d silver cuff. She raises my sleeve and I see my twin pair look just the same. She removes it from me, dropping it into a jewelry cleaner.

“What do they look like?” She asks. And I tell her until there are two perfect pencil sketches. Momma M blinks in rapid succession.

“An unrequited love spell” she says. “The girl's heart was pure until …” her eyes close and she pauses. “He didn’t come back and she learned her husband's bed couldn’t compare to him. She asked for forever and got her wish - not in any way she would have predicted though” Momma finishes.

“Hmm, she was jealous today,” I share.

“Careful he likes a chase. Love spells don’t change men. He misses his brother but is too much of a survivor to consider anything else”

“Any advice? “

“Close the store for a week. Request a new deed, resign and tell your employee’s not to engage with anyone unless they’re inside the store upon reopening.” She says.

“Here’s some silver lotion for the moonlight” she says and I obey because the elders have never steered me wrong. I wash up and sleep at Mama Meringues house but before I go to bed I commit to writing in my journal like my grandmother would have - continuing her story. Then I take photos uploading the pages to the cloud so they can be with hers.

————

If you like it you know what to do, Reblog, comment and like. The girls are asking for sinners so I thought I’d deliver a quickie.

PT 2

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