#since there are about a hundred bones in the face

[berrydoodleoo]

You’ll learn that all is not in vain All that matters remains But it’s time, to say goodbye Until next life

[headcanon-that]

hc that jason todd has an instagram/youtube/tiktok account called gatsbyreviews (named after jay gatsby) where he posts reviews of various fictional media (mostly books). thing is, he always gives the reviews in the tone of a pissed-off drill sergeant explaining something for the third time to a particularly bone-headed group of rookies. so even when the review is positive, he sounds like he's passionately defending it in court. he does all his videos in a hoodie and sunglasses, so his identity isn't clear (especially since any viewers who could have recognized him somehow would know he's, y'know, dead) but the visible scars on the lower half of his face are an endless source of intrigue to people in the comments. someone once asked how tall he was, and he responded with a video of him silently stacking up books until the pile matched his height, then standing next to the pile for several seconds before playing jenga with it and eventually knocking it over, as jenga usually ends up going. another youtuber uses the books to find jason's height (the guy in question is real, his name is shane fanx and he's known as the asian height guy) and when it's revealed that he's fucking 6'3 all his viewers start losing their minds. they talk more than ever about this massive, scarred man with the biteable thighs and passion for literature. he gains thousands of followers overnight, people are thirsting in his comments, and jason's just like "hey wtf have i gotten myself into"

on the bright side, he stops thinking he's the ugliest member of the family. after all, when hundreds or thousands of random people on the internet are thirsting over you without seeing your full face, it's hard to keep thinking you're hideous.

[homeofthelonelywriter]

Simon hated the tapping out ceremony. Ever since he first had to partake in one, he despised it. With no family and very few friends, he was usually the last on the field, waiting until one of his superiors would tap him out. But he couldn’t skip them either.

So there he was. The sun was beating down on the hundreds of soldiers lined up in neat little rows, standing at attention while they waited for their loved ones. And they came quickly. One soldier after the other was tapped out by their parents, siblings, spouse, and sometimes even children. But he stayed still, watching the happy reunions out of the corner of his eyes. Watching the tears and hugs and kisses. He envied the others; he was jealous of what they had, and he didn’t. But Simon had always been good at following orders, so he didn’t move, barely even blinked as he was surrounded by happiness, while he drowned in his own sorrow.

After an hour, there was only one other soldier left. Simon had barely interacted with him, but he knew his face. And just when Simon thought he wouldn’t be the only one without someone to tap him out this time, a crowd of eight people moved toward the soldier. At the front was an older-looking woman, her brown hair streaked with grey and lines on her face, indicating her age. Around her were people of all ages and genders.

“My son!” The woman let out a sob as she finally threw her arms around the soldier’s neck, causing the man to chuckle, as he hugged her back. “I missed you too, mama.”

One by one, he talked to the people surrounding him, hugged them, and kissed them. Simon couldn’t help but watch, bile rising in his throat as jealousy threatened to overtake him. And as he watched, he couldn’t help but imagine himself in the soldier’s stead. Surrounded by a happy, loud, and loving family. People who were happy to see him. Nowadays, the only people he could call family were the guys from the 141, and they were away on a mission. Still, in his mind, the scene played out. His mother, smiling, rushing toward him. Followed by his brother and his wife, carrying his nephew.

The daydream was interrupted by someone walking toward him. He expected it to be his superior, there to finally release him from the nightmare. But it wasn’t.

A young woman took timid steps in his direction. Her eyes, bright but filled with sadness. Not her own sadness, though, it was sadness she felt for him. He didn’t react, didn’t move, didn’t blink. She came to a stop in front of him, gazing up with a frown.

“Is someone coming?” Simon hesitated before giving an almost invisible shake of his head. She gasped, it was quiet and he barely heard it, but he felt it. In every bone, he felt her sadness and the sorrow she carried for him. Slowly, as if not to startle him, she lifted her hand, until it was inches away from his chest. “Is…is this okay?” When he gave a slight nod, she gently pressed her hand against his chest, finally tapping him out.

A breath he didn’t realize he had been holding escaped him as he finally turned to properly look at the woman. She was still gazing up at him, a soft smile now replacing the frown on her face.

“Thank you.” She nodded in response before glancing back at her family. When she looked back at Simon, she looked determined. “We’re going out to eat dinner if you’d like to join us?” Simon was about to decline when someone called out to him.

“Oi! Ghost!” He looked up and saw the soldier, now facing him, an arm wrapped around his mother’s shoulder. “Let’s go; my mom says dinner’s on us!” Without waiting for a response, he turned around and started walking toward the car park, his entire family in tow. Simon kept looking after him until a soft, small hand slipped into his own. He glanced down and found the woman smiling up at him.

“Come, my mom doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” And with those words, the woman gently led him to follow her family.

Part 2

A/N: This will be a two-parter. I hope you liked it!

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which it was time for paige to share her life to the world

The Dallas heat clung to everything—your skin, your clothes, your breath. It had been one of those dry, hazy spring days where the city buzzed with anticipation, and today that energy had a name: Paige Bueckers.

Drafted to the Wings only a week ago, your wife had already been pulled in a hundred different directions—interviews, photoshoots, press conferences, sponsor obligations. And tonight, a team dinner to cap it all off.

You knew she was exhausted. You’d seen it in the slump of her shoulders when she got dressed earlier, the tired smile she gave you as she kissed your cheek goodbye. Still, she went. Paige always did the hard thing with grace.

You stayed home with your daughter.

The dinner had started off light—wings, tacos, laughter echoing around the table at some local spot her new teammates loved. Everyone was still riding high from the buzz around the team, and Paige, though quiet at first, settled in after a couple rounds of teasing and margaritas (which she didn’t even sip, but they still joked like she was three drinks in).

“So Paige,” Arike Ogunbowale said from across the table, grinning, “you and Azzi… what’s the deal?”

It was casual, playful—just a nudge in the middle of the chaos—but the whole table paused. Even the waitress setting down guacamole looked like she froze mid-motion.

Paige blinked once, then laughed. It was genuine, warm, and more amused than anything. “Me and Azzi? Nah. We’re just close. Like… family.”

Arike nodded, her mouth full of tortilla chip. “Okay, okay. Just checking. Social media’s obsessed.”

One of the rookies chimed in, “Yeah, I mean, you’re always together.”

Paige shrugged, still smiling. “That’s what happens when you’ve known someone since you were fifteen. She’s my best friend, that’s all.”

There was a flicker of something protective in her voice. Not sharp, but final.

The questions faded, and the conversation shifted toward next week’s training schedule. Paige let herself relax again, but a weight settled in her chest. They didn’t mean any harm. But part of her still hated that people couldn’t imagine her love life without assuming it had to be another basketball player.

No one had guessed the truth.

It was late when she got home. The house was quiet, soft golden light from the kitchen spilling into the hallway. Her sneakers came off with a sigh, and she padded softly down the hall.

First stop: the nursery.

The door was slightly cracked. Inside, a small figure lay sprawled on her belly, wild curly hair fanned out against the sheets. Her favorite stuffed puppy was clutched in one hand, the other hand thrown dramatically over her head like a tiny diva.

Paige stepped inside slowly, carefully. Her heart melted instantly.

She bent down, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. “I love you, bug,” she whispered, so low it was barely sound. “So much.”

She lingered there for a second—watching, listening to the even rhythm of her baby girl’s breathing—then gently closed the door behind her.

You were propped up in bed when Paige came in, your face glowing in the light from the TV. A rerun of Chopped was on low volume, the judges arguing about undercooked scallops. You looked over as she entered, your expression instantly softening.

“There’s my superstar,” you teased.

Paige’s face cracked into a tired grin. She kicked off her hoodie and jeans and climbed into bed beside you, settling against the pillows with a heavy sigh. “I’m so tired I think my bones are asleep.”

You chuckled, wrapping an arm around her. “You handled that media circuit like a champ. I saw the clips.”

She groaned, turning her face into your neck. “So many questions. And they all ask the same thing. ‘What are you most excited about? How does it feel to be in Dallas? Do you think you and Azzi are soulmates?’”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait, what?”

Paige leaned back and looked at you, laughing. “I’m not kidding. One of my teammates asked if Azzi and I are a thing. The whole table went quiet like it was the tea of the night.”

You couldn’t help your smirk. “And what did you say?”

“That she’s like my sister,” Paige said, deadpan. “But I guess people don’t expect me to be married to someone who isn’t also a Nike-sponsored hooper.”

You snorted. “Yeah, well, they can keep wondering.”

Paige reached for your hand, lacing her fingers with yours. She toyed with your wedding ring. “I don’t really care what they think. I just hate not being able to say it out loud.”

“I know,” you said softly. “But here, with us… you don’t have to hide.”

A beat passed.

Then Paige looked toward the ceiling, her eyes fluttering shut. “Sometimes I just wanna scream it. ‘I’m married to the love of my life and we have the most amazing little girl and I’m not dating my best friend!’”

You laughed quietly, running your fingers through her hair. “You’re tired.”

She nodded into your chest. “I am. But happy tired.”

For a few minutes, you lay in silence, the soft glow of the TV casting shadows across the room. Her breathing slowed. Her hand still clutched yours.

Then she whispered, “She was asleep when I checked in on her.”

“Was she curled up like a little croissant again?”

“No,” Paige said, grinning against your skin. “Starfish mode tonight. She’s dramatic, just like you.”

You chuckled, closing your eyes as Paige snuggled in closer, her voice barely a breath now. “Thanks for holding it down at home.”

“Always,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “Now sleep. You’ve got a city to conquer tomorrow.”

And with your arms wrapped around her, the soft hum of the TV, and your daughter safe down the hall, Paige finally let go—of the noise, the questions, the pressure—and drifted off in the quiet comfort of home.

Saturdays had a different feel now.

In Connecticut, it used to mean quiet coffee runs and long naps between workouts. But now, in Dallas, Saturdays were noisy. Messy. Beautiful. They started with sticky pancake fingers, early cartoons, and your daughter toddling around the kitchen with one sock on, yelling that she was a “big girl” and didn’t need a bib.

You and Paige had decided early on that today was just for the three of you. No media. No workouts. No press. Just a family day under the sun.

And so you found yourselves at a park, right in the middle of downtown Dallas. It was a bright, cloudless day. Families filled the green spaces, music echoed from a nearby jazz trio, and the food trucks lined up like a mini festival.

Your daughter, Emma—two and a half years old and already a firecracker—clung to Paige’s hand like she was leading a grand expedition across the grass.

“Where are we going, baby?” Paige asked, her sunglasses perched on her head, her other hand holding your iced lemonade.

“To da dogs!” Emma shouted, pointing at the off-leash area where a dozen bouncing golden retrievers played in a chaotic fur ball.

Paige gasped dramatically. “THE DOGS? Why didn’t you say so sooner?!”

She scooped Em into her arms, spinning her in a wide circle that sent squeals of laughter into the breeze.

You followed behind, grinning like a lovestruck idiot, because no matter how many times you saw Paige with your daughter, it never got old.

After the dogs (which Em referred to as “her friends”), you found a shaded bench by the splash pad. Shoes were off. Chubby toddler legs were kicking water in all directions. Paige sat cross-legged on the concrete beside her, letting the spray hit her jeans, not caring one bit.

“Okay, okay,” Paige said, pointing at a tiny spout, “if I put my hand here, will it spray me in the face?”

Your daughter nodded, wild-eyed. “Yes! Do it! Do it!”

Paige pretended to consider. “I dunno… seems risky.”

“Do it, Mama! Be brave!”

You watched from the bench, barely holding back a laugh as Paige gave in with theatrical flair. She slapped her palm on the stream and—true to your daughter’s prediction—it shot directly into her face.

Both of them screamed.

Your daughter collapsed into giggles, falling back into your lap as Paige wiped her face and feigned betrayal.

“I trusted you!” she cried.

“I sorry,” your daughter said through giggles, not sorry at all.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a tiny little prankster, that’s what you are.”

She pounced, grabbing your daughter from your arms and tickling her belly until the poor girl was a breathless, wriggling mess.

Later, after lunch from a taco truck and ice cream melting faster than you could eat it, the three of you laid on a picnic blanket near the edge of the park. Paige was on her back, your daughter curled up on her chest, slowly blinking up at the blue sky. She was coming down from her sugar high, hair damp from the water, eyelids fluttering.

You leaned over, resting your head on Paige’s shoulder.

“Tired?” you asked.

“Like, I’d-rather-get-run-over-by-a-scooter-than-move tired,” Paige whispered back. “But this is the happiest I’ve been in… I don’t even know how long.”

You looked down at your daughter’s little hand resting on Paige’s shirt, her tiny thumb unconsciously stroking Paige’s collarbone. Paige didn’t even seem to notice—she was so used to the closeness now.

“She loves you so much,” you said, your voice quiet.

Paige turned her head to look at you. “I’d give her the moon if she asked.”

You smiled, and she kissed you softly, the kind of kiss that didn’t need fireworks or urgency—just comfort and presence. Just love.

The sun dipped lower, casting golden light across the buildings. You started packing up while Paige stayed sprawled out on the blanket, your daughter now fully asleep, mouth slightly open, cheek pressed to Paige’s chest.

As you folded up the corner of the blanket, Paige looked up at you, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you think they’ll ever get used to this?” she asked.

“Who?”

“The world. The media. Everyone who thinks I should be with Azzi or still single. Everyone who can’t imagine I’d choose this—quiet Saturdays and sippy cups over spotlight interviews.”

You met her gaze and smiled softly. “They don’t have to understand it. You just have to live it.”

Paige looked down at the little bundle on her chest, then back at you. “I’m living it. And it’s perfect.”

By the time you made it back to the car, your daughter was groggy and muttering something about needing her stuffed puppy. Paige kissed her forehead, promised they’d find it when they got home, then strapped her gently into the car seat.

As she closed the door, you caught her hand.

“Hey,” you murmured, tugging her in.

She stepped into you easily, wrapping her arms around your waist.

“Thank you,” you whispered against her temple.

“For what?” she asked.

“For being this. For loving us like this.”

Paige tilted her head, brushing her lips across your jaw. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”

And with your daughter softly snoring in the backseat, the air still warm with sun and laughter, you believed her with your whole heart.

Sundays in Dallas were slower, warmer in every way. The city was quieter. Even the breeze felt lazy, like it didn’t have anywhere to be. Today, you and Paige had taken your daughter to the Dallas Farmers Market — your favorite spot for fresh fruit, wandering stalls, and letting your toddler explore the world in her little denim overalls and butterfly sneakers.

She held Paige’s hand as she toddled toward a booth selling homemade soaps, squealing about the ones shaped like ducks. Paige, with her signature cap pulled low and sunglasses on, nodded along like this was a very important duck decision.

You were laughing, sipping your coffee, when it happened.

“Wait… hold up.”

You turned toward the voice just as Paige froze.

Two figures stood by a booth across the path. Tall, athletic, and unmistakable even out of uniform. Dijonai Carrington and NaLyssa Smith.

“PAIGE?” Dijonai called, her eyebrows practically hitting her hairline. “Is that you?”

Paige straightened slowly, adjusting her hat like it might help her hide in plain sight. “Heyyyy... guys.”

NaLyssa squinted. “Are you holding hands with a baby?”

You tried not to laugh, especially as Paige’s eyes flicked to you with a silent help me.

“She’s a toddler, actually,” you said, stepping up and offering a warm smile. “And yes. That’s our daughter.”

Dijonai’s jaw dropped so fast you swore you heard it.

“OUR?!”

Your daughter looked up at the sound and instantly broke into a grin. “Mama!” she shouted, lifting both arms toward Paige. Paige scooped her up with practiced ease.

NaLyssa blinked. “Mama?!”

“Okay, okay,” Paige laughed, already blushing. “Let me explain.”

After the initial shock wore off—and after your daughter insisted on showing them her duck soap and a sticker she got from a face painting booth—you all decided to hang out the rest of the day.

The five of you ended up grabbing Thai food from a food stand and sprawling out at a nearby park on the grass. The energy was light, Emma chasing butterflies and occasionally tripping into Paige’s lap, then laughing like it was the best thing ever.

NaLyssa took to her like an auntie in five seconds flat, giving her piggyback rides while Dijonai tried (and failed) to braid her curly hair.

By the time the sun started dipping low, you looked at Paige and smiled. “We should invite them over.”

Paige nodded. “Yeah. They’re not gonna let this go without the full story anyway.”

That evening, with your daughter finally asleep upstairs—curled in her bed with her stuffed puppy tucked under one arm—you all lounged in your cozy living room. The lights were dimmed, music soft in the background, a couple candles flickering on the coffee table.

You poured glasses of wine, passing them around before curling up next to Paige on the couch. She stretched her arm around you, fingers gently tracing your shoulder as you sipped.

“Alright,” Dijonai said, settling into the beanbag like she owned it. “Spill. We need the entire story. Like… Paige Bueckers has a family. Who would’ve guessed?”

Paige smiled, leaning into you a little. “It’s not as dramatic as you think.”

You nudged her playfully. “Kinda is.”

NaLyssa raised her glass. “Let’s hear it.”

You glanced at Paige, who gave you the go-ahead. So you started.

“Well… we met at UConn. I wasn’t a player—I was studying sports medicine and doing photography for the women’s basketball program.”

“She had a camera in her hand every time I looked up from the court,” Paige added with a soft laugh.

“I got pregnant right around the start of my second year, basketball season was just beginning,” you said, tone quieting a little. “It was… unplanned. The baby daddy didn’t stick around.”

Dijonai’s smile dropped. “Damn. That sucks.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It was rough. But Paige… she just showed up. Not all at once. Just… little things. Bringing me food. Walking me back to my dorm when my ankles were too swollen. Sitting with me during appointments when I couldn’t reach my mom.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” Paige said. “But I knew I wanted to help her. I wanted to be around.”

“And then one day, she showed up with a crib she built herself,” you continued, laughing softly. “Badly built, by the way.”

“Hey!” Paige protested. “That thing held perfectly until month six.”

NaLyssa giggled. “So when did it… become more than friendship?”

You looked at Paige, your eyes softening.

“It was slow,” you said. “But honest. I think I loved her before I realized I did. Before I even knew I was allowed to.”

“I fell first,” Paige admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. “But I waited until she was ready. I wasn’t going to push it.”

You looked down at your wine, smiling. “And by the time our daughter was born, it was just… obvious. She was already her mama. Her name deserved to be on the birth certificate. We got married shortly after Emma was born. No doubts whatsoever.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Dijonai let out a long whistle. “So I guess the ‘Pazzi’ rumors are just rumors, huh?”

Paige burst out laughing. “Yeah. Definitely. Azzi’s actually Emma’s godmother.”

NaLyssa choked on her wine. “What?! Y’all are out here playing chess while the whole internet’s writing fanfics!”

“Yeah,” Paige smirked. “And I read some of them. Wild stuff.”

You gasped. “Paige!”

“What?” she grinned. “Some of ‘em are kinda flattering.”

Dijonai shook her head, laughing. “I love this. I can’t wait to see the look on people’s faces when they find out.”

You looked at Paige, her cheeks flushed with wine and happiness, and smiled. “We’re not rushing that. But it’s nice to finally share it with someone.”

She leaned over and kissed you softly, letting her hand drift over your thigh. “Yeah. Feels good.”

NaLyssa raised her glass again. “To chosen family. And duck soap. And a little girl with the coolest moms in Texas.”

You all clinked glasses.

And in that living room—warm with love, filled with quiet laughter and soft confessions—you realized just how full your life had become.

Not just because of what you had with Paige.

But because of everything you’d built together.

The morning started with pancakes and cartoons, as it usually did. Paige had an early shoot around, but it was her first open-practice session with the team since the season officially kicked off — and she insisted on making it a family affair.

“You sure they won’t mind?” you asked as you buttoned your daughter’s little Wings jersey, the one with Bueckers on the back and “#5” in glitter iron-on patches.

Paige gave you a look like you’d just asked if basketballs were round. “They’ll love it. Trust me — they’re already obsessed with her and they haven’t even met her yet.”

You raised a brow. “They’re gonna be obsessed with me too, right?”

Paige leaned in, kissed you softly, and murmured against your lips, “I already am.”

The College Park Center buzzed with energy when you arrived. The team was mid-practice, music bumping through the speakers, sneakers squeaking across the court. Trainers and staff bustled around, but when Paige jogged in with you and your daughter in tow, heads turned.

A few players paused their drills, doing double takes.

“Is that…?”

“Oh my god, she’s here!”

NaLyssa was the first to run over, already beaming. “Hey! My favorite tiny human!” she called, bending down with arms open.

Your daughter squealed and took off across the hardwood — all bouncing curls and flashing sneakers — throwing herself into NaLyssa’s arms.

“You see that?” Paige said proudly, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Star player in the making.”

“You mean star recruiter,” you teased. “She’s already got the team wrapped around her finger.”

Practice paused for a bit — not because it was scheduled to, but because your daughter had singlehandedly hijacked the gym.

Maddy Siegrist taught her how to spin a ball on her finger (badly), and Teaira McCowan gave her piggyback rides down the sideline. Arike pretended to “lose” to her in a 1-on-1 dribble showdown, flopping dramatically every time your daughter drove the ball (slowly pushed it across the court while making car sounds).

Paige, watching from the bench with you tucked under her arm, just smiled like her whole world was right there on that hardwood.

When Coach Chris Koclanes walked over, hands on his hips, you tensed — but the coach just looked at Paige’s daughter, then at you, and broke into a warm grin.

“So,” he said, “this is the little MVP we’ve been hearing about?”

“She’s the real star of the family,” you replied.

Coach nodded sagely. “Well, we’ve got open tryouts in 2042.”

Later, after a water break and some light drills, the team settled into a shooting competition, and Paige brought your daughter onto the court with her.

“Alright, baby girl,” Paige said, handing her a mini basketball, “show ‘em how we do it at home.”

Your daughter squinted at the toddler-sized hoop they’d rolled out, took three steps back, and chucked the ball with everything she had.

It bounced off the rim, hit the floor, and rolled to NaLyssa’s feet.

And everyone still cheered like she just hit a buzzer-beater in the Finals.

“She’s got that dog in her!” NaLyssa yelled.

“Sign her now!” Dijonai called from the baseline.

Emma spun around, arms high in the air, and shouted, “I WIN!”

The team exploded in laughter and applause, and Paige scooped her up and spun her around.

“You always win,” she whispered, kissing her cheek. “Always.”

Practice wrapped up with team stretches, and your daughter sat in Paige’s lap, mimicking every move with a dramatic flair that had half the players in tears from laughing.

You took a few pictures — one of Paige mid-stretch with her daughter copying her pose, both of them giggling, sweat-slick and sunlit under the gym lights. Another of the whole team posing around your daughter like she was their mascot.

By the time you were heading out, your daughter’s head rested sleepily on Paige’s shoulder, a little snack in one hand and her other thumb tucked in her mouth.

“She did great,” you whispered.

“So did I,” Paige murmured back with a grin. “I was so nervous.”

You looked up at her. “About what?”

“Bringing my world together,” she said. “You, her… them. I just didn’t want it to feel weird. Or too much.”

You kissed her gently on the temple. “You didn’t bring your world together, Paige. You built one. And we’re all lucky to be part of it.”

Paige glanced down at your daughter, kissed the side of her head, then looked at you like she couldn’t believe she’d gotten this lucky.

“Let’s go home,” she whispered. “I’ve got my whole team right here.”

The next morning, you were still in pajamas, your daughter sitting in her high chair absolutely covered in oatmeal, when Paige’s phone started blowing up.

She frowned at it, brushing oatmeal off her hoodie as she picked it up. “Uh… babe?”

You looked up from your coffee. “Hmm?”

“I think… I think we just went viral.”

You raised a brow. “What do you mean ‘we’?”

Dallas Wings – Instagram (@/dallaswings) [“Golden” – Harry Styles] “The Bueckers Era has officially begun 💙💚”

The video opened with Paige walking into the practice facility holding your daughter’s hand — her tiny legs moving double-time to keep up, her jersey bouncing as she walked.

Cut to:

Paige tying her daughter’s shoes on the bench

A shot of you sitting court side with your camera in hand, smiling at them

Your daughter making a shot in the toddler hoop and doing a victory dance as the team erupts

Paige picking her up and spinning her in the air, both of them laughing

Finally, a close-up of your daughter asleep on Paige’s chest during cool-down, Paige’s hand protectively over her back

And then…

Overlay text at the end: “Family.”

The comments? Unhinged.

@/wnbastan69: wait... PAIGE IS A MOM???

@/wingsnation: WHO IS THAT WOMAN ON THE BENCH. SHE'S GORGEOUS. IS THAT HER WIFE???

@/bucketsqueen: this is not a drill. paige bueckers is a MILF. i repeat—

@/azzistan: I KNEW she wasn’t with Azzi. THE BABY IS CALLING HER MAMA.

@/uconnfan1 ok. hear me out. that woman has a tattoo of Paige’s number on her arm. go back to the February UConn Gala photos. it's her. they've been together.

The TikTok version? Hit 1.2 million views in three hours.

And your DMs? Albeit being private. Piling up with everything from “CONGRATS OMG” to “how did you pull her???” to “tell us your love story pls pls pls.”

You just turned your phone over and looked at Paige, who was feeding your daughter a blueberry while trying not to panic.

“Well,” you said, sipping your coffee. “Hard launch.”

That night, the Wings media team reached out about doing a feature for their upcoming mini docuseries, “Inside the Paint.” Paige hesitated, but you looked at her and said:

“If we’re gonna tell it… let’s tell it right.”

You, Paige, and your daughter sat side-by-side on the couch in your home, camera crew set up across from you.

“She’s my whole heart,” Paige said, glancing at Emma who was now climbing into her lap with a granola bar. “She’s not technically mine. But she is.”

You nodded. “We met at UConn. I was pregnant — alone. Paige was just… Paige. Gentle. Always there.”

The camera caught Paige’s hand finding yours.

“She helped raise her. Changed diapers. Did midnight feeds. Built cribs badly,” you teased.

“She was the first person who made me feel like I wasn’t alone in it,” you continued. “And somewhere along the way, we just… fell in love.”

“My name’s on the birth certificate,” Paige added softly. “And my last name’s on both of theirs now.”

“Mama was all she knew Paige to be.”

The crew filmed the bookshelf with framed family photos. Paige carrying your daughter on her shoulders at the beach. You three asleep on the couch in a tangle of limbs. A picture of Azzi Fudd holding your daughter at her baptism with tears in her eyes.

“She’s the godmother,” Paige confirmed, grinning. “Azzi. The real MVP.”

The episode dropped on YouTube and Instagram the following weekend. And in under 24 hours, it was the top trending topic on WNBA Twitter and TikTok.

The reactions? A mix of sobbing emojis, fan art of your little family, and people just melting over how soft Paige was the whole time.

@/bballdreams: I thought I couldn’t love Paige Bueckers more. And then she became a wife and a mom. I’m DONE.

@/fanbrushfire: [art of Paige in uniform holding your daughter’s hand, with you in the background cheering them on] “Mama Bueckers”

@/sidelineheart: Paige Bueckers being a quiet, private wife and mother and then casually dropping the most beautiful love story I’ve ever heard?? How is this real??

That night, curled up with Paige on the couch, your daughter asleep upstairs, you scrolled through the chaos while Paige played with your fingers.

“You okay with it?” she asked softly.

You nodded. “I’m glad it’s out there. You deserved to be known like this.”

She kissed your temple. “We deserved to be known.”

The Wings had just pulled off a thrilling win against the Mercury. Paige had dropped 19 with 8 assists, but the real surprise came postgame.

As the buzzer sounded and the crowd erupted, the arena lights dimmed for the usual fan-appreciation wrap-up — but then the Jumbotron lit up with something unexpected.

“Special Presentation” — the screen read, flashing between highlights of the game and a video montage.

Your daughter appeared on-screen, wearing an oversized Wings hoodie, shyly grinning.

“Hi Mama,” her tiny voice said, echoing across the arena. “I proud of you. You my favorite player ever and ever. Can I give hug now?”

The arena melted.

Paige turned, stunned, and saw you at the tunnel — holding your daughter, her eyes bright and excited.

The crowd parted like the sea as the two of you walked onto the court. Your daughter wriggled out of your arms and ran straight to Paige, who dropped to her knees to catch her.

The ovation was deafening.

Tears welled in Paige’s eyes as she kissed her daughter’s cheek, holding her tightly, forehead resting against her tiny one.

The announcer laughed through the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen… the real MVP of the night.”

@/espnW: Paige Bueckers just got surprised on court by her wife and daughter after the Wings win. There wasn't a dry eye in the house. 🥹💙

@/wnbatalk: “Can I give hug now?” I’m SOBBING. Who raised that little angel?!

@/courtsidechronicles: Paige crying while hugging her daughter, then looking at her wife like she hung the moon? Love is so real.

@/fanartfridays: [Art of the three of you walking off the court hand-in-hand, with the Wings logo glowing behind you.] “The Heart of Dallas.”

You tucked your daughter into bed, her plush Wings blanket pulled up to her chin. Paige leaned down and whispered, “You were so brave today, baby. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Mama,” she mumbled, already drifting.

You walked back downstairs together, hand in hand.

On the couch, Paige wrapped her arms around you from behind, chin on your shoulder.

“I think they really know us now,” she murmured.

You tilted your head toward her. “They do.”

“And they love her,” she added, a proud smile blooming across her face.

“She’s impossible not to love,” you whispered. “Just like her mom.”

Paige kissed your cheek and pulled you closer, the glow of the moment still radiating through every room of your home.

“Thank you,” she said. “For letting me have this life.”

You turned in her arms, looked into her eyes, and smiled.

“We built this life together. And the best part? We’re just getting started.”

The WNBA season had hit its brief midseason break, and for the first time in months, the house was quiet. You were curled up on the couch flipping through a book while Paige lay on the floor with Em lying across her chest, both completely still except for the rhythmic rise and fall of Paige’s breathing.

Then Paige’s phone buzzed from the coffee table.

She carefully reached for it, glancing at the screen without disturbing the sleepy toddler snuggled into her.

Azzi: I swear to God if I don’t see my goddaughter in person soon I will riot

Paige smiled and nudged you with her foot. “Guess who’s demanding visitation rights.”

You looked up, already grinning. “Azzi?”

She showed you the screen and you snorted. “She’s obsessed. But, fair. You know we’ve been meaning to visit.”

Paige’s voice dropped to a softer tone as she looked down at the little girl sleeping peacefully on her chest. “I think it’s time we go back. Just for a few days.”

“Back to where it all started?” you asked.

Paige met your eyes, voice thick with nostalgia. “Back home.”

[meadowfics]

held my own weight

park gyeong-seok x f!reader

synopsis: the worst moment in your life brings you a gift

warnings: stepmother!reader. adoptivemother!reader. adoptivefather!gyeong-seok

SPOILERS FOR SQUID GAME SEASON THREE BELOW -> DON'T CLICK 'KEEP READING' IF YOU DO NOT WANT SPOILERS!

gi-hun pushed himself backwards, falling to his death a hundred feet below.

your eyes are wide, not believing the sacrifice that this man made for the baby.

the baby didn't have a mother, and needed one. everyone knew since junhee died, that you were the babygirl's only hope at having a good life if you survived.

you stumble out of the elevator which took you away from the sky squid games, clutching the tiny, squirming baby in your arms.

the infant's soft whimpers pierce the heavy silence that wraps around you like a cloud. the weight of her small body feels like the only thing keeping you pulled to the earth.

your heart is a fractured thing, splintered by the losses that pile up behind you.

junhee, the babies' father player 333, and gyeong-seok, your gyeong-seok, whose name still burns on your tongue.

you thought you’d lost him in the rebellion, that chaotic blur of screams and blood a few days ago. the heart inside of your chest aches for his comfort.

the memory of his face, his warm hands, his quiet strength, haunts you as you step into the blinding light of the outside world.

the baby, daughter of 222 and 333, clings to you, her tiny fingers curling into your shirt.

you’re all she has now, and the weight of that responsibility presses down on your chest, making it hard to breathe.

the prize money is yours...or rather, yours and hers.

they call it a “split,” but you know better.

every cent of her share will go to her future: diapers, formula, clothes, a savings account for when she’s older.

you’ll make sure she’s cared for, even if it means using your own share of the 45.6 billion won.

you can’t think about the money now, though, not when your heart is still raw, torn open by the thought of na-yeon, gyeong-seok’s little girl, waiting for you in the hospital.

she’s sick, her fragile body fighting a battle no child should have to face.

you’ve been her stepmother for only a short time, but the love you have for her is undeniable.

how will you tell her about her father?

how will you explain that you survived when he didn’t?

the hospital is a blur of white walls and antiseptic smells when you arrive.

your arms ache from holding the baby, but you don’t dare let her go.

she’s asleep now, her tiny chest rising and falling against your own. you navigate the sterile corridors, your worn shoes squeaking against the polished floor.

na-yeon’s room is at the end of the hall, and you brace yourself as you push open the door, expecting to see her small form alone in the bed, her eyes searching for a father who’ll never come back.

fortunately, he’s there.

gyeong-seok is there, sitting beside na-yeon’s bed, his broad shoulders hunched as he holds her tiny hand.

the man's dark hair falls over his eyes, and he looks tired, so tired, but alive.

your breath catches, a sob clawing its way up your throat.

you thought he was gone.

you thought the rebellion had taken him, that the games had stolen him like they stole so many others. here he is, real, his gaze lifting to meet yours. his eyes widen, and for a moment, the world stops.

the baby stirs in your arms, and you clutch her tighter, tears spilling down your cheeks.

“y/n,” he whispers, his voice breaking.

he stands, crossing the room in two strides, and then his arms are around you, pulling you close. you sink into him, your face pressed against his chest, the familiar scent of him...paint and cedar and something uniquely gyeong-seok...flooding your senses.

you thought you’d never feel this again, never know the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart.

he’s alive.

he’s here.

na-yeon watches from the bed, her eyes bright despite the paleness of her skin, her newly transplanted bone marrow giving her a fragile kind of hope.

“i thought you were dead,” you choke out, your voice muffled against his shirt, “the guards said you were eliminated and i thought—”

“i know,” he murmurs, his hand cradling the back of your head, “i thought the same about you.”

gyeong-seok's voice is thick with emotion. when he pulls back, his eyes are wet. they land on the baby in your arms, and his expression shifts...grief, understanding, and something softer, something resolute.

he doesn’t need to ask. he knows.

“222?” he says quietly, and you nod, your throat too tight to speak.

“also 333's daughter,” you manage, your voice barely a whisper.

you felt the need to honor him too somehow, even though he nearly killed you and the baby during the last round of the last game.

gyeong-seok's jaw tightens, and he reaches out, brushing a gentle finger across the baby’s cheek.

“she’s ours now,” you say.

the words are a vow, “I promised junhee.”

gyeong-seok’s eyes meet yours, and there’s no hesitation in them.

“we’ll raise her,” he says, his voice steady despite the tears that threaten to spill.

“together. you, me, na-yeon, and her.” he glances at his daughter, who’s watching you both with tired, yet curious eyes from her hospital bed.

the days that follow are a blur of adjustment.

you move into a small apartment, paid for with the prize money. it’s modest, but it’s yours, a sanctuary for your patchwork family.

na-yeon’s health improves slowly, her hair starting to grow back in soft, dark wisps.

she’s enchanted by her new little sister, whom you name ji-yeon, a name that feels like a promise of joy.

na-yeon spends hours sitting beside ji-yeon’s crib, singing soft lullabies or telling her stories about a world she’s only beginning to understand.

you watch them, your heart swelling and aching all at once. na-yeon’s laughter is a fragile, precious thing, and you’d do anything to keep it alive.

gyeong-seok is your rock, as he always has been.

he paints again, his fingers stained with color as he creates portraits and landscapes, pouring his grief and hope into every stroke. you find comfort in the routine of your new life: feeding ji-yeon, helping na-yeon with her schoolwork, curling up beside gyeong-seok at night, his arm draped over you as if to shield you from the memories of the games.

the pain still lingers andyou see it in the way gyeong-seok’s hands tremble sometimes, in the way na-yeon asks about the “bad place” you went to, in the way ji-yeon’s cries sometimes sound like a reminder of the parents she’ll never know.

one afternoon, you’re at the park with ji-yeon strapped to your chest in a carrier.

the babies' tiny head rests against you, her soft breaths a steady rhythm.

gyeong-seok is nearby, sketching a portrait for a woman who approached him earlier.

she’s around five years older than you, with kind eyes and a quiet demeanor, and she mentioned working with gyeong-seok at the park before.

the woman's name is no-eul, and there’s something familiar about her, something that tugs at the edges of your memory.

however, you can't place it.

she watches gyeong-seok work, her gaze occasionally drifting to na-yeon, who’s playing nearby, her laughter ringing out like a bell.

“she’s beautiful,” no-eul says, nodding toward na-yeon, “she looks so much healthier now.”

you smile, your heart swelling with pride.

“she’s a fighter,” you say, adjusting ji-yeon in her carrier, “like her father.”

you glance at gyeong-seok, who’s focused on his sketch, his brow furrowed in concentration.

no-eul’s eyes soften, and you sense a story there, a connection to your family that she hasn’t shared.

you take a chance, your voice gentle.

“would you like to grab some tea with me sometime? it’d be nice to talk. maybe… make a friend.”

no-eul’s expression flickers, a mix of surprise and something like gratitude. she shakes her head, but there’s a warmth in her refusal.

“no, thank you,” she says softly, “but I appreciate the offer.”

the woman's gaze drifts to ji-yeon, and for a moment, you see a flicker of longing in her eyes, as if she’s remembering something or someone lost to her.

when no-eul leaves, without letting gyeong-seok finish her sketch, you look at gyeong-seok, his eyes soft as they meet yours.

you know he feels it too.

the happiness of the fragile, beautiful hope of a life rebuilt.

ji-yeon’s tiny hand brushes against your finger, and na-yeon’s laughter fills the air as she eats her candy.

for the first time in a long time, you feel whole again.

masterlist

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch9. counting sheep

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency department, just got broken up with your boyfriend of 7 years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation with him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw slight age gap bc gojo in this fic is 34 n reader is 29

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 9/x

ᰔ words. 20k

a/n. hellooo my lovely ihm readers!! thank you so much for tuning into another chapter of ihm :'') it means sm to me. as always i don't have much to say here lol but i'll see you at the bottom for some notes!!! hope you enjoyy. apologies for any typos or mistakes i was in a bit of a rush editing this lol

nav. masterlist

Counting sheep.

It was the only thing that helps you sleep now.

For as long as you can remember, it was how you ended every night.

You’re not exactly sure when the habit started. Was it when you graduated nursing school and began to work the night shift? And you were awake at 3am, feeling stranded at sea in your own home on your days off, with 15mg of melatonin in your bloodstream yet it still was never enough to put your thoughts at ease or your bones to rest. 

Or was it ever since your mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s? How about cancer? Was that when it became too terrifying to close your eyes at night because you feared you’d miss something that wasn’t meant to be missed?

There are days where you do feel tired. You feel sluggish, wearisome, somewhat feverish. Tonight was one of those nights. Wearing a white lace nightgown, one far too big on you as the hem drags across the fabric of the upstairs loft, you cross your arms across your chest to keep yourself warm as your fingers soothingly rub the taut skin over your elbows. 

It was the dead of night, no light other than the pale moon casting its glow onto the surface beneath your feet through the windows as you put one step in front of the other, meandering towards the master bedroom.

Gojo isn’t home tonight. He’s away for the weekend for some conference for work that his brokerage firm sent him on. Something about new foreign sales techniques and investment strategies. He shared the brochure with you so that you didn’t have to ask too many questions, but you would’ve preferred the conversation with him over lines of text to read. Two months ago, you would’ve preferred the former. It’s funny how fast things can change. 

You almost wish you worked every night. At least when you’re at the emergency department, you’re surrounded by life, even in the face of death. There’s fluorescent lighting above you, the beeping noises of machinery, the airy sound of the overhead announcements at every hospitalist callback, code call, and triage update. Your coworkers were there along with you, that sense of camaraderie making it easier on you.

But on your nights off, you often find yourself wafting around the halls and rooms of the house, almost like a ghost haunting every corner, finally coming out of hiding in the safety of silence. There are nights where you do this for hours. Seriously, hours. Until your calves hurt and you’re starving but can’t bring yourself to do anything other than the routine foot in front of the other. 

You finally push into the master bedroom with a weak palm on the door, the inside air chilly to your senses, and you figure that you’re not truly a ghost if you know what cold feels like. 

The bed is neatly made up, as Gojo had tidied it up before he left, and as it always is in the hours where he’s not resting in it. You wonder if he sets it up right after waking up, if it’s some sort of ritual for him.

Without thinking, without glancing at any other corner of the room as if you’d find something waiting in one of them that would frighten you, you slip into the heavy covers that are foreign to you, but the familiar scent of him envelopes you in its entirety, relaxing every bone in your body.

The warmth is welcome. Head heavy on the pillow, you close your eyes.

You wonder what sort of sights your mother is seeing right now. Is she also asleep? Is she peacefully dreaming? You wonder if she remembers you in her dreams, at the very least.

One sheep, two sheep.

You wonder what sort of sights Choso sees right now. You’re scared to find out. He would always be a phone call away for you on nights like this, where you couldn’t sleep. And on some, he would be right there with you. How does he spend these hours of the night now if not to comfort you? Does he feel it as less of a burden now?

Three sheep, four sheep, five. 

You wonder what sort of sights Gojo is seeing right now. And when you can’t picture anything at all, besides the dusty fan of a hotel room hanging from the ceiling, you realize you don’t know him. Even laying in his bed, surrounded by the ghost of his presence, surrounded by the proof of his life in this room, you realize you don’t even know what his favorite color is or how he likes his eggs in the morning. Or if he ever thinks of you sometimes, too. 

Six sheep, seven. Eight. Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve sheep.

You’ll be better tomorrow.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

Fifteen sheep.

Happier. You’ll be happier.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

Tomorrow will be better. 

Nineteen, twenty.

Tomorrow, you’ll be a better person.

Twenty one, twenty two.

Someone new.

Someone you’re happy to be.

Twenty three. 

It’s a promise.

.

.

.

.

.

——————

“Hey. Did you sleep in my bed while I was gone?”

You glance up from where you’re leaning your hip against the kitchen island, completing this morning’s crossword puzzle because of course Gojo is the only person in the neighborhood that actually picks the newspaper up from his driveway.

“Five letter word for communications device? Any ideas?”

“Phone. Now answer me.”

“Mmm….nope, starts with an r.” You tap the eraser end of the pencil to your bottom lip, deep in thought.

“Radio.”

“Oh! Thank you,” you say before you set the paper down on the table and scribble in the letters. “And no, I didn’t. It’s the same way you left it, no?”

“I always tuck the corners.”

“Of fucking course you do.”

He sighs, turning around to face you, leaning back on the kitchen island as his espresso machine rumbles quietly before slowly dripping out a shot. “Just be honest with me, y/n. Because if it wasn’t you, I’m going to need to get cameras installed everywhere around the house.”

You sigh. “Yes…I slept in your bed.”

“How come?”

“Change of scenery.”

“Really? That’s it?”

You let out a slow exhale.

You know what sucked about having slept in Gojo’s bed?

Is that you slept like a baby.

For the first time in such a long time, you slept just fine.

And the slightest dusting of a blush brushes across your cheeks when you realize it’s probably because the scent of him on those sheets was in some way comforting to you.

You wish you could write it off as some weird pheromone biological response,

But you had a professor in college who told you that humans have no such thing as pheromonal responses.

You simply like the way he smells. 

You glance up at him again. He’s stirring something into his cup of coffee now. 

“I don’t know. I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately,” you say, and by lately, you mean years, “and just…felt like trying something different would help.”

“And did it?”

“What?”

“Did sleeping in my bed help?”

Your eyes widen, not expecting the direct question.

“I–...” you start, “...yes, actually. It helped a lot.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Alright. Just sleep in the master then.”

“What–...but–”

“I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom. It’s all the same to me.”

You blink at him, confused because you thought he meant sleep…together. As in, in the same bed. And even if that wasn’t exactly what he meant, he still one-hundred percent would’ve at least tried to tease you about it. So you’re surprised that he didn’t.

You straighten your spine up, narrowing your eyes at him slightly, contemplating his words and his offer, and push your hand into your hair and scratch at your scalp. And scratch. And scratch a little bit more.

Gojo watches you the whole time. 

“Uh,” he starts, “I mean this in the nicest way possible…but don’t you think you should wash your hair? It looks a little…”

“Mm?” you look at him, wide-eyed, “a little what?” You ask with innocence as you continue to scratch your scalp.

“You’re really going to make me say it?”

“Say what?”

He sighs. “It looks a little greasy.”

A soft, offended gasp leaves your lips.

“Wh—......What?!?!?”

You hate him with a burning passion (most of the time), yes, it’s true.

But, and it’s torturous to admit this to yourself, he’s right.

You do have a tendency, and a somewhat misfortunate habit, of neglecting washing your hair when you’re busy.

You’ve worked five night shifts this week, ran back and forth between your mom’s hospice because she had a UTI and became septic again, you’ve been running around trying to get everything in order in your house so that you can sell it as soon as possible, and every night when you get home, you sit down at your desk only to be reminded of how much debt you’re in. You’ve barely had enough time to think about yourself, and although you never neglect a daily shower, it’s possible that you may have forgotten to wash your hair while you’re in there. 

You let out a huff of hair, narrowing a glare at Gojo before crossing your arms across your chest. “I seriously cannot believe you’re insinuating that I look ugly.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” he says, setting his mug down in order to put his hands out in front of him in vindication, “I never said you were ugly.”

“You just said my hair looks greasy.”

“You still look nice, just…. a little greasy. Like a french fry. But who doesn’t love french fries?”

“Satoru!”

“I’m joking,” he laughs, “well, not about your hair being greasy. But, what I’m saying is, you still look hot. In your own…weird way.”

“I seriously want to slap you.”

He crosses the distance between the two of you in one stride to where he’s now standing in front of you, and you blink up at him in a panic when his hands slide across the island countertop on either side of you, caging you into it. 

“Go ahead,” he says with a boyish grin on his face, dangerously close to you as his gaze flickers down to your lips. 

“Has this weird attraction of yours towards me only begun simply because I threaten to physically injure you all the time?” you ask him, narrowing your gaze further as you look up into piercing blue eyes that look darker to you somehow, more dilated.

“No, I’ve always thought you were hot,” he says, his gaze moving up to make eye contact with you, as if he really wants you to know he’s being honest, “since the day I met you.”

Your heart feels like it’s beating a mile a minute in your chest. “Then why do you always roast the hell out of me?”

“Because I like to,” he says, gaze dropping to your lips again, and this time his tongue passes over his own, “and because I know you can take it.” He leans further into you, that scent of his that you like so much sending your head into a dizzy haze to where you can’t even think, the heat from his body felt against your own. “Not a lot of women can.”

Your blush doesn’t just reach your cheeks, it’s a heat that you feel spread across your entire body. “Th–...That’s offensive to women.”

He tilts his head at you, now studying the slight sheen to your lips. “Can we just skip the part where you rant about the patriarchy so I can kiss you already?”

You push your palm up against his chin, entirely swerving the kiss, making sure his face is looking straight up towards the sky so he knows exactly where you’re going to send him if he ever calls you a french fry ever again, and then say, “go fuck yourself.”

“What–”

You duck underneath his arm that was still caging you into the kitchen counter, swiftly moving past him as he stays still in his confining position, blinking at you with dumb blue eyes as you stomp across the living room towards the front entrance.

“I’m leaving,” you shout out, “and I’m taking your car,” you grab his keys, “And I’m–” You see his wallet at the foyer table, flip it open, and pull out some bills, “and I’m taking a hundred-and-twenty bucks. Don’t ask questions.” And before you could even give him a chance to verbally express any confusion, you’re out the door, and slamming it shut behind you. 

.

.

.

.

.

——————

“Hana, please, I’m begging you. I’ll even pay for brunch!” you say into the receiver of your phone as you stroll the ashy paved sidewalks of Dayton county’s downtown during a rather busy Saturday afternoon. “Your French boyfriend’s uncircumcised penis can’t be that fuckin’ good for you to blow me off like this when we’ve had these plans for weeks!”

You hush your voice towards the end of the sentence because you remember that you are quite literally in public.

“I know, I know, I’m so, so, so sorry,” Hana’s voice comes off somewhat distant in the phone, “he just looks so pale, and he’s been running an insane fever, I’d hate to leave him like this.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever happened to hoes before sexy Frenchmen, I’ll never know,” you sigh into the phone and then hang up on her, but right as you pull the phone from your ear, you trip over a crookedly lined cement panel on the ground, gasping as you stumble forward, barely able to steady your feet but at the expense of your phone slipping out of your hand and devastatingly towards the hard, rocky ground–

Before it gets caught about six inches above the surface by a rather large, masculine hand.

You blink at the sight, then trace the hand up into the arm, and eventually up into the face of the person that was sitting at this outdoor cafe’s table, and just so happened to have enough arm wingspan to prevent you from having to sell your kidney in order to buy a new phone.

He blinks at you with deep purple eyes, his lashes splaying over his upper cheeks as he glances down at your phone again, as if he himself is surprised by his own reflexes, before his gaze flickers up to yours again.

You straighten your spine, now looking down at him. He looks painfully familiar. Glossy long black hair underneath a sun high in the sky, half of it tied up and out of his face, but with some strands that have escaped the confinement, tendrils that frame his sharp jaw and complement his complexion. He sits cross-legged, dressed in all black with some sort of sophistication that makes him easily look like an outcast in a run-down town like this, but he doesn’t seem to even remotely hide the fact that he doesn’t belong.

And that’s when you remember.

That he doesn’t belong here.

“Ah! It’s you,” you exclaim.

His eyes widen slightly as the recognition of you flashes across his face as well.

“The mysterious man who drinks pulp-free orange juice made for kids,” you continue.

He blinks a couple times before his face relaxes into an easy smile. “Weren’t you eyeing the same carton?”

“That–” you stutter, “……...it’s very possible.”

He lets out a short exhale through his nose, somewhat reminiscent of a laugh. 

“Here,” the man says, stretching his arm out towards you to hand you your phone, “I would really put a case on that, though.”

You take the device from him somewhat hesitantly, the pads of your fingers brushing against the side of his palm. You notice he doesn’t really let go of the phone until he’s sure that it’s in your hand.

“I know…” you say, assessing your phone for scratches, which you hope he doesn’t take as an insult to the efficacy of his reflexes, “they’re just kind of expensive,” you blurt out, immediately regretting it. Because what kind of cheap-ass do you look like, now?

“More expensive than having to get a new phone?” he questions.

“That’s fair. Although, I don’t enjoy being lectured about the wellbeing of my belongings by strangers,” you say.

“Sit, then,” he offers, gesturing to the chair in front of him across the grated black round cafe table, “let’s get acquainted.” 

Slightly stunned by the proposal, yet weirdly inclined to oblige, you breathe in deeply, and then let the air out slowly as you slip into the chair across from him. Well, your plans got cancelled anyways, might as well take this opportunity to better understand this mysterious entity that has arrived in your town. 

“I’m Suguru,” he says, extending his hand out to shake, and you accept it, “Suguru Geto.” The handshake is firm but you can’t help but notice that his hand feels cold to the touch. 

“I’m y/n,” you say, “it’s nice to meet you. Well, formally, I guess.”

He presses his lips into a thin smile. “Likewise.” He leans forward a little, uncrossing his legs, then points towards the inside of the cafe. “Want a coffee? On me.”

“You know what, yes. I’ll have an iced vanilla latte,” you say.

It was at least somewhat of a courtesy that you ordered a quick drink to make, and one that was cheap. It really shouldn’t matter, since you would’ve just used one of the twenties that you stole out of Gojo’s wallet before you left, but it was merely a polite gesture, anyways.

“So, y/n, do you live nearby?” he asks as he takes a sip of whatever he was drinking, all you know is that he ordered it hot. 

“Yes, just a few miles away,” you say, “I’ve lived here my whole life.”

“Really?”

“Yup! Dayton county, born and raised,” you chirp.

“Hmm,” he hums pleasantly, “don’t tell me you’ve lived in the same house your whole life too.”

“You’re not going to believe this.”

He laughs. “You’ll have to show me around town.”

You tilt your head at him. “You’re just visiting, right? From…” You search your mind for the memory, or if he had ever told you at all. 

“New York,” he says before taking another sip. You entertain a sip from your own coffee too, wanting to match his pace.

“Oh, right, and were you able to visit those old friends you were here for?” you ask him, the memory of the conversation coming back to you somewhat.

“Ah, not really. I’m…well, I guess I’m searching for someone.”

“Searching for someone?” you snort, “what are you, Christopher Columbus? It’s the 21st century, you can’t just call them?”

He laughs again, fuller this time, coming from his chest. It’s a smooth sound, stable and sturdy. “You’re kind of charming. And way too direct.”

“Oh, I–...” you blink at him, your shoulders dropping slightly, “...I just like to get to the point.”

He laughs again, more of a close-mouthed chuckle as he glances down through the grates of the table’s surface towards the ground. 

“What?” you ask, somewhat impatiently. 

He shakes his head, the motion swaying some of the tendrils of dark hair that frame his face, and he brings his cup of coffee to his lips again. “Oh, nothing,” he says softly before taking a sip, “you just remind me of someone I know.”

You swallow gently, the furrow to your brow relaxing slightly. His eyes don’t meet yours, just continue to cast his gaze at the ground, but he has a rather melancholic look on his face. You love to get answers, and you love to be nosey, but you also know when a question shouldn’t be asked.

“As for why I don’t just call them,” he says suddenly, sitting up straighter in his chair, crossing his legs, pushing his shoulders back and settling into his chair more, “I don’t really think they want anything to do with me anymore.” He answers candidly.

“Why look for them then?”

His gaze flickers up towards you. “y/n, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Do you think people can change?”

“That’s a rather cryptic question to change the topic of conversation to.”

“Just humor me for now.”

“Well, I think it goes without saying. Of course people can change.”

“Right?” he says, as if he didn’t ask the question out of skepticism, but rather to affirm his own belief. “Well, anyways, let’s just say I’m here to make amends. Tie up loose ends.”

Closure. This man wants closure.

“I don’t necessarily want to bore you with the details,” he says, “but it’s likely I won’t be leaving town until my business here is resolved.”

“What if it takes forever?”

“It won’t,” he says.

“But what if?”

As his eyes bore into you, they look muddy. Less of that purple-ish hue that you see when light reflects off of his pupils, and you notice that it has nothing to do with the light, but rather the yellow that has sunk into the irises of his eyes.

“It won’t,” he says, barely above a whisper, his smile dampening as he sees right through you.

You feel the need to change the subject.

“You know,” you say, “you’re, like, the fourth person I’ve met in the past couple of years that has come here from New York City. What’s up with that?”

“There’s a mass exodus,” he says, “out of there.”

“Really?”

“No. My lame attempt at a joke.”

“Oh,” you say dryly, “let’s, um, let’s not attempt those anymore.”

He smiles at you, like he knew that would be your exact reaction to a sloppy joke thrown into the song and dance of a first-time conversation. You dislike how well he reads you. 

He leans forward on the table, setting his elbows up onto it, gaze boring into yours. “Not a huge fan of pulp-free, by the way. Just thought I’d try it.”

“So you like it with the pulp?” you ask.

He nods his head.

“I knew it. I knew you were a sociopath. Totally have the face for it.”

You find a strange pleasure in your ribs at the genuine laugh that evokes out of him.

.

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——————

You let out a soft sigh of relief as you stroll down the streets of downtown, swinging the bag you were carrying around with the rather jovial pep to your step. You’ve been needing new shoes for a very long time, especially since being on your feet for twelve hours straight during shifts does hardly anything good for your early onset plantar fasciitis. And with the little pocket change you stole from Gojo, you now had a new pair of New Balances as well as…..four dollars and fifty-two cents left in your pocket.

It’s a bit of a windy but rather sunny day, the breeze rustling the branches of the trees that lace the otherwise nicer part of town. The part that houses all domestic tourism, likely a grand total of fifty people a year if the county was lucky. It was safe to say Dayton Council doesn’t place a lot of emphasis on hospitality towards outsiders, or tax dollars for that matter, but if you were to ever show someone new around the place, it would be to this particular more well-kept street downtown. 

As you walk past a coffee shop, you catch a waft of jalapeno cream cheese bagel, the fresh scent of carbohydrates rousing a grumble from the pit of your stomach, making you aware of the fact that you were hungry. Despite the fact that you just recently parted ways from the mysterious Pulp-Free Orange Juice man hardly an hour ago, and that lemon loaf you ended up getting on your way out was still metabolizing in your bloodstream. But you realized you still wouldn’t be opposed to a cream cheese bagel at the moment.

The jingle of the little bells above the cafe’s entrance ring in your ear as you step inside, the A/C unit blowing a harsh puff down on you as it attempts to keep the heat of late August away from the cool interior. The place didn’t appear busy, but as you approached the register to place an order, a woman who was standing in line caught your eye.

She was dressed in a black suit from head to toe, with a feminine flare at the seams of her sleeves and silver silk lines running down her pants, elongating what was a very flattering figure, making her appear taller than the lift that the three inch heels of her shoes already do. And a closer look has you realize they’re Louboutins. She was easily taller than you, even without the heels. Her shoulders appear angular from the blazer of her suit, but you can tell they’re frail underneath the fabric. She has pin-straight mid-length hair that falls just past the curve of them. The ends of her hair look healthy, as if freshly cut, and she lifts her hand to toss some of it back with a delicate flick of her wrist, the gold-plating of her small watch catching your eyes. Her gaze is set upwards towards the menu, a small crinkle to her brow as she studies the words. Sophisticated and feminine were the words that came to mind as you looked at her. But the more you stare…the more you trace the feline lift of her eyes…the more you notice the slight pout of her lips…you just swear that you know her from somewhere. But–...but where?

“Excuse me, are you waiting in line?” some dude from behind you calls out.

“Ah.” You glance over your shoulder at him, “no, sorry, go ahead.” You step aside for the guy to get into line, directly behind the woman in the suit. 

After taking a couple of seconds to look at the menu, you decide on what you had already decided on before you had even entered the premises–a jalapeno cream cheese bagel. You wonder if you should get something to drink too, but wait patiently in line as the old couple at the register finish ordering.

The guy who had lined up just ahead of you had sparked up a conversation with the woman in the suit. You can tell he’s trying to make friendly, if not flirty, conversation with her, and you roll your eyes. Really? Dude’s ass-crack is peeping out from the low hang of his washed out blue jeans, and his turned-backwards baseball cap on his head makes him look like that creepy middle aged guy that loiters around a skate park to sell some kids some crappy weed. What on God’s Green Earth has given him the bravado to flirt with a woman like that? Out of his league wasn’t enough to admonish the audacity.  But you witness the disaster regardless. 

“You from ‘round here?” you can hear him ask her.

She doesn’t even turn a single degree to look at him, just continues to stare forward with her hands folded in front of her, a chic black clutch dangling from her shoulder. “Ahh, no, just visiting.” Her voice is soothing, a little soft, one that makes it hard to eavesdrop, but you were determined.

The man looks over his shoulder behind himself towards a group of guys seated at one of the tables, and he flashes them a grin, before he turns back forward and takes a step towards the woman. 

“Damn, they’re takin’ kinda long, huh?” he says to her, directly behind her ear.

“I suppose,” she says, shifting her feet forward a little to create distance.

“Well, I always say the wait’s better with a pretty view,” the dude practically purrs, dipping his nose towards the crown of her head, but far enough to where she wouldn’t get a sense of just how close he was to her. “Which is you, by the way. If it wasn’t already obvious.”

You see her shoulders rise and drop with the sigh she releases before she shifts her weight towards her right leg, crossing her left one over the other, balancing on one heel as she attempts to contain her composure. Your blood starts to boil on her behalf.

You hear the table of men off to the side laughing loudly in witness. As if in slow motion, the man’s hand lifts from his side and reaches out to grab her by the waist, “c’mon sweetheart, gimme something to work with here–”

Before you can even step in to yank him off of her, to your surprise, and likely the surprise of everyone else in the cafe, the woman elbows the man in his ribcage, making him recoil with a hurt gasp backwards, and then she swiftly spins on her heel, lifting her leg to kick the dude straight in the face, the pointy toe of her shoe digging straight into his cheek before she sends him flying off towards the left and crashing right into the table of men that had been watching this entire time. 

You blink in awe, staring at the woman who gently places her foot back down onto the ground with a level of balance only a ballerina would possess, and she dusts off her hands with a disappointed look on her face. Then she turns back around to continue looking up at the menu as if the whole cafe wasn’t staring at her.

You hear the growl of one of the other men at the table, offended by the emasculation his buddy just faced, and he lunges towards the woman while her back is facing him, and in a moment of no higher-thinking, you lift your bag of New Balances and swing it so that it smacks the guy right across the face to attempt stopping him from getting any further. But all it does is smack against his cheek rather ungracefully, and then now he’s glaring at you instead.

“Uh-oh,” you say, sheepishly staring up at this tall, burly, bald man that looks like he could powder steel to dust if he wanted to.

He makes a move to grab your shoulder, and you can see the woman in your periphery reach out to try to pull you away from him, but then you remember–

You’re an ED nurse.

How many times have you had to tackle a patient because security wasn’t doing their job?

How many times have you had to roll over a patient by yourself because the techs were too busy playing hooky in the break room?

You pull your fist backwards, winding up a punch with a white-knuckled grip, fingernails digging into the skin of your palm, and it all happens in slow-motion–the moment where you slam your knuckles right into the man’s jaw with all the force you can muster, and it seems enough to where you knock out a tooth and mutilate the cartilage of the bridge of his nose.

“Oh–” you stutter, blinking with wide eyes as the man entirely recoils, hunching over, screaming a strain of profanities to himself as he holds his nose which was now bleeding all over the cafe’s floors. You glance at your hand and see blood on it as well, then up at the woman who was now staring at you with wide eyes too. Along with the rest of the cafe. 

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” the man screams over and over again, and when he lifts his head to look at you, he’s crying. Straight up tears streaming down his face with a quivering lip.

Another one of the men lunges towards you to avenge the second man who was trying to avenge the first man, and this time, you flinch backwards, tripping slightly over your ankle, giving the man enough time to almost grab your arm but in the blink of an eye, you see the woman step in front of you and she knees him straight in the sternum, making him fall backwards.

It’s at this point where the rest of the residents in the cafe finally intervene, grabbing and pinning down all of the men in the midst of this cafe altercation, so that they can’t try to hurt the two of you anymore.

You turn to the woman, eyes wide, ears ringing slightly from the adrenaline, and then you say– “thank you.”

“Gosh, no, thank you,” she says with a small laugh, politely shaking her hand in front of her as if your gratitude was the last thing necessary. 

“No but seriously,” you say to her, blinking with wide eyes in awe as the chaos of pinning the men down in the background continued, hearing people shout threats to call the police, “I mean, your reflexes–...and that crazy kick! That was black-belt level of self defense.”

“Ahhh thank you,” she says, hanging her head a little in modesty before nodding, and you notice not a single one of her hairs is out of place, “I am actually a black belt in Tae Kwon Do.”

“Wow,” you say, “that’s really amazing.”

She smiles at you, then neatly tucks some of her hair behind her ear.

And she still looks so familiar.

So uncannily familiar, and yet you can’t quite place it.

Never someone you’ve met…but just someone you know somehow.

Like you’ve seen her somewhere. 

But the feeling in the pit of your stomach was an unwelcome one, and not a curious one. 

“Is your hand okay?” she asks you, her brows furrowing with worry as she glances down at it. You see the men being carried outside the cafe by a bunch of the other patrons. 

“Oh! Yes. It’s the other guy’s blood, not mine.”

She grins at you. “You’re the cool one.” She glances over to the right at the register where the guy who was manning it was staring at her in awe. “Here, hold on one sec.” She then crosses the distance with flawless balance on her heels and a swaying set of silky hair as she makes her way up to it.

You awkwardly stand where you are before she comes back out with a small cup of water and some napkins. She grabs your hand in hers and gently starts dabbing a wet napkin to your hand to wipe the blood off of it. The gesture is somewhat tender to you with the way that she takes care in doing so. Gentle swipes of wet napkin over the valleys of bone, meticulous enough to where no red pigment dares to threaten the pearly french manicure that adorns her nails. When she’s close to you, you catch a waft of the delicate lavender perfume on her clothes.

“There! Lovely, all better,” she says, then reaches into her purse for some hand sanitizer. “But seriously, thank you,” she says, “I wasn’t expecting that other guy to lunge at me. If it wasn’t for you, that would’ve ended badly.”

“Oh, of course,” you say, “it was actually really satisfying getting to punch the shit out of someone.”

She laughs. It’s contained. “I’m glad.”

“Excuse me, ladies?” a voice towards the right calls out, and you both turn your heads to see a police officer standing there. And when he makes eye contact with you, your eyes widen. “Oh. It’s y/n.”

“Ah,” you say to him, “Leon.”

Leon was Choso’s patrol partner for most shifts, and his right-hand-man more or less. They were good friends, and have been coworkers for the past three years or so. Given you were Choso’s girlfriend for the entirety of his career as a cop so far, you’ve gotten to know a lot of his fellow deputies. From being his plus-one at Christmas parties, and BBQ picnics, and dropping into the Police Department for lunch with him on his grueling weekend shifts. Y’know. The typical girlfriend stuff. 

“You’re the one that punched that guy?” Leon says with disbelief as he points his thumb over this shoulder behind him. You glance through the glass panes of the cafe and see a police car outside and another cop placing those men in handcuffs.

“Yes. What about it?”

“Damn. Would hate to see what the place looked like when Choso dumped you.”

“I’m the one that dumped him!!!!” you shout a little too loudly to vindicate yourself.

He pulls a spiral notebook out of the velcro pocket of his black vest, then clicks the pen to his chest before placing his wrist on the paper. You’re almost surprised he knows how to read and write. 

“I’m going to need some testimony from you two,” he says.

The woman’s phone starts ringing in her pocket, and she says softly, “yes, just excuse me for one moment,” before she steps off to the side to take the call.

Leon glances at her over his shoulder. “Who’s your friend?”

“Huh?

He jerks his chin towards her general direction.

“The woman you’re with. She single?”

You roll your eyes. “Out. Of. Your. League. Seriously! What the fuck is up with you penis-havers?!”

You didn’t understand why you were being particularly protective over this woman against the sloppy men of your hometown, but it was almost like you couldn’t help it. You’ve spent most of your life knowing that you live in one of the most forgettable, unsophisticated, lame and unheard of places in the entire country. You felt it was a duty to at least protect the visitors to this town against any of its regular bullshittery, including its residents, of whom you know very well.

Leon sighs, as if this behavior from you was no surprise, likely because it wasn’t, and then he presses his pen to paper again. “Alright. Just give me the story.”

You finishing recounting the incident to Leon, and when the woman comes back, she finishes telling her side as well, then Leon walks the two of you outside to get assessed for any injuries by the paramedic he brought with him on stand-by, and aside from a small band-aid the paramedic places over your knuckle, the two of you had left unscathed, and then the place becomes vacant of any lawful authorities.

“Um,” the woman says, wincing a little, then points towards the ice cream shop next to the cafe. “Please? As a thanks? I feel bad.”

You give her a soft smile. “Sure.”

The two of you entered the store, and you stand near the back of the store as the man behind the glass scoops together two cones of ice cream for the woman, and even though she tried to pay for them, she ended up getting them for free by the starry-eyed college student working behind the counter. Pretty privilege, you thought to yourself. 

“Here,” she says, “this one is yours.” And she extends her arm out to give you your ice cream cone as the two of you leave the store.

“Ah! Thank you,” you say, graciously accepting it, somewhat awkwardly, but it felt like a reward.

“It’s dripping,” she says, voice soft in a slight panic as she sees that her cone is dripping too.

You both lick off whatever cream was threatening to roll down into your hands, and just as you taste sweet sugar on your tongue, you hear a loud engine rumble next to you, along with the crunch of tires underneath rough road as a man in a truck drives by the curb, rolling his window down to yell, “DAAAAAAAMNNNN SLUTS!!!!! Y’all make that ice cream look gooooooood, fuck!”

Your jaw drops. Pure rage fills your every bone and you start chasing the car down the road, yelling “IT’LL LOOK EVEN BETTER SHOVED UP YOUR FUCKING NOSE YOU DIRTY FUCKING FREAK!!!”, then hurl the ice cream cone at his car, aim perfectly hitting his passenger side mirror, covering it in vanilla, before the cone bounces off, falls to the ground, and you hear the kick of his engine again as he speeds away.

You’re huffing and puffing, panting even, as you stand at the edge of the curb and notice that there are quite a few townsfolk staring at you with amused looks and wide eyes.

The woman in the suit appears in your periphery, and she’s laughing. “You’re so–” she’s hunching over a little now, “you’re so funny, oh my god.” The laugh was hearty, full of spirit, unlike the prim and curated one she has given you so far. 

You exhale a puff of air and stand up straight. “I’m so sorry. Some of the men in this town are so degenerate and fucked in the brain.”

“No, no, no, it’s fine,” she says, letting out some more laughs as she swipes under her eye to collect a laughter-induced tear from the corner of it, and she checks her finger for any smudge of makeup underneath it before she smiles and gleefully swats a hand at you. “I’m used to catcalling.”

You blink at her. 

“Oh! I mean–...because I’m from the city!” she clarifies, suddenly stiffening. “Gosh, not because I’m beautiful. I just realized that was a little self-centered to say…And now I feel self centered again for clarifying that it wasn’t self centered. Oh gosh. I promise that I am not self centered.” She lets out an awkward laugh then tosses her hair over her shoulder rather elegantly.

You awkwardly smile at her. “No, um, I mean, I don’t think it was self-centered to say. And besides, you are very beautiful.”

“Thanks,” she smiles. It’s a pretty one, rounding out her eyes into crescents. “You as well.”

There’s an awkward silence.

“Ah, I just realized I never introduced myself. I’m Sylvie,” she says, stretching her hand out for you to shake it. You’re a little surprised by the gesture but you accept it. She gently squeezes your hand. “And you?”

“y/n,” you say.

As a group of men walk by down the street, you notice that a few of them glance Sylvie’s way, gazes lingering for a moment, but she doesn’t seem privy to it at all, even when those gazes turn into blatant staring before they’re no longer in proximity to stare for any longer. And you can see why. She’s insanely pretty, and in that way where it’s something she was simply born with and never taught to question. Classically beautiful, rather than the trendy or posed kind. And the men in this town aren’t exactly used to seeing a woman like her in a place like this. Like locals who can sniff an outsider from a mile away. Or a vintage birkin. Like the one hung over her shoulder. 

“Would you like to sit down?” she asks.

You blink at her. “Sure.”

For the second time today, you find yourself sitting across a stranger in outdoor shop seating on a rather sunny Saturday afternoon. The person that is seated across from you also feels familiar to you in the same way that Mysterious Pulp-Free OJ man did to you as well, but you still can’t quite place where you’ve seen her before. 

She uses a spoon to scoop up the ice cream from her cone, bringing it to her lips, somewhat dainty when she pulls the spoon out of her mouth, now clean of any cream. “So, y/n, what do you do for work?” she asks you, eyes flitting up to yours. 

“I’m a nurse,” you tell her simply, “what about you?”

“I’m in investment property management for high-profile clients.”

You blink at her, gently scooping up some ice cream from your cup. “Oh.” It sounded like an elevator pitch that rolls off her tongue with the ease of a million past recitations. “Kinda like real estate?”

“Yes, I mean, my line of work is a little adjacent to that, but yeah! I started off in general real estate and then moved into more of the investment property space as opposed to primary residence.”

You nod slowly, wondering if she always speaks about her job with buzz words like she’s constantly at a job interview. “My husb–...uh, my neighbor is a realtor,” you say in an attempt to connect.

“Oh!” she chirps, tilting her head at you, “that’s interesting.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m actually here because I heard there was a bit of a realtor shortage in the area.”

“Oh? So you’re looking to move here?”

“Ahh, maybe.”

“I see. Just a heads up, you won’t find any high-profile clients here. The last celebrity that visited this town was Adam Sandler, and he was only here because he got lost on his way to Seattle.” You wave your spoon around in the air. “I only know that because the local news covered it for like a week.”

She laughs. “Yeah, I’m…I’m still thinking. Still deciding. It’s nice being in New York, but…” She glances off towards the street in thought, her eyes lidding ever so slightly, lashes briefly dusting her high cheeks, “there’s a future for me here in this town.”

“Mm,” you hum before placing your spoon on your tongue, briefly questioning why someone would choose a small town like this over one of the biggest metropolitan cities in the country, especially when she looks and acts and talks like a city girl through and through, but you suppose to each their own. “You know, you’re the second person I’ve met today that’s visiting here from New York. Strange phenomenon.” Maybe there really is a mass exodus as Mr. Pulp-Free OJ so poorly joked about. 

Her interest is piqued. “Oh, really? Who was the other person?”

“Well, I originally met the guy at a grocery store. But I ran into him again today and actually had a chat with him, but now he’s only become even more mysterious to me than the first time I met him.” You sigh. “He’s kinda hot, though. And by ‘kinda’, I mean really.”

“Ohhh,” she coos, setting her napkin down on the table and setting her chin in the palm of her hand held up by her elbow, “if you’re single, you should ask him out the next time you see him.”

You let out a girlish laugh, shaking your head somewhat bashfully as your gaze flits downward, like you’re a teenager talking about boys with your friends at a sleepover. Sylvie’s eyes twinkle at hearing the sound. “Maybe I will.”

Your eyes flit up to the sky briefly.

Are you single? I mean, you are fake-married. But what does that mean if you were to hit it off with someone while you were in this diplomatic arrangement? Is there exclusivity in this situation? Or was there room to see other people? You have no idea. And you don’t really know how Gojo would feel about it, either. 

You two continue to chat, suddenly moving into a conversation about how shitty of an ex-boyfriend Choso was, and Sylvie is entirely enthralled by all the drama, but you realize she doesn’t really give up much info of her own. Nothing above the surface level & vague “one of my friends” this or “hahaha same” that. But either way, you kind of feel like you’ve made a new friend today, and the feeling is nice.

As you listen to Sylvie talk about what the weather's like in New York City, you twirl your hair around your finger, and then Gojo’s words from earlier this morning flash through your mind, making you instantly grimace with anger.

Sylvie blinks at you. “Oh, sorry, did I say something wrong?”

“No!” you quickly clarify, “sorry, I was just thinking about my hair.”

“Your…hair?”

You sigh. “Yes.”

“What about it?” She tilts her head. “Looking to get it cut?”

“Well, yes, that too, but also–” You pause. She’s a woman. Surely she could at least relate to the feeling of forgetting to wash your hair every now and then, and then feeling somewhat embarrassed by it. But given that her own hair looks like she just stepped out of a salon, along with every other inch of her body looking prim and perfect, you become more and more doubtful as the seconds pass that she could relate to you on that front at all. But you decide to give it a shot, anyways. Friendships are built on vulnerability, are they not? “I’m just a bit bothered by something my…neighbor said to me this morning.”

“Oh? What was it?”

“He said my hair looks greasy. Like a french fry.”

“Seriously?” she says with disbelief, “what a jerk!”

Your face lights up and you lean forwards towards her, delighted in for once finally sharing in the same distaste for Gojo that no one else seem to have. “I know, right?! Like, what the actual fuck.”

She shakes her head. “Men.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“What?”

“Shall we go get you that haircut?”

You blink at her. “R…Right now?”

“Yes!” she chirps. “What better thing to do on a Saturday than a haircut and a fresh blowout?”

There’s a feeling that swells in your chest. It’s a mixture of excitement and a mixture of fear. Where you’re thrilled to indulge in some of the finer things in life, but also worried that you’ve never come to deserve any of it.

“Come onnnnn, y/n,” Sylvie says as she leans further onto the table, both of her elbows on the surface with her hand folded over the knuckles of the other, both holding her chin up as she narrows those sharp eyes at you. “I can tell that you want to.”

You breathe in deep, then let it out slowly.

“Sure. Let’s go.”

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——————

The golf course was the kind of place that almost felt sterile in its perfection. One thing about a small semi-suburban town bordered by rural farmland properties was that they got their golf courses right. Lush green rolled out onto the hills in laminar waves, trimmed and tamed along its borders. Instead of metal fences that gate the area, there were pine trees that lined the edges, and made the place feel more natural.

Gojo adjusted the glove on his left hand, more for performance than any real need, and he squinted his eyes out into the green hilly distance. The visor of his hat was barely sufficient to block the rays of sunshine, and he tucks the handle of his golf club under his arm so that he can lift his hat off and push back some of his hair that had escaped from it.

Choso stood a few feet away, watching him. His posture was rigid, entirely contrary to Gojo’s lax state, and he had his arms crossed, hands tucked underneath his armpits as if he was still on duty and in uniform. Gojo shifts a glance his way, and he’s not sure what sort of intel Choso intends to collect with a glare like that.

Gojo steps up to the ball, exhales a puff of air, draws his club back, and swings. The ball shoots off in a clean arc, and he watches its trajectory, but barely looks where it lands before he turns his back to it and stretches his neck from side to side.

“You always swing like you’re tryna impress someone?” Choso asks.

“Am I? That felt pretty relaxed to me.”

“Explains the finish.”

“Bummer. Still ahead, though.”

Choso grumbles something underneath his breath that Gojo doesn’t quite catch, then steps up to his ball, his shoulders stiff as he lets out some disgruntled noise as if the ball personally offended him by its existence. 

He tightens his grip around the club, flexing his hands open and close a few times, shuffles his feet as he gets into stance, and takes a deep breath in through his nose. Definitely more practiced and curated than whatever Gojo was used to seeing out on the field, and a lot less leisurely chatty. He lines his shot up in silence, head down, eyes forward, and then swings.

The ball takes off, high and fast, but veers slightly right on the descent. It lands with a solid thud in the rough, not far off the fairway, but certainly further than Choso probably wanted.

Gojo doesn’t say anything, at least not at first. He’s still watching the ball settle into the grass, arms folded, a sorely pleased smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Not bad but,” he says, “a little stiff.”

“Shut up.”

“You wanna drive this time?” Gojo asks, but is tossing the keys to Choso before he can even respond with—

“Fine.”

As the game goes on, and the heat starts to get to the both of them, conversation begins to fray open a bit more than it was at the beginning. A lot of it was just Choso quizzing the hell out of Gojo regarding his new wife, as if him not knowing what your favorite color is would be anything intensely incriminating in court. But even if it was, it’s fine, because he did end up knowing what your favorite color was. And also when your birthday is. And, surprisingly, which middle school you went to (your mother once showed him your 7th grade portrait on the fridge when he went over to fix the A/C).

“I just don’t get it. I mean, she hated you,” Choso says as Gojo walks up to his ball, “seriously. You know how many times I heard her cuss out your entire ancestry over that boat you leave out on your driveway? Like, I’m pretty sure she’s cast some nasty ass spell on you by now.” Gojo tightens his glove with his teeth and then grips the handle before drawing his club back in preparation to swing as Choso keeps talking. “She told me that she thinks you’re pretentious, and obnoxious, and self-absorbed, and difficult, and entitled, and sleazy, and—”

“Okay, man, I get it,” Gojo grumbles, trying to sound detached from the insults and your poor opinion of him, but when he swings, it’s way too flat.

“Damn, what the hell was that?” Choso asks, raising a hand up over his eyes to watch the arc of Gojo’s ball in disappointment. About a half hour ago, the two men would’ve taken great satisfaction in seeing the other completely shank a shot. But now, they’re rooting for at least some good competition. 

Gojo sighs with irritation, then makes an excuse. “Something in my eye.”

He wonders for a moment if he should just fess up. Tell Choso, yes, the marriage is a scam. Was it not incredibly obvious for all the aforementioned reasons? But also, to urge Choso to just leave it alone. To not let some blinded rage get in the way of this little marriage scheme because, ultimately, it really benefited your financial situation. There’s no way Choso would be that petty about your alleged and swift moving on from him to where he’d genuinely put you in any real legal danger, right? 

But he keeps his mouth shut, as his gut instinct insists. 

“We—” He starts, unsure of how to continue, but he felt like he needed to at least address it. “We’ve got that whole, you know, opposites attract thing.”

Choso squints his eyes at Gojo, then his shoulders slump before walking up to his ball. 

“What?” Gojo asks.

“Nothing,” Choso says, his tone even as he shuffles his feet apart to get into a swinging stance. “Opposites attract.” He echoes Gojo’s words. “She always used to tell me she hated that kinda stuff.”

Gojo doesn’t say anything in response, just watches as Choso’s eyes flicker with something heavy, maybe confusion or regret or irritation, but he shakes his head like he’s trying to get rid of it. Gojo clears his throat, a question formulating in his head that he wants to ask so bad, but tries to stall it by poking his tongue to the inside of his cheek, until Choso draws the club back to swing, and there’s this weird strain he feels in his chest when he finally decides to just blurt it out and ask the guy—

“Are you still in love with her?”

The choke in Choso’s form would’ve been visible from a mile away, but he carries through the swing on pure momentum alone, hurling the ball up into the air along with a stunted patch of dirt and grass which cuts the trajectory short by about half of what he was likely aiming for it to be, and he watches with a frozen frame as it lands disgracefully on sand.

Gojo blinks ahead at it.

“Damn,” he says, “that’s gotta be one of the worst shots I’ve ever seen.”

Choso huffs an exhale, his shoulders sulking as he stares ahead into the grassy hills. Gojo glances at the back of his head, and lets out a sigh after a voice in his head tells him to just drop it.

He ruffles in his pocket for the golf cart keys, but then stares up at the distance between them and their rather disappointing shots. “Let’s just walk this one.”

Choso nods.

The heat is borderline sweltering, evident in the way Choso’s wiping the sweat off his forehead with the ball of his shoulder and Gojo’s tugging at the collar of his polo to get a bit of breeze onto his chest. And there was a weird sense of solidarity in their decision to torture themselves with eachother’s company over a game of golf. It was a bit humbling, too.

“How did the two of you meet?” Gojo asks Choso as they make their way up a hill.

“She didn’t tell you?” Choso asks, offended, as if he’s surprised that he wasn’t a topic of their pillow talk.

“Nope,” Gojo says, probably because there was no real pillow talk. You two quite literally sleep in different bedrooms.

Choso sighs, a little out of breath when he responds. “We met in college. I was also a nursing major, until I flunked out of organic chemistry. So I dropped out and went to the Police Academy. We stayed together, though.”

“Ah,” Gojo responds.

“Y’know,” Choso randomly speaks up, “I would think she cheated on me.” He wipes at a bead of sweat that perspirates on his chin. “With the way the two of you got married so fast after we broke up.”

Gojo’s brow furrows as he just stares straight ahead, despite Choso layering a testing glance his way, to see his reaction to that statement, and see if it was in any way incriminating. “Nah,” Gojo says, “she’s not the type to do something like that.”

He can see in his periphery that Choso raised a brow at that. “That’s the testament? A personality trait? And not a first-hand account from you?” 

It irritates Gojo. The assumption that you would do something like that. And he knows Choso wants to hear it from Gojo himself—the reassurance that he wasn’t messing around with his girlfriend while they were still together, ironically as if they were in some alternate universe where this marriage was anything other than business…but instead, he doubles down. 

“Yeah,” he says, “she’s just not that kind of person.”

.

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——————

“Alrighty,” the hairstylist behind your chair says to you as he drags the wet ends of your hair to the front of your shoulders, eyeing them in the mirror. He ruffles up some of the overgrown layers in the back, the scent of sweet apple arousing your senses as you revel in the pleasure of the cleanest your scalp has ever felt in probably ever given the intensity in which the hairstylist scrubbed it out when he was washing it.

You have never been to a wet salon. Ever. You had always just resorted to SuperCuts or anything that was less than a twenty-minute wait and a twenty-dollar bill. But when Sylvie told you she did a drive-by of this place on her way to Dayton County from the SeaTac airport, she had sworn one of her high-class celebrity clients had endorsed it to her once and so she really wanted to go. You were reluctant, probably because just stepping inside the place already made you feel like you owed them some money, given the sheer luxury that surrounded you, but it was okay. I mean, how much could a single haircut cost?

“So, what are we doing today?” the hairstylist asks as he continues to pointlessly ruffle up your wet hair. He had silver grey hair and was wearing a rather tight grey vest with a turtle neck snug to his skin layered underneath, with matching grey trousers. He smelled just as expensive as the products he put in your hair to get the oil out of it. You no longer felt like a French Fry. You felt like some crisp iceberg lettuce. 

You open your mouth to answer him, but Sylvie cuts you off first.

“Ray, if you could just fix up the layers,” she says, speaking to him as if he were a lifelong friend despite the fact that she had also just met him, but the man seems to be thrilled by the friendliness from her, “and maybe some curtain bangs? Have them end here though, I think that would flatter her face.” She pulls some of your strands forward onto your face, and they tickle your nose.

You’ve never known what specifically flatters your face shape. You have been getting the same exact haircut since you were just a wee little lad. It was the one your mother used to do for you out in the backyard as you sat on a stool and felt the crunch of her scissors behind you while locks fell to the concrete of the patio. There was no further style or personality you asked of any of the hairdressers in your adulthood life, but only the small desire that they wouldn’t change too much about the shape your mother always left your hair in. It was just another small way that you felt you could cling onto the happy memories you have of her.

But you couldn’t even dwell on the sentiment for longer than two seconds before Ray was taking Sylvie’s suggestions and instruction to heart, immediately snipping away at your hair. He was sectioning your hair out into such small layers, almost microscopic, as if he didn’t want more than 100 strands in each before he made them all subject to his shears, and the process felt like hours. You couldn’t always see Sylvie in the mirror because Ray would often flip your hair over and into your face, but when you could peak at her through the strands of your hair, you could see she was watching Ray’s every move with her arms crossed over her chest as if you were some sculpture she couldn’t bear to see ruined. 

By the time Ray gets around to cutting your curtain bangs, you feel like an entirely different person. Your hair was still a little damp from the wash, but you could already see the gorgeous shape in which your hair was sitting in. The layers were stunning. And you could only imagine what it would look like once he–

“Alrighty, let’s blow this out,” Ray says, grabbing a round brush and a precision hair dryer. 

You could’ve fallen asleep in the chair, despite the loud volume of the hair dryer, from how lovely the gentle tug of each section of your hair against the brush felt as Ray continued to create tension throughout the strands of your freshly-cut hair. He curled the ends gently, slightly inwards, setting them with spray, all the way up to the fringe of your hair which he corrected with a hair straightener so that it all sits smoothly. And then, he turns you in the chair to face the mirror, and you’re shocked.

You seriously could not have imagined yourself looking the way you do right now. Your hair was stunning, each layer had personality, with the soft curls that have now gently fallen out but in a way that felt intentional, voluminous and alluring. You touch the ends of your hair and they feel so ridiculously soft, and pillowy, and smell so nice. And Sylvie was right. The curtain bangs at that specific length entirely flattered your face, and it almost made you look more youthful. After years and years and years of working nights, stressing out over bills, taking care of your sick mother, and having hardly any time to take care of yourself, you didn’t even know you still had the capacity to look this…pretty?

“Wow, stunning,” Sylvie says with a smile, clapping her hands together with satisfaction. “You’re a wizard, Ray.”

Ray helps you out of your seat, the three of you making smalltalk as he walks you over to the lady running the register. She asks Ray some questions about which tools he used and which products he applied, and then Ray leaves the three of you to it as he goes to clean up his station. You’re staring at the lady at the register in slight anticipation, but it was hard to stay anxious about the bill when you catch sight of your reflection in the mirror hung up on the wall behind the register.

“Alright, that’ll be three-hundred-and-seventy-two dollars,” the lady says, not even lifting her eyes once to tell you the damage as she continues to type away with long acrylics on the keyboard in front of her.

Your gaze is RIPPED away from your reflection in front of you,

And you guffaw at the register lady.

“I–...I’m–…excuse me?!” you exclaim.

Sylvie tilts her head at you, as if the cost was no surprise to her. 

“T-Three-hundred-and-seventy-two dollars for a haircut?” you exhale in disbelief, “I–oh my god, I cannot afford that!”

The lady behind the register nods her head slowly. “No worries! We have a six month financing plan with a low APR.”

You cannot fathom that there are people out there who would finance a haircut.

“That…I can’t do that, I’m sorry.” God knows what your credit score looks like right now with all of your unpaid debt. And you don’t want to face the humiliation of getting rejected from a three-hundred-dollar loan in front of Sylvie. “I, um, you know what? I’ll pay it back with hard work. I’ll—um, I actually make for a really great receptionist, and social media advertiser, and I used to cut a little bit of hair in college, and I could—”

Sylvie lets out a laugh from beside you. “Oh my gosh, y/n, you’re hilarious. It’s fine. I’ll pay for it!”

You blink at her. “I–...I’m sorry, what?”

She takes a step towards the register and pulls her black credit card out of her wallet. “I said that I’ll pay for it.” She inserts her chip into the machine.

“But–...I can’t accept that–”

“Seriously, it’s fine,” she says, “I have a feeling we’ll be friends, so, we’ll just open up a friendship tab!”

You look at her with an equal amount of worry because you’re not going to be able to pay it forward anytime in the near future.

She smiles at you. “Or…just let me do something nice for you. No questions asked. As a thanks for what you did back in the cafe.” She pulls her credit card out from the machine. “And in fairness, I am the one who dragged you to this salon.” She tucks her card back in her wallet. “Let’s leave now? I’m starving.”

“I–...” you almost feel like you could cry from the kindness, “...sure.”

She gives you a smile, hooks her arm around yours, and pulls you towards her, and then you both head out onto the street with in-tune gleeful laughter in the air.

“Any good patisseries in the area?” Sylvie asks, stumbling a little, taking you along with the sway of her body as she continues to anchor you to her by her hold of your arm, but she continues to strut forward down the street as you attempt to catch up. And you realize maybe there’s a bit of strategy to a stride like this, given the speed is just enough to cause a gentle breeze to tousle the curls of your hair, making you feel like a supermodel with a fan pointed right at you. Walk at this speed more often, you make a mental note to yourself. 

You glance up at the sky. Patisserie was quite the word, like something Hana would say to pretend she knows a lick of French after two months of her little fling with Jean Pierre, of whom is currently white with a fever back at her place. Normally, you would offer a belittling snort at the pretentious noun, but you find yourself matching Sylvie’s level. “There’s a suuuuuper cute one on Wisteria Street. Doucers de France!” you exclaim, and Sylvie laughs, picking up the pep to her walk as you do the same.

As you two stroll down the streets of downtown, engaging in nonsensical chatter, you’ve noticed you’re getting stared at a lot, mostly by men, and it’s starting to make you suspicious.

You turn to Sylvie, “Do I have something on my face?”

“Hm?” She tilts her head at you. “No?”

“Weird, I feel like a lot of people have been staring at me.”

“Because you look gorgeous with your new hair, silly!”

“Hmnnn???” you furrow your brow at her, but lift your gaze up to glance at two men who were walking by, both of whom had their gazes locked directly on you, even as you stared them down, all the way down the curb until they both ran into a trashcan.

Sylvie laughs, covering her mouth with a hand. “See?”

“Interesting…” you say, tucking soft strands behind your ear, “hm.” You push your shoulders back a little and toss some hair over your shoulders in a new-found confidence. 

Sylvie is privy to the attitude shift, and squeezes your arm tighter, “shall we continue to Doucers de France?”

“Why yes. Yes we shall.”

The power you felt you held, courtesy of the hair on your head, was unmatched. You haven’t felt this hunted down by stares since you were in your early twenties club era. In a sense, you felt you had gained your novelty back. And you were eating it up. Well, eating up the opportunity to glare down men who stare with no shame. But at least you had quite a substantial amount of them to indignantly dissolve with a well-practiced glare. Like some game of pacman strolling down 183rd Street. 

As you two approach the cafe, you nearly run into a cop that circles around the alleyway in front of the block, and the two of you come to an abrupt halt. When you glance at the cop’s face, you realize it’s Leon again, except this time he has a coffee and a sourdough donut in his hand.

“Hello again, ladies,” he says with a gaze towards Sylvie, and when his gaze shifts to you, he says, “woah.”

“What?”

“You look real nice, y/n. How come you don’t wear your hair like that more often?”

“Time and resources, mainly.”

“I see,” he says as he one-ups you with his eyes, makes some linear conclusion in his head by the state of your appearance, then leans against the brick wall. “Hey, listen, so, I know you and Choso have some crazy history, but,” he runs a hand through his hair in a way that he clearly thinks is enticing, “do you think he’d be okay if we…” He points back and forth to gesture between the two of you.

Sylvie lets out a short exhale of a laugh through her nose and glances down towards the ground, and you narrow your eyes at the cop in front of you with disgust before you hold up a hand in front of his face. “Your desperation to get laid is so very entirely unsexy to me, so shut it.” And at your words, Sylvie lets out a more audible laugh, and it’s your turn to wrap your arm around hers and pull her towards you as you two strut past a wide-eyed, indignant Leon who seems more confused than offended by your words.

Once Sylvie’s giggling fit has calmed down, she manages to say, “seriously, you’re so funny, y/n.”

“Mm?” you hum, slowing down in pace a little when you see she’s having a hard time keeping up, either because of her heels or the laughter-induced intoxication she seems to possess now, a type of giddiness that was starting to rub off on you too.

“Ahh, I don’t know, I just love the way you say exactly what you’re thinking,” she smiles, “I wish I could do that.”

Your mind flashes back to what Pulp-Free OJ man said to you earlier today. You’re kind of charming. And way too direct.

“Is…” you start, suddenly feeling slightly self conscious, and you gently tuck some strands behind your ear as if to preserve some femininity in the face of this so-called brazenness of yours, “is that a bad thing?”

“Nooooo,” she coos, like she can tell you’re taking it the wrong way, “it’s fun! It’s entertaining. It’s refreshing.” She pulls you along with her to start walking. “Makes you seem kinda foxy. Which is an attractive thing.”

“Oh.”

She smiles, something that looks a little foxy herself, and glances at you as her sleek hair flares with the wind of her pace, “Maybe we should go see if we can find that hot mysterious New York man and you can ask him out on a daaaaaaateee.” She nudges your arm with her elbow teasingly. 

Your cheeks feel slightly flush at her words, and you blink at her a couple of times in consideration, but seeing how round her face is from pure glee, you’d feel awkward to show too much hesitation towards the idea of a good time, and so your shoulders settle down and your expression softens, before you return her smile and say, “mm, maybe.”

.

.

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——————

“I’ve learned,” Gojo says, sitting back in his chair as he sets his feet up on the cushion in front of him, picking his bottle of beer up off the outdoor patio table in front of the country club’s recreational bar, “in my experience with women, that’s it’s better to just be honest about where you’re going or what you’re doing and let her be mad,” he sloshes the beer around by the bottleneck, “than to lie to her about it and then she finds out later and she gets pissed off more reasons than one.”

“Reaaaalllyyyyy???” Choso slurs from next to him, leaning over the frosty glass surface underneath the overhead umbrella tent of the table, “I dunno man. I’ve lied to a lot of past girlfriends and I hev–nev–... ‘scuse me, have never gotten in trouble for it.”

“Seriously?” Gojo’s eyes flit up towards the blue sky in thought. “Shit. Maybe I’m just a bad liar then.”

Choso snorts and tips the top of his bottle towards Gojo like a salute. “Yeah, I think that’s it.” And then he takes a swig.

Something bothers Gojo, and his brow furrows before glancing over to the man next to him. “Wait. Why’d you lie to them so much anyway? Is it pathological?”

Choso shakes his head, tendrils of his hair that were stuck to his forehead still slick by the sweat from the earlier sun out in the grass. His head tilts off to the side a little in a daze before he casts his gaze off towards the golf course. “Nah, nah, nah. Just the usual stuff, yaknow? ‘Cause, like, she doesn’t need to know I blew off going to brunch with her and her mom on a Sunday because I wanted to go check out McClarens at the auto strip instead. ‘Cause who’s that gonna help?” He swipes the back of his hand across his upper lip. “Instead I just tell her I took her car to get a much needed oil change. And then bam. She thinks I’m a man who knows my priorities, I'm living within my means, and I’m helpful.” Choso snaps his fingers at Gojo. “She wins, I win.”

Gojo narrows his eyes at him. “A McClaren? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Choso groans, slumping in his chair, his arms dangling over the rests as he peers up at the sky past the visor of his hat, bottle of beer threatening to slip down the loose grip of his hand. “When I was twenty, I thought I’d be rich by the time I was twenty-five. I’m thirty-one now, and I still drive a Honda Civic.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a Honda Civic, man.”

Choso sits up suddenly in his chair, leaning to the side towards Gojo as he squints at him. Gojo keeps his gaze set forward, taking a reasonable drink of burnt amber as he anticipates being asked some sort of intrusive question.

“Well, what about you?” Choso asks. “You’ve got a boat, a couple of nice cars. I’ve seen the suits you wear–they’re not off-the-rack. What are you doing out here in bumfuck nowhere?”

The convoluted question starts to weigh heavy on Gojo’s tipsy mind, and he’s running out of the ability to navigate it, even though he’s the one that suggested three bottles of beer at 1pm on a Saturday on an empty stomach after two hours of golfing out in the sun, as if heat-soaked lethargy wasn’t enough. Sometimes he forgets he’s not twenty-two anymore, and there are certain things his body just can’t seem to handle at this age.

“I used to work in downtown Manhattan,” Gojo says, slightly deflecting the question, “I moved here about a year ago.”

“Yeahhhhhh, I remember when you moved here,” Choso says, slumping back into his lawn chair, “I fuckin’ hated you.”

Gojo glances over at him and quirks a brow. “Huh? Why?”

“Good-lookin’ guy moving in right next door to my girlfriend?” Choso says, “terrifying. But at least she hated you, too. Well, until she married you. And I still don’t know what the fuck you did to accomplish that, but fuck you anyways.” He holds a middle finger up at him, and then sets his bottle of beer down onto the glass tablet to hold the other one up as well. As if he at least still had the decency to know he wouldn’t have the dexterity to multi-task a grip and a flip-off at the same time. 

Gojo’s gaze dampens slightly, even at the hostility from Choso. It dips to where he’s glancing at the hot pavement in front of the two of them, right where the grass is pristinely cut at the border. He wonders if Choso truly believes that this whole marriage thing is real, or if he was just pretending. But why? Why would he pretend to this extent? It doesn’t make sense. But it has to look strange from the outside, right? He breaks up with his girlfriend of seven years, and then three weeks later, she gets married to her next-door-neighbor? Someone who she allegedly hates. At least Gojo hopes it’s only alleged. But that’s a discussion for another time.

Point is, there’s no way that Choso believes all of this. There’s just no way. But at the same time, he acts the part so convincingly like he does. Like he’s really distraught over his ex-girlfriend moving on with the guy sitting next to him. And if he really was distraught about it, then why the hell is Gojo the one that is sitting right next to him? Choso’s a cop. He could easily shoot Gojo if he wanted to. At the very least, that would make things a bit more interesting. 

Gojo opens his mouth to speak, but Choso cuts him off,

“Why did you move out here, though?”

Gojo glances down at his hand that’s been turning the glass bottle of beer at the base as it sits on the table. He breathes in deep, catching the scent of lavender in the distance, a fragrance he finds a little too familiar, then exhales slowly. 

Not a great liar, but he can manage a half-truth. 

“To be closer to my family,” he says.

The heat begins to slowly dwindle in the late afternoon in passing, despite the fact that it was still a ridiculously sunny day, and it only takes one more beer from Choso before he’s got an even looser mouth and is practically trauma dumping all of the absolutely insane cop cases he’s had to deal with within the past few years, ranging from having to track down the hyena that escaped from the local zoo, to closing out a twenty year cold kidnapping case. There’s a comfort at the base of Gojo’s ribs when he realizes the biggest emergency he’ll ever face at his job is��running out of Open House flyers.

“That’s something I—” Choso takes a pause to make sure he doesn’t slur his words, “loved about dating y/n. I ever had a crazy story? Oh trrruuussttt me she had a crazier one from the hospital.” He shakes his head in disbelief, like he’s reminiscing on all of them. “And y’know, she’s stone cold emotionally so she would share it all without a bat of an eye, too.” He pretends to shiver. “She scares the shit out of me sometimes.”

“Really? I thought all of that was a defense tactic or something.” Gojo feels strange talking about you in the absence of you but he wasn’t above the buzz of a few beers either.

Choso raises an eyebrow at him mid-sip. “Huh?”

“Like, you know, she’s got a lot of stuff going on…but has a hard time talking about it…so she deflects. Or acts tough to get through it.”

Choso’s eyes widen briefly, but then he starts to shake his head vehemently in denial. “Nahhh that’s just her personality. She just doesn’t really care about most things, especially the sappy and sentimental stuff. She’s very practical. That’s why dating her was so easy when things were right between us. I didn’t have to overthink things. Like flowers or spontaneous dates or cheesy compliments and whatnot.” Choso shudders at the thought. “Because I guarantee you she’d just be bored by it.”

Gojo shifts uncomfortably in his seat, a little concerned about the derailment of this conversation, and he wonders if Choso’s had a few too many from how detached he seems to speak about you. Didn’t you guys date for seven years? He doesn’t exactly know the details since you refused to tell him, and he wouldn’t feel right getting that story from Choso instead, but his curiosity is really starting to itch at him. He barely knows you in comparison to Choso, but he knows that everything Choso is saying about you is just plain wrong. Sure, you seem to be generally irritated and weary by most things in life, but he knows it’s not because that’s just how you are as a person. It’s because of what you’ve been through as a person. 

He thinks about the look on your face when you ran out of your mother’s hospice room, tears streaming dow your cheeks, at the mere mention of someone promising to look after you. And he’s supposed to believe that you don’t care about sentiments? Or that you aren’t hoping to have a shoulder to lean on?

But, who knows, maybe Gojo is overestimating how well he thinks he knows you. At least, that sounds like something you’d say to him with a look of irritation across your face if you heard what he was thinking right now.

But he hates that Choso’s making him question it—this idea he has of you. It’s that same I know her…don’t I? dilemma he feels the entire time he’s talking to your ex. He's not thrilled by the idea that he could be projecting a softer version of you that doesn’t exist just because he hopes that it does.

“Wait, hold up, you’re married to her. And you don’t know this about her?” Choso remarks as he sits up in his chair.

Gojo brings his bottle of beer to his mouth. “Just doesn’t sound like the version of her that I know.”

“That’s suspicious,” Choso says, swirling around the bottle in his hand as he stares out onto the grass.

Gojo sighs. “People can change in short periods of time. I’ve always been surprised by it, too.”

“Yeah?” Choso responds, intrigued by the statement. “You’ve got any insane emotional baggage you’d like to share?”

Gojo sets his bottle of beer down on the table, and watches as a cold droplet of water makes its way down the condensing surface. “Can’t say I want to share any of it.”

“That’s fair. I’m just glad I know that you do have some. Makes me feel better.”

“Hm,” Gojo hums the acknowledgement.

“You know a lot of these guys?” Choso asks, pointing his index finger to a group of men walking to their golf cart in the distance, his other four fingers wrapped around his drink. “You kept getting stopped between shots.”

Gojo nods. “Yeah. A lot of them are clients of mine. Or their ex-wives are.”

Choso rolls his eyes. “Self-important pricks. I don’t know how you deal.”

“My client base in New York was way worse than this.”

“Really?” Choso asks, turning his torso to look at Gojo. 

“Mhm,” Gojo affirms before taking a swig, “I made better money out there, though.” Not that it bothered him much. He’d rather be homeless in Dayton County than spend another day in that city.

“Huh,” Choso huffs in consideration, “I still think it’s really strange you moved to Dayton County from New York City.”

“What’s that phrase?” Gojo says, glancing up towards the blue sky. “You’ve gotta leave the city to love the city, or something like that.”

“Well go back to the fuckin’ city and leave my girl while you’re at it,” Choso drawls, unable to fight the drag of his words this time, or keep his head up straight, really. And it occurs to Gojo that Choso’s not a very responsible drinker.

“If anything, I’d take her with me,” Gojo says, almost like he can’t help pissing Choso off.

“Fuck you. Hope that spell she cast on you bites you when you least expect it.”

“Shit. I hope so too.”

Choso is decent enough to nod a salute at that, and the two move to clink the neck of their beer bottles together, but just before contact, Choso says—

“May divorce be with you, dude.”

And Gojo curves his bottle away from contact at the last second, leaving Choso hanging, then brings it to his mouth to tip it back until it’s empty.

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——————

By the time you come home from your many morning escapades, it’s close to late afternoon, and you notice your car is parked inside Gojo’s garage, as opposed to parked out on the street where you had left it earlier.

You walk inside the house to find Gojo standing at the foyer table, looking through piles of mail. It mildly annoys you that he doesn’t even so much as lift his gaze from all the paper to look at you when you close the front door behind you. 

“Hey, why did you move my car into your garage?” you asked.

“I just washed it, and it’s supposed to rain overnight,” he says, ripping up one of the bills before tossing it into a pile of other shredded paper. 

Your eyes widen slightly. You had been wanting to get around to washing your car for weeks, it had been, admittedly, quite dirty on the outside. But it was just one of those things that kept getting away from you…and away from you…and away from you…

“You didn’t have to do that…” you mumble, slipping your shoes off at the door. 

“Yeah, I know, but–” He finally lifts his gaze off of light blue paper and drifts it over to you, and when he doesn’t finish his sentence, you glance up at him too, only to find he’s staring at you with wide eyes.

You blink back at him, wiping your cheek gently with your hand as some reflex, and then pet down the hair at the top of your head with self consciousness. “W-What?” Forgive yourself for being fussy with your appearance around him now given he literally called you a French Fry this morning.

He’s still staring at you, big blue eyes blinking with no particular rhythm, just pure surprise, and his mouth is even slightly agape. 

“What?” You practically snap at him.

You see his chest sink with the exhale he releases. “Nice hair,” he says finally.

“Oh.” You totally forgot about that. “Thank you,” you say, scooping all of it to the front of one of your shoulders, twirling the delicately curled ends around a finger, “just, uh…took a quick trip to the salon today…” you continue to twirl it, “in which they gave me a quick little style…of which costed a very reasonable amount.”

He snorts. “I’m not even gonna ask.”

“Three-hundred-and-seventy-two bucks.”

“What. The. Fuck?”

“Mhm,” you cross your arms over your chest.

“Where did you even get that kinda money?” he asks with disbelief.

“That’s irrelevant,” you quickly deflect, and even though you weren’t the one that paid for it, you were still going to give him hell for it, “this should teach you not to comment about people’s appearances. I was so distraught by your rude comment this morning that I ran to the nearest wet salon and ended up being scammed into this hairstyle because of you.”

“Okay well you look hot as fuck so the only thing I’ve learned from this is that bullying works.”

“You will not be getting out of this by complimenting me, mister!!!”

The corner of Gojo’s mouth ticks up slightly, and to provide some insight into his perspective, he was simply too distracted by how nice you looked and your choice to call him mister to really focus on anything else. As much as he should probably repent for admitting it, he liked pissing you off sometimes, purely because he likes how prissy and most of all hot you were when you looked at him like you wanted to choke him to death. But he’s also not sure if you really would strangle him in his sleep, and since he can’t necessarily put you above it, a shiver runs down his spine to where he figures he probably shouldn’t push it.

“Understood. No more calling you greasy,” he says, and holds his palm up to swear on it. 

You roll your eyes, but it still feels like an acceptance of the promise, until your gaze hardens with a different type of annoyance. “And where have you been all day?” you ask, trying to suppress the irritation in your voice, tapping your foot on the wood with impatience, “with Choso, I presume?”

He had half hoped you forgot about his admission to you about his plans for this weekend. 

“Yes,” he sighs, “I was.” And with the same demeanor of a dog guilty of tearing up a couch while its owner was away from home, he continues, “we went golfing.”

You breathe in deep, and exhale with shaky rage. 

You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. You can be mature about this. 

“Screw you,” you say, and then brush past him, storm up the stairs to the master bedroom, and then slam the door behind you.

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——————

It’s rare that Gojo will go for a late night run. He really prefers the mornings—rise of dawn, that crisp fresh air, sparkle of dew in the front of his lawn from the sprinkler spray of the night before, bonus points if he got around to mowing the lawn and it ends up looking neater because of it. There’s also just the right amount of people out on the sidewalks, and they’re usually elderly couples or other fellow morning runners like him, and in his experience, those sorts of people tend to be the friendliest. The weather’s best at that time, too. Feel a little bit of heat on your back to help warm you up but it’s not any sort of abrasive kind that would have you itching to get rid of layers that you don’t have. And maybe, as with most things in life, the ego was involved. Waking up at 5am to go for a run? It just screamed put-together, and more often than not, tended to set the day up for success.

But instead, tonight, he finds himself outside in the pitch black, past 10pm actually, for his second jog of the day. Clad in black sweatpants, a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, it felt unnecessarily incognito but he can’t lie that it felt nice to run without feeling like a single soul is around you.

And also, it was strange. This feeling that something was calling him into the night. He’s not incredibly superstitious, but he definitely felt thickness in the air.

About a mile into his run, he turns a corner of the park, onto a slimmer brick-laid road surrounded by hundreds of trees that cut visibility of the parameters to a fraction, and slows down to a stop. He checks his Apple watch for the time, but when the small screen of it doesn’t light up, he’s annoyed.

Through barely bated breath, he grumbles as he pulls on the strap and says, “did I not charge this thing?”

After a few more seconds of messing with it, he sighs and shrugs, figures he’ll just run laps around the park and head back the same way he came, but when he jogs forward for less than three seconds, his feet come to a halt.

But it’s a quicker one, a more alarmed stop.

Because he sees a figure looming off to the side within the trees.

He huffs a breath, cranes his neck towards what almost looks like a statue in his periphery, until he confirms that it’s a person, and the recognition of who it is draws all the color out from his face, and rounds his eyes wide with pure shock.

He isn’t even given the courtesy of a few moments before he hears the most painfully familiar voice say—

“Hey.”

Gojo nearly feels his heart stop—no, sink—he feels his heart sink in his chest with a feeling he can’t discern. It’s a mixture of a lot of feelings, actually. Surprise, anger, confusion, disbelief. He just stands there, his chest swelling with faster breaths than when he was running, as he stares at the brooding figure in front of him.

Eventually the shock tapers off, and his shoulders drop, and he presses his lips into a thin line before exhaling slowly through his nose. His brow furrows, eyes squinting slightly to verify once and for all that the person in front of him is really who he thinks it is, and he finds that he’s not mistaken.

The figure steps out from near the trees and into the light, and Gojo acknowledges him with a simple say of his name.

“Suguru.”

The dark-haired man smiles in response to his name, it’s a forced one, one that Gojo would argue is borderline sinister but he knows that it’s not. It’s just the way he’s learned to see it now.

“It’s been a while,” Suguru says, stopping his movements to get closer when he’s satisfied with the distance.

Gojo swallows hard. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Suguru nods. “Thought I’d go for a late night stroll.”

“Don’t fuck with me right now.”

Suguru’s smile drops into a frown, acknowledging the hostility, and Gojo finds that he’s clenching fists at his sides.

Suguru sighs. “I understand the last time we saw each other, it was under unsavory circumstances, but I hope you’ll forgive me for showing up like th—”

“Just tell me what you want.”

To justify Gojo’s short temper towards the man across from him to any spectator witnessing this would require a hell of an explanation, one that doesn’t just date back to a year ago, or a few years ago, a decade ago or even two. It wouldn’t be enough, not unless he started from the beginning. But he doesn’t want to give it the time of day. He doesn’t even want to give it any more than the short-tempered rage he’s been offering so far.

Suguru hangs his head a little, studying the brick underneath him, then glances up again. “I’m here to make amends.”

“Make amends?” Gojo finds himself mocking those words the second he hears them. “Who the fuck asked for that?” 

“I knew you wouldn’t be happy that I showed up like this—”

“You’re right. I’m not.”

“But—” Suguru sighs again, and it makes Gojo’s skin crawl. The way he acts like the inconvenience of him showing up was anything other than his own fault. “I mean it. I really am here to make things right.”

“What makes you think flying all the way here and showing your face to me was going to make things right?” Gojo snarled.

“When you left,” he says, “it was so abrupt. I had expected you to be angry. To cuss me out, yell at me, punch me in the face, I wouldn’t even be surprised if you pulled out a gun.”

It wasn’t like the thought hadn’t occurred to him at the time.

“I’m not saying that I know what you need to move on from this,” Suguru continues, and Gojo narrows his eyes at the man even further, “but I thought I’d at least give you the chance. The chance to get your frustrations out.”

Gojo quirks an irritated brow. 

“A pass to punch the shit out of me with no consequence or witness,” Suguru says, and the words made Gojo feel like he was some pity project.

“You…” Gojo trails off, more with confusion this time rather than anger, “…want me to punch you?”

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” Suguru says, “ever since that night. But you held back.”

“What I want is for you to never show your face to me ever again.”

“And I won’t,” he says, “I promise. I promise that after today, it’s done.” He takes a step forward. “But that’s why I offer this closure to you. Because—” He hesitates. “It’ll be the last time you have the chance.”

Gojo’s eyes widen slightly when Suguru steps into the light, illuminating some of his features, and it’s the first time he sees his old best friend fully in the flesh ever since that night. He noticed what used to be evenly toned olive skin now has a sandalwood tint, a hue that matches the dull one in the whites of his eyes, yet the bloodshot to them still shows through. He’s lost weight, with sunken cheekbones, there’s exhaustion visible all over his face. It was like Gojo was cognitively cleansed of the memory he had retained of him since the last time he saw him, now replaced with the version in front of him.

It’ll be the last time you have the chance.

All this nonsense about finally honoring Gojo’s wish to stay the fuck away from him,

It felt like a red herring to that statement.

What kind of cryptic bullshit was he alluding to?

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about,” Gojo says, “but I’m not going to punch you. We’re not teenagers anymore.”

Suguru’s eyes widen slightly, as if surprised by the restraint, before he relaxes and a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. It was too pleased of an expression for Gojo’s liking, that is until it morphs into something eerily fake when that smile only widens and he takes a step towards him.

“And if I told you I don’t regret any of it?” Suguru says, and Gojo can physically feel the muscle in his jaw tic with rage, “if I told you I stand here in front of you with no remorse at all?” He continues to take steps towards Gojo in provocation, less than three feet away now, and Gojo’s hands further condense into white-knuckled fists when Suguru makes his final stride and is now right in front of Gojo, “if I told you that I enjoyed every,” he sneeringly enunciates each word, “Single. Second of it?”

The sound of knuckle harshly colliding with bone reverberates down through the echoing pavement of the park, which was the medium for the sting of Gojo’s fist released through his best friend’s jaw, cracked so hard that the dark-haired man entirely recoils from the blow, hurled off to the side out onto an out-stretched hand to brace fall onto brick ground.

Gojo’s breathing heavy, fast, stuck still in the aftermath, his vision almost spotted white with pure rage, and yet of all the feelings coursing through his body, the most physical one of all—the one centered to the rounded bones of his knuckles—only felt numb. And soon, every other emotion followed.

Suguru exhales a shaky laugh, stumbling slightly on the ground before he pushes himself up and back onto his feet. “Wow,” he breathes out, brushing tendrils of his hair out from his face, rubbing the back of his hand down the line of his red jaw, dabbing at the blood dripping from his nose and the top gums of his mouth, and he pulls his hand away to take a look at the red pigment dipping into the valleys of his trembling hand. “Honestly, I thought I could handle provoking a couple more out of you, but,” he lets out a half-stunned laugh, “I think we’ll have to leave it at one.”

Gojo watches as Suguru tips his head back and shakes his head, that same borderline amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and his shoulders slump. There was no glory in the sight, nor the feeling. No satisfaction. No release or closure. For fucks sake, he just felt worse. He felt even worse now than he did a minute ago when he wasn’t staring at Suguru’s bloody face.

He just felt numb.

“I really am sorry, Satoru,” Suguru breathes out as he tips his head back, sniffles viscous blood, and wipes away whatever had already dried above his lip, “for everything. And I hope that—” He takes a deep breath, “whatever life you build for yourself from here on out is better than the one I took from you.” He tightly shuts his eyes close. “That’s the only thing that will bring me peace in all of this.”

Gojo hears the words, but he doesn’t feel them. It’s that same dull ache throughout his body, the same one that haunts him in those moments when the nights are too still, and the mornings are too quiet. Mostly numbness, with the slightest tracing of pain as if to remind him that he was still alive.

“Whatever, man,” Gojo mutters, not even able to lift his gaze to look at the person he once called his best friend as he wipes his chin with the back of his hand, and his voice is a broken shudder when he speaks again, “whatever.”

He turns on his heel, away from this scene he can’t bear witness to anymore, and he feels as if there are anchors tied to his ankles as he drags his feet away. And away. And away. And away. And away. He couldn’t tell you for how long or how far he just dragged the soles of his shoes across brick, then concrete, then gravel, then grass. It could’ve been two minutes, it could’ve been two hours, but it couldn’t have felt any more torturous. And the whole time, he feels that enigma that he left behind at the park behind him, somewhere in the distance.

The same one he desperately tries to ignore,

One he desperately wants to hate,

One he desperately wants to despise with all his being,

But he just can’t.

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——————

The clock strikes midnight as you pace around the floor of the master bedroom, the hem of your floor-length satin nightgown brushing across the flooring with each back-and-forth pivot and stride that you make, and you switch between irritatingly tucking your hair behind your ears and crossing your arms across your chest and letting out annoyed puffs of air at every other minute as your mind races an hour a minute.

You’ve been trapped up here (by your own doing) like some princess in a tower ever since Gojo admitted to you that he hung out with Choso today, just bubbling with a sense of rage that you so badly want to unleash on him but when you stepped out of the room a couple hours ago, you realized he wasn’t home, and his Apple watch was missing from the little paper crochet bowl on the foyer table, so you assumed he had went for a run. As for why he still isn’t home, you don’t know, but you feel like you simply cannot be put to rest until you tell his ear off about something as a way to release your frustration.

You know that Gojo is a social whore. And that he likes to be liked. Perhaps you just can’t relate, because you’ve never extended yourself so far to be liked by the likes of strangers. Sure, when you’re committed to having a person in your life, you do what you can to make them pleased by you, but people who you don’t even really know? Why on Earth would you choose them over yourself?

And so your lack of sympathy towards Gojo’s desire to be buddy-buddy, friendly-friendly, and innately curious about the people around him is foundational to your rage at the moment. 

Why does he need to be friends with your freakin’ ex??? Is his desire to be liked by everyone he comes across really THAT large??? 

And, in a thought that makes you a little sad, you ask yourself—

Why can’t he add you to that list of people to please?

You stop pacing the room with the sobering thought, and glance over at the reflection of yourself in the window. You hate how defeated you look. 

You know that you give him a hard time. You’re snarky and defensive and lose your temper with him perhaps a little too fast. And also fail to show any real gratitude for most things he has done for you. But it was almost like you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t help acting that way around him. And maybe it’s because you know, you just know, that if you ever harbor any semblance of affection for him, and he decides to never return any of it at all, you would be ruined. It would ruin you.

He just has that effect on people,

And you just didn’t want to admit that you wouldn’t be any sort of exception.

You let out a frustrated noise from your throat and plop down on the bed.

Ew, gross. Feelings? Were you trying to gaslight yourself into thinking that you would have feelings for him if your stubborn heart gave you the chance?

As if.

It’s so silly to even picture.

…Or was it?

You don’t know.

You just don’t know.

It’s too many emotions, all at once, and as per usual, the anger is the one that decides to stick around, and you hop back up onto your feet.

“Frickin’ golfing…” You mumble to yourself, “they went golfing together…” You pace to the foot of the bed and then up to the headboard, “I bet they talked shit about me too…”

You hear some noises downstairs, gasp a little and run out into the hallway and peer over the staircase railing to see some mysteriously dressed man at the front entrance close the door behind him. You can’t see his face since he was dressed in a black hoodie with the hood pulled over his head, but when the man pulls his sleeve back and releases the strap of his watch, you realize it’s Gojo.

Well, that was a relief. But also, eye roll, it’s Gojo. Perhaps a serial killer would’ve been more preferable.

You quickly run back into the master bedroom, push the door wide open in the process, turn on your heel so that you have a perfect view of the entrance, and cross your arms over your chest. Tapping your foot impatiently, you try to display the most annoyed expression you can manage, and you hear the third to last creak of the stairs as you see Gojo make it to the second floor and into the loft, then approaches the master bedroom.

“Good, you’re home,” you say to him with your gaze narrow in a glare, and you try to think of ways to chastise him for his actions but the best punishment you can come up with is a list of annoying housekeeping tasks, “as soon as possible, I’m going to need you to mow the lawn,” you list them off with the fingers of your hand, “fix the leaking fridge again, install that shelf in the kitchen that you promised me you’d do over two weeks ago, fix the tilted leg of the dining table, finish the—”

You didn’t notice in your yapping that he was closing distance towards you, his expression hard to read under his hood and the fringe of his hair, but before you could tell him about the unfinished paint job in the bathroom, you feel his arms slip past your waist, crossing behind you, and he pulls you in towards him.

“Eh?” you squeak out in surprise, tripping slightly over the hem of your nightgown and straight towards his chest, your cheek pressing against the soft cotton of his hoodie, and you feel him tuck your head underneath his chin in an embrace.

There’s just a brief moment of silence as you stand still in his arms amid moonlight shining through the windows of the room, and when he seems to realize that you aren’t going to push him away, he breathes a sigh of relief and pulls you in tighter, pressing his cheek to the crown of your head. 

“Satoru—” you try to protest. 

“You can hate me in the morning,” he says into your hair, his voice deep near your ear as you feel the rumble of it in his chest, “but just let me hold you for now.”

Your arms, that had been otherwise stiffly raised as if to not want to make contact with him, relax slowly as they drop, and a small puff of air leaves your lips.

He sounds exhausted, numb, drained. There was no mirth, or ignorance, or sarcasm or amusement in his voice like you were so used to hearing.

You lift your arms once again, meekly swallowing, and this time, you gently wrap them around his torso, and press your cheek against his chest even more as you settle yourself into him. He smelled so nice, that same scent of his that was so comforting to you, one that could soothe you to sleep. And you feel his heartbeat in his chest, and how it seems to be faster now than it was just one second before.

He shakily releases a breath when you hug him back, and if you thought he was holding onto you tighter before, you realize that it wasn’t enough for him. He holds you to him so closely to where you can’t even move, like you were a real life teddy bear for him, and the warmth of his body makes you realize how painfully human he is.

You lift your cheek away from his chest, the movement making him pull his chin away from the top of yours, and you crane your neck up to look at him, and he looks down at you too. Beautiful blue eyes meet your gaze, dull in the nighttime compared to the daylight, but still sparkling. You swear there were constellations in those eyes, millions of stars, and gazing into them was enough to take your breath away.

You can see that his chest is heaving slightly as he looks at you, and your eyes lid gently, maybe in a daze or maybe it was the softness of the moment that was gently lulling you closer to sleep. He releases an arm from your waist, his hand lifting to your forehead where he gently brushes some of your hair out of your face in a movement so tender it sends a shiver through your body, and with a strong arm still anchoring your waist, he slowly walks you backwards, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you fall onto it together in a clumsy tangle. His hands catch himself on either side of you as he holds himself up, hovering over you, and you bring your balled up hands to your heart to see if you can quiet the pace in which it’s beating.

Gojo’s eyes dart across your face, his brow furrowing deeply as if he’s caught in a thought—or maybe a million. It flickers across his expression, whatever the emotion was. Considering…questioning…maybe even afraid. You feel as if you can’t breathe under the weight of his thoughts.

But then he exhales. Runs a hand down his face. Whatever thought he was mulling over, he just lets it go. Drags it away with the rough of his palm and the tight shut of his eyes, before he disappears from your sight when he falls onto his back on the bed with a small grunt next to you, then stares up at the ceiling.

You blink at the ceiling now, too, a little stunned to even move or think or breathe or exist. And you feel like this moment, whatever it was, was over.

But then his hand finds your waist, palm smoothing over satin before you feel his arm curl around you, the weight of his muscle against your skin as he gently pulls you toward him and nestled up against him, your back to his chest on soft linen sheets. Firm and certain, that was the way he held you to him, and his nose nuzzles at the soft hair tucked behind your ear.

He says nothing. He almost doesn’t need to. Because you understand.

You’ll hate him in the morning. The anger tax is what you’ll call it. He’ll pay interest. But for now, you just let him hold you.

And for once, you don’t have to count sheep to fall asleep.

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[end of ch9. 'counting sheep']

song of the chapter: 'quiet, the winter harbor' by mazzy star

a/n. ahhhh thank u so very much for reading :'') i truly hope you enjoyed this chapter!! it was kind of intense to write bc of all the split scenes and also all the character dynamics being explored. lot of hmm i guess nuances to juggle?? also this is the longest chapter of anything i've ever posted...so much for trying to make these chapters smaller hahah. but i loved writing the little scene in the end……….i just wanna be held by gojo until i fall sleep how hard is that to ask big shout out to my ihm beta readers leni n josie for helping me out with parts of this chapter n giving me some wonderful suggestions <3 i really appreciate and adore you guys. ahhhh ihm is 100k+ words now!!! that’s crazy!!! yippeeeeeeee also, i did mention this briefly in another post, but because of the length of ihm, i'm planning to split it into "seasons"! so the next chapter (ch10) will be the last chapter for this first part of the series, where i'll put the fic on a bit of a break as i focus more on kinda wrapping up kickoff, before i start the second part of ihm. i anticipate there will be three total parts! and i'll make a new masterlist for each of the new seasons. idk i just feel like it's kinda better to consolidate the chapters like this, so yea! hope to see you in the next oneee!! tysm to everyone who supports my fics w likes, reblogs, n comments <3 it truly means a lot to me

➸ take me to chapter ten!

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@cactisjuice @satorugirlie @suguruslovedoll @lavender-hvze @angelicscribe

@blueberry19000 @erencvlt @nappingmoon @heiejdhdh @ariasnoodles

@readerg77 @coolwitchtree @tofumiao @joemama-2 @sxnkuna

@crematedstar @celestialforce @jaegersity @gojodickbig @electrckchild

@sexys-archives @manhattanstrawberry @tvdumarvelhpsimp @mtsyik @mrswanggae

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[wendichester]

please!! dean x autistic reader that has an hyperfixation on cars and starts tweaking out when they see the impala for the first time, starting to drop informations about its history and other stuff abt it !! it would be so cute

𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 car buff,

summary. dean had no clue you knew so much about cars. and oh boy, he's feeling it

pairing. dean winchester x autistic!reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 545

notes / warnings. reader with hyperfixation on cars (enthusiastic infodumping), slight awkwardness (canon-typical dean), soft boy dean trying to play it cool but melting, lots of car facts, nothing but vibes and serotonin

Dean’s halfway through filling the tank when he hears it.

“Oh my god, is that a ‘67 Impala?”

He turns. And then immediately stares.

You’re walking toward the car like it’s a religious artifact, eyes wide and shiny and locked on her like she’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen—which, honestly, fair. But Dean’s used to people ignoring the Impala. Or calling her a boat. Or saying she looks like a damn hearse.

Not this.

“You even have the original grille,” you’re saying, almost breathless. “Is that the factory paint or did you restore it? Oh my god, and the interior—wait, wait, are those bench seats?”

Dean blinks. “Uh… yeah.”

You drop into a crouch to look closer at the tires and start muttering under your breath like you're cataloging her specs. Which you kind of are.

Dean can’t help but grin. “You a fan?”

You pop up like you forgot he was there, eyes lit with excitement. “Fan is an understatement. This is THE car. Like—the car. It’s the holy grail of muscle. Four hundred twenty-seven cubic inches, V8 engine, 385 horsepower if you tune it right—and she’s got the bones for long-haul driving, which you never get in these classics.”

Dean lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Most people just say she’s shiny.”

“Those people have no taste,” you shoot back, not missing a beat.

Dean laughs. He’s never heard someone defend Baby’s honor that fast. He likes it.

“You a mechanic or just real into old Chevys?”

“I mean—” You pause. “I’m autistic. Hyperfixated on cars since I was like, six. I used to fall asleep listening to my grandpa’s engine manuals. I can take apart a carburetor blindfolded. Tried to do it in eighth grade science class. Was not appreciated.”

Dean barks out a laugh. You beam, proud and not even a little embarrassed. It’s contagious.

“Name’s Dean,” he offers, tossing the gas nozzle back into the pump. “She’s mine. Fully restored her with my own hands. Most folks don’t even give her a second look anymore.”

“They’re fools.”

He points at you. “Exactly.”

You walk a slow circle around the Impala, reverent. “The chrome’s original, too, huh? You polish this, don’t you? Like religiously.”

Dean looks a little sheepish. “Every week.”

You glance up at him, a big, dorky smile on your face. “I think I love you.”

Dean chokes. “Sorry, what?”

You freeze. “Oh my god. Out loud. I said that out loud.”

You look like you’re about to self-destruct. Dean raises his hands quickly, chuckling.

“Hey, hey—it’s alright. I mean, you just met the real love of my life. Pretty sure you’re her type.”

You glance at the car. Then back at Dean. “So… do I get to sit in her or do I have to buy you dinner first?”

Dean grins, big and slow. “Tell you what. You let me take you to dinner, and I’ll even let you ride shotgun.”

You gasp. “With the windows down?”

Dean nods solemnly. “Cassette tape blasting. Bench seat privilege included.”

“Deal.”

You hold out your hand like it’s sacred, and Dean takes it, shaking with a smile.

Neither of you knows it yet, but this is absolutely going to become a love story.

It just starts with chrome.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[moonlitstoriess]

You Were Mine First- Lucien x fem!reader (1/2)

Summary: For one hundred years, Y/N carried the weight of a bond Lucien never felt. Then, one day, it was gone—severed, rewritten, given to another. She thought she could endure it. Thought she could live unseen, unnoticed. Until the day Lucien walked into her shop… and fate forced them face to face.

See masterlist

Next part

Warnings: angst, heartbreak, miscommunication, elain is quite the character in this one😟 also, not proofread but will be soon

The bond had been a quiet thing.

Not gentle, not kind, but quiet—woven into her like the steady hum of the ocean, like the distant whisper of a song she was never meant to hear in full. It had been there for as long as she could remember, a presence just beneath her skin, a pulse separate from her own heartbeat.

She had felt it for a hundred years. Lived with the knowledge that somewhere out there, Lucien Vanserra existed, and he was hers.

Except he wasn’t.

Because one day, the bond was gone.

It wasn’t like cutting a thread. It wasn’t like a slow, fraying unraveling.

It was a severing.

Sharp. Sudden. Irreversible.

One moment, it was there, humming in her chest like it always had, and the next, it collapsed in on itself. The connection that had been a constant presence in her life, the tether that had stretched across time and space, binding her to a male she had never even met—vanished.

And it hurt.

Gods, it hurt.

She had collapsed to the floor of her shop, fingers clutching at her ribs, nails digging into her skin as if she could physically hold in the ache of something that was never tangible to begin with. Her breath had come in sharp, shallow gasps, her vision swimming as she tried to comprehend the loss of something she had never even gotten to have.

It was like being gutted from the inside out. Like some cruel hand had reached into her soul and ripped away a part of her she’d never even touched.

She had thought—he knows.

Lucien must have found out about the bond.

And he cut it off.

She had sat there for hours. Just sat there, staring at the floor, willing herself to breathe through the crushing weight of something she could never prove, never explain.

Because it was his choice.

He must have felt it, realized it, and rejected it.

Maybe he had seen her in a vision. Maybe the Mother herself had whispered it in his ear. Maybe he had sensed the invisible tether and recoiled in disgust.

Maybe—maybe he had simply decided she was not what he wanted.

The thought lodged itself into her ribs like a rusted dagger.

But Y/N had not cried that night.

She had cleaned the broken glass from where she’d knocked over a display, locked up her shop, and gone home to an empty bed.

The next morning, she had continued on.

A hundred years of knowing.

Three years of silence.

Y/N had not spoken a word of it to anyone, had never once whispered her secret into the smoke-filled air of her shop, had never let it become real outside of herself.

It was over.

Lucien Vanserra had made his choice.

And she had made hers: to let him go.

Her life had not changed much in the three years since the bond had disappeared.

She still ran her shop, still worked until her fingers ached, still sold perfumes and oils and delicate trinkets to the people of Velaris without them ever knowing that once, her entire world had unraveled between her ribs.

She told herself that she was fine.

That she had never needed him.

That the pain had dulled, the ache had numbed, that she had sewn herself back together without him.

And maybe she had believed it.

Until—

The door to her shop swung open.

The world had cracked open beneath him.

One moment, he had been standing in that damned throne room in Hybern, his heart hammering in his chest, watching in horror as Elain Archeron was dragged toward the Cauldron. The next—

Mate.

The word slammed into him, rattling through his bones like a death knell.

It was instant. It was overwhelming.

Lucien had felt his soul lurch, had felt something snap into place deep in his chest, an unyielding chain that wrapped around his ribs and locked there. He swayed on his feet, unable to do anything but watch—watch as Elain, wide-eyed and fragile, disappeared beneath that inky black water.

A distant, roaring sound filled his ears. No. No. No.

His instincts had screamed at him to move, to shove past the guards, to do something—but he stood frozen. Because even as his body begged him to lunge forward, another force—a deeper, ancient force—held him back.

The Cauldron. The bond.

It pulsed through him like a second heartbeat.

And gods above, it hurt.

He had known pain before. Had lived through agony that most would crumble under. He had felt flesh burn and bones snap, had known the deep, rotting ache of grief and loss.

But this—

This was something else.

This was a tether being forged in real time, a connection being branded onto his very soul.

Elain surfaced.

Lucien barely breathed.

The world had shrunk down to the space between them, to the droplets clinging to her lashes as she gasped for air, to the tremor in her small hands as she tried to steady herself.

His mate.

His mate.

The pull was instantaneous.

A sharp, visceral need that made his fingers twitch at his sides, that sent fire licking down his spine. He had heard of it—of the way the mating bond could ignite in an instant, how it could take hold of a male so suddenly, so violently, that it rewrote the very fabric of his being.

But knowing it in theory was nothing like feeling it.

Lucien had spent centuries believing he had already been shattered into all the pieces he could possibly break into. That he had already endured the worst of it, that he had already lost everything.

And then the Cauldron had given him this. Her.

It had given him something new to ache for.

He tried to breathe. To think.

The rational part of him, the part that still had some grasp on reality, knew this was not the time. Not the place.

But none of that mattered.

Not when Elain was staring straight ahead, unfocused, dazed. Not when she looked like a baby deer standing on shaking legs, not when that first sharp pang of emotion raked through him—

Protect.

It whispered through his bones, through his blood.

He had to get to her.

Had to take her away from this cursed place, had to make sure she was safe. That was all that had mattered.

Lucien had taken half a step forward—

And then the Cauldron roared again.

His breath punched from his lungs as Nesta was dragged forward, as she thrashed and fought and screamed.

Lucien had felt his own body seize at the sound of it, but his attention remained locked on Elain.

He could barely focus on anything else. The King of Hybern had spoken, someone else had shouted, Cassian was bleeding out on the floor, but Elain.

She was trembling.

He wanted to go to her. Wanted to pick her up and carry her far, far away from all of this.

But he couldn’t move.

His muscles were stone, his mind had fogged with a haze he had no hope of piercing through.

Because this bond, this thing now tying him to Elain, was stronger than anything he had ever known.

And it would never go away.

Not now. Not ever.

The thought had nearly brought him to his knees.

Lucien had learned something in these past few years.

A bond could exist. It could pull and ache and whisper in the quiet of the night.

But it meant nothing if it was not accepted.

For three years, he had come and gone from Velaris, carried there on nothing but a fragile, flickering hope. A hope that dulled a little more with every visit, every unanswered offering, every polite but distant gaze.

He had tried.

Tried to be patient. Tried to be gentle. Tried to show her, in every small way he could, that he would never demand anything from her. That he would never ask her to give more than she was willing.

He had brought her gifts—small things, thoughtful things. A book of poetry, its words as soft and delicate as the way she watched the garden in the early morning light. A delicate necklace of woven gold and pearl, handcrafted by a skilled artisan in the Dawn Court, because he thought she might like something beautiful, something made with care.

He had spent hours searching for the perfect flowers before learning, with no small amount of embarrassment, that she preferred to grow them herself. That she took joy in nurturing life rather than simply receiving it.

So he adjusted. Adapted.

He spent time in the greenhouse, learning the names of each bloom, the way their roots intertwined in the soil, the seasons in which they thrived. He let his fingers brush over petals and stems and thought—this. This is what I must do.

Not pluck something whole from the ground and place it in her hands, expecting her to take it with a smile.

But tend to it.

Let it grow. Let it reach for the sunlight at its own pace.

Let her bloom in whatever direction she wished, without trying to steer her toward him.

And yet—

Nothing.

Each time he left Velaris, he did so with nothing but a quiet, polite smile from her and a new weight pressing against his ribs.

She did not reject him.

But she did not accept him, either.

And gods, it was worse.

Lucien could handle rage. He could handle being turned away, shouted at, hated.

But the silence.

The hesitation.

The careful, measured distance she always kept between them.

It killed him.

Because he had seen, once, what an accepted bond looked like.

He had watched as Rhysand and Feyre moved through the world with an ease, a certainty, that left no room for question.

He had seen the way Azriel looked at Mor, the quiet longing buried beneath years of silence, the way he endured and endured because there was nothing else to do.

Lucien had sworn he would not be like that.

That he would never allow himself to become a shadow lingering at the edges of her world.

And yet—

Yet he still came back. Like a fool.

Like a male who still believed in something that had never truly belonged to him.

“Not to pry,” Jurian said one evening, propping his feet up on the edge of the low table between them, “but have you ever considered not torturing yourself?”

Lucien, who had been nursing his drink, sighed. “What are you on about now?”

“I mean,” Jurian gestured vaguely, “the whole tragic pining thing. Really, Lucien, it’s getting embarrassing.”

Lucien gave him a flat look. “Remind me again why I agreed to spend time with you?”

Jurian grinned, unapologetic. “Because I’m the only one who tells you the truth.”

Lucien rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “What do you want, Jurian?”

“Nothing.” He took a sip of his drink. “Well. Actually, I was going to mention a shop in Velaris that might be of interest to you. Since, you know, you’re so desperately trying to impress a certain Lady of Flowers.”

Lucien arched a brow. “A shop?”

Jurian nodded. “Y/N’s shop. She sells perfumes, oils, little trinkets. Apparently, every female who sets foot in there leaves raving about how perfect it is. If you’re going to keep throwing gifts at Elain in hopes she’ll finally look at you like you’re not some lost puppy, you might as well get something she’d actually want.”

Lucien exhaled sharply. “Your faith in me is astounding.”

Jurian smirked. “Just looking out for you, Vanserra.”

Lucien shook his head, but something about the name—Y/N—stuck in his mind.

Maybe it was because he had spent years grasping at anything, any small hope, that might help bridge the gap between him and Elain. Maybe it was because he was tired. Tired of trying and failing.

Or maybe it was just that he had nothing else left to lose.

So the next time he found himself in Velaris, before making his way to the Archeron estate, he wandered through the city, searching for that shop.

It was easy enough to find.

Tucked between two larger buildings, Y/N’s shop was small but elegant. The glass windows glowed with warm, golden light, and the scent of something rich and enticing drifted through the cracks of the door. The sign above was simple, written in delicate, swirling letters.

There was something… welcoming about it.

Lucien stood outside for a long moment, staring at the entrance.

Then, with a slow, steadying breath, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The bell above the shop door chimed softly, its familiar, delicate ring signaling the arrival of a new customer. Y/N barely glanced up from the shelf she was organizing, her fingers deftly adjusting the small glass vials of perfume that lined the wooden display. The scent of jasmine and bergamot filled the air, mingling with the rich undertones of amber and cedar.

She had long since learned to temper her expectations—to stop hoping for something, for someone, who would never come.

But then, a voice, warm and smooth, cut through the quiet hum of the shop.

“Excuse me. Is...is this Y/N's shop?"

Her heart stopped.

That voice—his voice.

She turned, slowly, carefully, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile moment hanging between them. And there he was. Lucien Vanserra.

Standing just inside her shop, his tall frame poised with a careful, easy grace, though there was something slightly hesitant in the way he held himself, as if he wasn’t quite sure he belonged here. The golden glow of the lanterns bathed him in soft light, catching the rich red of his hair, the burnished gleam of his eye—his singular russet eye. The other, the golden mechanical one, whirred almost imperceptibly as he scanned the space around him.

Y/N felt the breath she had been holding slip from her lips.

He knows her name?

It had been years since she had seen him up close. Years of watching from afar, of wondering, of aching in silence.

And now, he was here.

She swallowed against the sharp, bitter weight of that realization and forced her voice into something steady, something detached.

“Yes, can I help you?”

Lucien’s gaze landed on her, polite but indifferent, his expression unreadable.

“Yes,” he said, offering a small, formal smile. “I was told this shop might have something I need. A gift, actually. A meaningful one.”

Y/N’s breath hitched—just for a moment, just long enough for hope to bloom wild and reckless in her chest.

A gift.

A meaningful gift.

Had he—could he possibly—?

“For my beloved,” he added casually.

Beloved.

And just like that, hope shriveled and died inside her, shrank into something tight and painful that pressed against her ribs like a knife.

Of course.

Of course.

Because he hadn’t come here for her. He had come here for another.

She didn’t let the hurt show. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, feigning a mild, professional interest.

“I see,” she murmured, turning back toward the counter, forcing her limbs to move, forcing herself to breathe past the tightness in her throat. “What kind of female is she?”

Lucien hesitated for only a moment before responding.

“She’s gentle,” he said, his voice softer now, thoughtful. “Quiet, but… not weak. She sees things in a way others don’t. Notices the details others overlook.”

Y/N forced herself to nod, her fingers tightening around the edge of the counter.

“She enjoys nature,” he continued. “Gardens, especially. She likes to grow things, to tend to them. She has a kindness about her that’s—” He exhaled, a small, distant smile curving his lips. “It’s rare.”

Y/N felt something crack deep inside her.

Every word was another stone added to the weight already crushing her chest.

And yet she couldn’t stop looking at him—the way his features softened, the way his expression grew distant, lost in some memory of the girl, as if she were some delicate, untouchable dream.

Y/N swallowed the bitterness creeping up her throat and forced a smile—polished and pretty, an elegant mask.

“Well,” she said, her voice even, smooth. “It sounds like she would appreciate something soft. Something delicate and thoughtful.”

She moved past him, toward the shelves lined with handcrafted items, her fingers brushing over the carved wooden boxes that housed carefully blended oils and perfumes.

“These,” she said, selecting one of the small, glass bottles. “A floral blend—rose, lilac, and a touch of honeysuckle. Light, natural, and not overpowering.”

Lucien reached for it, his long fingers grazing hers as he took the bottle. Y/N ignored the way the touch burned.

He uncorked the bottle, inhaling lightly.

“It’s nice,” he admitted, nodding in approval. “Subtle.”

She forced a small, knowing smile. “She doesn’t like strong scents, does she?”

Lucien blinked, glancing up at her. “No. She doesn’t.”

Y/N turned away before he could see the way her throat constricted. Instead, she gestured toward another shelf.

“There’s also this,” she said, lifting a small, intricately crafted gold locket. “A piece of jewelry—simple, elegant. You can place a pressed flower inside, something personal.”

Lucien ran his fingers over the delicate engraving. “She’d like that,” he murmured.

Y/N swallowed past the lump in her throat. Of course she would.

She kept moving, kept showing him options—anything to fill the silence, to drown out the aching hollowness expanding in her chest.

And all the while, she drank in the sight of him—the curve of his lips as he considered each item, the quiet, pensive way he studied every detail. She had never been this close to him before.

She never wanted it to end.

But eventually, he made his choice. The locket.

And then, far too soon, he was standing at the counter, waiting.

Y/N wrapped the gift carefully, precisely, her fingers trembling only slightly as she tied the ribbon. She set it before him, forcing herself to meet his gaze as she murmured, “I hope she likes it.”

Lucien’s polite smile returned, easy and effortless. “Thank you.”

He slid a few coins across the counter, and she took them without a word.

And then—just like that—he turned to leave.

Y/N stood frozen, watching as he reached the door, as his fingers brushed the handle.

He hesitated. Just for a second.

Then he glanced back at her, offering one last, polite, meaningless smile.

“Have a good evening,” he said.

And then he was gone.

The door shut behind him, the bell chiming its soft, hollow note.

Y/N exhaled shakily, staring at the empty space where he had stood.

The silence in the shop felt suffocating, heavy with something she didn’t have the strength to name.

Her fingers curled against the counter, her breath uneven.

She had spent years imagining what it would be like to finally stand before him.

Never once had she imagined it would feel like this.

It happened two days later.

Y/N was walking home from the market, arms full of bags and bundled goods, weaving through the crowd of busy pedestrians that filled the bustling city street. The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows over the cobblestones, and the energy in the air was high, as if the entire town was preparing for something important. The noise of merchants shouting out their prices, children running past, and carts clattering by made it nearly impossible to focus on anything for too long.

She moved quickly, eager to get home and put her mind at ease after the long day. But just as she rounded a corner, her foot caught on a loose stone, and she stumbled, her bags slipping from her hands.

“Cauldron!” she hissed, barely catching herself before tumbling into the ground.

Her goods scattered everywhere—potatoes rolled away, fabric bundles slid into the street, and small jars tipped over, clinking noisily. She froze for a moment, stunned by her clumsiness, hands scrambling to gather the mess. She was so focused on the spilled items that she didn’t notice the figure approaching.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos.

“Ma'm, are you okay?”

Y/N jumped, looking up quickly, ready to apologize for her mishap and scramble for her things—but she stopped short.

It was him.

Lucien.

He was standing just a few feet away, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and recognition. The shock on his face quickly turned into a grin, that wide, infectious smile that always seemed to make her heart skip a beat. She had no idea how he had gotten so close so quickly—there was too much going on in the street, too much chaos for her to have seen him coming.

“Y/N, hey!” he exclaimed, stepping forward as he crouched down beside her without hesitation. “I didn’t see you there, but I’m glad I did. Here, let me help.”

Before she could even process his presence, he was already gathering her spilled goods with a swift motion, his hands moving with the ease of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

Y/N’s face heated up. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you—” She trailed off, the words feeling weak and useless.

“No need to apologize,” Lucien laughed lightly, his voice full of warmth, and he flashed that smile at her again. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry about it.”

She couldn’t help the small, relieved exhale that left her lips as he placed the last of the items back into her arms. His touch was light but firm, like he knew exactly how much to hold and where to place everything. It wasn’t just practical; it was almost… considerate.

But then, as he helped her stand up, the reality of the situation hit her. She took a step back, quickly readjusting the bags in her arms.

“I—thank you,” she stammered, clearly caught off guard. She glanced at him, a little unsure of how to handle this unexpected turn of events. The warmth of his presence lingered, making her feel like maybe this was more than just a simple accident. “I can take it from here. Really.”

Lucien shook his head, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Not a chance. I’m walking you home. It’s not a far walk, right? I’ll help you carry everything.”

Y/N hesitated, the idea of someone accompanying her home—not to mention Lucien, who made her feel like her emotions were caught in a whirlwind—wasn’t something she had planned for. She opened her mouth to protest, to tell him she was fine, that she didn’t need his help. But the words didn’t come.

His smile, persistent and almost childishly happy, was too bright, too eager for her to deny.

“I insist,” he added, without giving her a chance to respond. He didn’t wait for her permission either, already starting to walk beside her, his pace matching hers effortlessly.

As they walked, his excitement didn’t fade. He babbled on, his voice light and full of joy, “You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve been thinking about the last time I was in your shop. Honestly, it was exactly what I was looking for, Y/N. You’re a true artist. A genius, even. I don’t know how you do it. The way you just know what someone needs? It’s incredible. I’ll be coming back for sure, more than once. My beloved, she...she loved the gift!”

He trailed off for a second, as though realizing how much he was talking, but when he caught her eye, that familiar grin returned. “I guess I just really appreciate what you did. She has finally enjoyed a gift of mine. Truly."

Y/N didn’t know how to respond. She wasn’t used to hearing this kind of praise—especially not from someone who looked at her like she was something extraordinary, like she was special. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate it. It was just… so much. Too much.

Her mind was a whirl of confusion, a mess of thoughts she couldn’t quite sort out. On one hand, his words were kind, genuine even, but on the other, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was just being polite. If it was all just a formality, a friendly exchange, one he didn’t mean to be anything more than surface level.

But the way he kept talking, the way he was so genuine about it, made her heart beat a little faster. She felt herself start to soften, to lower the walls she had built around herself.

“I really do mean it,” Lucien continued, oblivious to the internal turmoil she was experiencing. “It’s rare to find someone who actually cares about their work like you do. It’s so rare, and it’s refreshing. My beloved thinks so too, she said how skilled and considerate you are to make such intimate, meaningful gifts."

Y/N swallowed hard, unsure of how to deal with the pain in her heart.

Lucien’s words lingered in the air as they continued their walk through the bustling street, the crowd swirling around them, but somehow, in that moment, Y/N couldn’t focus on anything but him. His voice, light and full of praise, filled her ears, but it was his tone—so earnest, so full of admiration—that made it difficult to breathe properly. Her heart raced faster than she cared to admit, and her palms felt clammy, despite the cool evening air.

She adjusted the bags in her arms, suddenly feeling as if they were too heavy. Not physically, but emotionally. It was as if the weight of the situation had shifted in a way she hadn’t expected. She wasn’t used to being the center of someone’s genuine attention. And certainly not from someone like Lucien, who had this way of making everything feel... different.

“I’ll be coming back soon enough,” he said, his voice almost playful, as if the idea was already a certainty. “I want to see what else you’ve got for her. You’ve got a real talent, Y/N. The kind of talent that can make something as simple as a piece of jewelry feel like the most treasured possession in the world. She loved it, I’m telling you. And if I’m honest, I think she’ll want more of what you can do.”

Y/N’s breath caught at his words. There it was again—the mention of his “beloved.” She tried not to flinch, but it was hard. It felt like a cold, sharp dagger in her chest, no matter how gently he said it. Every mention of his relationship with someone else was like a reminder that she was just someone passing by in his life, someone who was only there for his business, for his orders, nothing more.

Yet, despite the ache that echoed in her chest, she couldn’t bring herself to push him away. His words—those damn words—had this way of making her feel... seen. They made her feel as though, maybe, for just a moment, she wasn’t just a shopkeeper in the middle of a crowded city. She was someone worth talking to, someone worth valuing.

Her fingers clenched around the handles of her bags, the fabric bunching in her grasp as her pulse raced. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond to him without sounding like a fool. She wasn’t sure what she wanted, either. She didn’t even know why his words were affecting her so much. It was just Lucien—just another customer, right? Another male who would leave once his business was done, and she would go back to her quiet life, her work.

“You’ll be back?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly, though she hoped he didn’t notice. Her heart felt heavy in her chest as she spoke. “To see more? For more gifts?”

Lucien’s grin widened, that easy, carefree grin that made everything else fade away for a brief second. “Of course,” he replied, almost as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, how could I not? There’s no one else who could do what you do. No one who could make something so... meaningful, so perfect. She’s never received anything like it.”

His words, the praise that seemed to pour out of him without a second thought, made her stomach twist in a mixture of delight and unease. It was hard to tell which emotion was winning.

As they neared the turn that would lead her to her home, the words began to settle on her in a way that almost felt like a weight. The streets around them seemed to grow quieter, the bustle of the city fading into the background as she focused on the way his voice still lingered in her mind.

“I’ll come back soon enough,” Lucien continued, as if he hadn’t noticed the subtle shift in the atmosphere between them. “Maybe next time, we can talk more. I’d like to see what other ideas you have, Y/N. You’ve got a talent for making things that speak to people. Not everyone has that.”

It took everything in Y/N to keep walking, to keep herself composed. But his words—they kept echoing, over and over again, in her mind. He didn’t know it, but the way he said them... the way he made her feel as though what she did mattered, as if she mattered, was something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“I’d like that,” she managed, though her voice was barely above a whisper.

Lucien turned to her, his smile softening, though the brightness never fully left his face. He was a man who wore his emotions openly, without hesitation, and Y/N couldn’t help but admire him for that. It felt almost... freeing, the way he was so sure of himself, so certain of the path he walked. She wished, in that moment, she could feel as confident as he did.

As they reached her door, Lucien paused, standing a little too close, a little too warm. The air between them felt charged, alive with unsaid words and unsaid feelings.

“Well, here we are,” he said, glancing down at her bags once more. 

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. She wanted to say something, anything, but the words stuck in her throat. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from him. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from herself. All she knew was that in that moment, standing on her doorstep with Lucien’s warmth radiating off of him, she didn’t want this feeling to go away.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely audible as she finally looked up at him.

“Anytime,” Lucien replied, giving her one last smile before turning to leave, the evening sun casting a golden glow over the two of them as he disappeared into the street.

Y/N stood there for a long moment, watching him go, her chest tight with something she couldn’t name. She hadn’t realized until he was gone just how much she had wanted him to stay.

Lucien sat across from Elain, the soft glow of the firelight illuminating her features. It had been a quiet day, but one that seemed to stretch on endlessly as the quiet intimacy between them grew more tangible. Elain sat delicately, her fingers brushing the smooth gold chain of the locket he'd given her. She had worn it all day, something he noted with quiet satisfaction.

She lifted the locket, turning it over in her hands, the elegant, subtle design catching the light. It was simple—gold, a slight curve, a soft engraving of leaves on the surface. But its true value, he thought, was in the tiny compartment inside, perfect for a pressed flower, a piece of her soul captured in something as delicate and beautiful as her. His fingers itched with the memory of creating it. It had been carefully crafted, just as his feelings for her had been.

"It’s... it’s perfect," Elain said, her voice soft, but her eyes shining as she looked at him. The locket hung from her neck, resting delicately against her collarbone. "I haven't taken it off since you gave it to me. I know I’ve thanked you a thousand times already, but… thank you. It’s beautiful."

Lucien’s heart skipped a beat. She had thanked him a thousand times, and each time, his smile had grown a little wider. He leaned back in his chair, watching her, the soft light making her appear even more ethereal than she already was.

"Seems you really like it," Lucien said, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “Didn’t think it would win you over so easily.”

Elain laughed softly, her lips curving into a smile that made his heart flutter. "Oh, yes. I haven’t taken it off since the moment you gave it to me." She paused, her fingers lightly brushing the gold, the motion tender. "I wear it every day. I can’t stop thinking about it."

"Good," Lucien said, his voice low, his eyes fixed on her. "It means a lot to me that you like it. I wanted it to be something meaningful, something personal for you."

Elain’s expression softened, her eyes flickering with warmth. "You really do put thought into everything you do, don’t you?" She glanced at him through the strands of her hair, almost shy. "It’s one of the things I like most about you."

Lucien’s chest tightened at her words. "You’re too kind," he murmured, though inwardly, he swelled with pride. To see her finally appreciating his efforts, to see her wear something he’d sought out with such care—it felt like a victory. His happiness wasn’t in the locket itself, but in knowing that she was accepting him, piece by piece.

But then, something flickered in his mind—a shadow, an intrusion of a memory that threatened to pull him away from the moment. It was a flash of Y/N, her face, her eyes. He had spent the entire afternoon helping her, picking up the pieces of her scattered goods. He remembered the small smile she’d given him, but there had been something in her eyes that made his stomach twist.

She had seemed so guarded. Like she was fighting against something, even as she thanked him. Something about the way she had looked at him—it wasn’t warmth or trust. It was as if she was trying to keep herself safe, distant.

He pushed the thought aside, but it lingered, like a distant whisper. Had he done something to wrong her? Had he said or done something that made her shut him out?

But no, that didn’t make sense. He hadn’t done anything to her, not really. It was just a fleeting moment.

"Lucien?" Elain’s voice brought him back, the soft sound of his name grounding him.

He blinked and looked up, meeting her eyes. Her gaze was steady, warm, a slight tilt to her lips. "I���m sorry, I was just thinking," he said, a bit embarrassed at how easily he had become lost in his own mind.

Elain tilted her head, the smile on her lips still lingering. "What were you thinking about?"

Lucien hesitated, then shook his head with a small laugh. "Nothing important," he said, brushing it off. "Just... my work. You know, trying to figure out what to do next."

Her eyes softened in understanding. "I can imagine you’ve been busy lately. You always seem to have a thousand things to do."

He chuckled. "It’s true. But I don’t mind. It keeps me distracted."

Elain leaned back in her chair, her hands folded delicately in her lap. "Distracted from what?" she asked gently, her voice soft, but curious.

Lucien paused, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he answered. "From the thoughts that linger. Things that I can’t always control." His voice was quieter now, more reflective.

She returned his smile, and for a moment, the weight of his thoughts disappeared. There was just the quiet warmth between them, the kind of comfortable silence that only came with being around someone who truly understood.

And yet, in the back of his mind, that small flicker of a thought—the image of Y/N, her guarded smile, and the soft sting of her distance—remained. Why? They had never met until two days earlier anyway, why was she so guarded?

But for now, he would push it aside. He was here with Elain, and he would not let the shadows of other thoughts mar this small, precious moment.

"I’m glad you like the locket," he said softly, his voice full of sincerity. "I want you to have something special, something just for you."

Elain gave him a small smile, "Thank you, Lucien. For being interested enough to learn more about me. I appreciate it."

And for the first time, he truly believed it.

The shop smelled of old paper and cinnamon, the comforting scent wrapping around Y/N like a familiar embrace. The soft hum of the fireplace in the corner crackled in contrast to the steady rain tapping against the windowpanes. It was peaceful—until her grandmother decided to ruin it.

"I told you, I can handle it on my own," Y/N huffed, arms crossed as she watched the older woman sort through a pile of newly arrived books. "You just got over a fever. You should be resting, not coming back here a day after getting out of bed."

Her grandmother, Arlena, snorted, waving a dismissive hand in the air. "Oh, please. I had a fever, not one foot in the grave." She adjusted her reading glasses and peered at Y/N over the rim. "Besides, if I leave you alone any longer, you'll turn this place into a monastery with all your brooding. We’d have to start selling candles and prayer books."

Y/N groaned. "Grandma—"

"I bet you've been sighing dramatically all day," Arlena continued, clearly not done tormenting her. "Scaring customers off with that tragic heroine look."

Y/N narrowed her eyes. "You are insufferable."

"And you are overly dramatic."

Before Y/N could argue, the bell above the door chimed, signaling a new customer. She immediately straightened, smoothing out her expression into something polite and professional. But the second she turned toward the entrance, that careful mask nearly cracked.

Lucien.

Of course.

The comfortable warmth of the shop suddenly felt suffocating as the heaviness settled in her chest. Still, she plastered on the most well-practiced smile she had, the one meant for customers who didn't need to see the turmoil twisting inside her.

Lucien approached with easy confidence, his russet-red hair glinting under the golden light, his sharp features relaxed yet unreadable. He dipped his head slightly in greeting, his golden eye gleaming with its usual sharpness.

"Good evening," he greeted, voice smooth as ever.

"Good evening," Y/N returned, her voice polite but distant. "Looking for anything in particular?"

Lucien’s lips twitched slightly. "Got anything else that might make a good gift?"

Y/N nodded toward the back of the shop. "You can take a look at our collection of specialty items. I’ll be with you in a moment."

Lucien inclined his head in thanks before heading in that direction, the warmth of his presence lingering even as he moved away.

The second he was out of earshot, Arlena let out a low whistle, arms crossed as she watched him disappear behind the shelves. "You know what? Maybe it’s time for you to rest, dearest. I can handle customers like him very well."

Y/N hissed in embarrassment, nudging her grandmother with her elbow. "Grandma!"

Arlena smirked, clearly enjoying herself. "What? He’s got the whole ‘handsome yet brooding’ thing going for him. I could charm a discount out of him in five minutes."

Y/N sighed, shaking her head as she reluctantly made her way toward Lucien, who was already examining some of the handcrafted gifts on display.

She folded her hands behind her back, keeping her posture composed. "Anything catch your eye?"

Lucien glanced at her, then back at the delicate selection of items. His fingers brushed over a carved wooden box, then a small silver quill set. "You’ve got an interesting collection here," he murmured. "Everything feels… personal."

"That’s the goal," Y/N said simply.

Lucien hummed in thought before picking up a set of delicately embroidered bookmarks. "These are nice. Who makes them?"

"Local artisans," Y/N replied. "We try to source from people around town. Everything here has a story behind it."

Lucien nodded thoughtfully before moving to another table where an ornate, hand-painted music box sat. He ran his fingers along the smooth surface, his expression unreadable. "And this?"

Y/N kept her hands clasped in front of her, her professionalism unwavering. "It plays a lullaby originally composed for the Spring Court’s faelings," she explained. "The design is inspired by an old legend about firebirds."

Lucien smiled wryly. "Sounds nostalgic."

"It’s meant to be," she replied, tilting her head slightly. "Memories tend to sell well."

Lucien studied her for a moment before finally exhaling and picking up the music box. "I’ll take this one."

"Good choice," Y/N said, though inwardly, she just wanted this whole interaction to be over.

She reached for the music box to take it from him, but Lucien’s fingers tightened around it, holding it in place.

Y/N’s brow lifted in confusion. "Yes?"

He hesitated, his golden eye scanning her face, as if searching for something. Then, quietly, he asked, "Have we met before?"

Y/N blinked, caught off guard.

Lucien exhaled, looking almost… frustrated. "I mean, did I—did I ever do something bad to you?" His voice was careful, uncertain. "I keep getting this feeling, like—like maybe I did something, and I don’t remember."

For a brief moment, Y/N’s mind stilled.

Did he know? Did he sense it?

The years of hurt, of disappointment, of feeling invisible in a way she never quite had the words to describe. Did he really not see it?

But then, Y/N’s lips curved into her most practiced, fake smile. The one she wore when she wanted to shut everything down.

"No," she said smoothly, voice dripping with false lightness. She ripped the music box from his grip, her fingers tightening around it. "Why would I ever be hurt by you? I mean, you and I are strangers, right? So what could you have possibly done to hurt me?"

Lucien stared at her for a long moment, something flickering in his expression. But then he let out a small, hesitant laugh, shaking his head. "Right," he muttered. "Nothing, I suppose. My mind fooled me once more."

Y/N merely turned on her heel, leading him toward the counter for checkout.

As she started wrapping the music box, her grandmother leaned forward on the counter, watching Lucien with an amused glint in her eyes. "You know, for someone who’s only been here twice, you sure have my granddaughter looking like she’s about to combust."

Y/N nearly dropped the music box. "Grandma!"

Lucien let out a genuine laugh, shaking his head. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

Arlena grinned. "Oh, you should. I haven’t seen her this flustered in years."

Y/N glared at her grandmother, her jaw tightening. "I am not flustered."

Arlena winked at Lucien. "She’s flustered."

Lucien chuckled as Y/N shoved the wrapped gift into his hands, eager to get him out of here. "Enjoy your music box."

Lucien inclined his head, still amused. "I will. Thank you, Y/N."

And then, with one last knowing glance from Arlena, he left.

The moment the door shut, Y/N turned and tossed the nearest soft object—a small pillow from the chair—directly at her grandmother.

"Grandma! What the hell was that?!"

Arlena cackled, dodging the pillow with ease. "That, dearest, was me making your life a little more interesting."

Y/N groaned, rubbing her temples. "I cannot believe you."

"Believe it, sweetheart." Arlena patted her on the shoulder before disappearing into the back room.

And Y/N… was left alone.

With her thoughts.

The city streets were quieter now, the late evening washing everything in a muted glow. The lamps lining the cobbled roads flickered in the gentle breeze, their golden light stretching long shadows across the stone. Y/N pulled her cloak tighter around herself, her breath steady as she walked.

She hadn’t left the shop intending to wander, but after the long day—after him—she needed out. Needed space from the shop’s small walls, from the lingering weight of Lucien’s presence and the way his gaze had felt too… probing. Too curious.

Y/N exhaled sharply. It was nothing. It should have been nothing.

Then she turned the corner and saw him.

Lucien stood beneath the glow of a nearby lantern, his copper hair catching the light like embers. But he wasn’t alone.

Elain Archeron.

Y/N stopped walking.

Everyone knew of the Archeron sisters. The human girls who had been Made, their fates forever changed.

Feyre, the youngest, had become High Lady—a force to be reckoned with, a warrior forged through hardship. Y/N had no personal connection to her, but there was a level of respect, even admiration, for what she had endured.

Nesta, the eldest, had been the city’s whispered scandal. Sharp-tongued and untamed, a woman who did not bend, who did not break, no matter how much the world might have tried. Y/N understood that sort of resilience.

But Elain…

Y/N had never given her much thought.

She had seen her in passing before—always soft-spoken, always delicate. A gentle soul, some would say. But Y/N never knew what to make of her. She wasn’t like her sisters.

And yet, she was the one standing with Lucien now.

The realization struck like a physical thing.

Lucien’s beloved.

Y/N didn’t know what she had expected, but it hadn’t been her.

Something tightened in her chest, something sharp and unwelcome.

Elain’s fingers absently brushed over the locket around her neck—intricately crafted gold, simple yet elegant. A piece of jewelry that Lucien must have given her.

A gift. The one she helped him pick out.

Y/N swallowed, forcing her expression into something blank, something indifferent, though she doubted either of them had noticed her yet.

Elain spoke softly, her voice barely carrying over the distance, but Lucien—he listened, watching her with that unwavering attentiveness of his. His face was unreadable, his posture relaxed. No tension. No hesitation.

Why should there be?

This was his beloved. 

Y/N should not care.

And yet, she lingered.

It wasn’t jealousy—not in the way one might assume. It wasn’t some petty envy or longing for what Elain had.

It was the ache of something unspoken. The reminder of what she had always known.

She was nothing to him.

And that truth shouldn’t sting, but it did.

As if sensing something, Lucien’s gaze suddenly flicked up.

Y/N’s breath caught.

Their eyes met.

His expression didn’t shift. The faintest flicker of surprise, there and gone too quickly to be sure it had even been there at all. He held her gaze, studying her, as if trying to place something—trying to understand something.

But Y/N refused to be the one to look away first.

So she let her lips curve into something polite. Something detached. Then she turned and walked past them, her steps measured, her spine straight.

Lucien didn’t call out.

Didn’t stop her.

But even as she disappeared down the street, she could feel his gaze lingering.

And for some reason, even after she was gone, he found himself glancing around.

As if searching for something.

As if searching for her.

Y/N had grown used to Lucien’s presence in her shop. Too used to it.

It was his third visit in what felt like an insultingly short span of time, and she found herself more irritated than ever as she carefully wrapped another one of his purchases. She had expected—no, hoped—that he wouldn’t return after the second.

And yet, here he was.

"Seems like Lady Elain has truly liked the gifts if you’re already on your third visit," she muttered, voice deliberately flat as she secured the wrapping with a ribbon.

Lucien, lounging against the counter as if he had all the time in the world, let out a low chuckle. "Well, I do aim to please."

She didn’t respond, instead focusing on adjusting the twine around the package.

But Lucien wasn’t done.

"You have no idea how much your meaningful trinkets have gotten her to finally open up to me."

Y/N’s hands stilled for the briefest moment before she forced herself to keep working. She didn’t roll her eyes, didn’t scoff aloud—but inwardly? Cauldron save me from this nonsense.

Meaningful trinkets.

As if her work was merely some tool in his desperate attempts to win over his mate.

She didn’t care. She didn’t.

But something about the way he said it, about the way he sounded so damn pleased with himself, made her fingers tighten around the edge of the package.

She slid it across the counter toward him, waiting for him to take it. But before Lucien could, a voice chimed in from the back of the shop.

"Dear, when will you be taking the package to Day Court again?"

Y/N exhaled sharply through her nose. Not now, Grandma.

She flicked her eyes toward the elderly female standing in the doorway, her hands idly dusting off an old book. Then, deliberately, she glanced at Lucien—who was not paying attention, seemingly distracted by something on the shelf behind her.

At least, that’s what she thought.

But the moment she turned back to bagging another order, his voice cut through the air.

"You have a package to deliver to Day Court?"

Y/N stilled, then sighed. "Yes. And?"

Lucien crossed his arms. "Do you know your way around there?"

She didn’t answer at first, simply shook her head slowly as she resumed packing the next order. "No," she admitted. "It’s the first time a customer from there has placed an order."

"And not just any customer," Arlena added cheerfully, much to Y/N’s growing irritation. "It’s Lord Calion, one of High Lord Helion’s closest confidants."

Y/N shot her grandmother a sharp, warning look, but it was too late.

Lucien had already perked up, his amber eye gleaming with recognition. "Oh? Him? I know him very well. Personally,too. He’s close with Helion."

Y/N’s brows furrowed slightly, surprised despite herself. "Helion, as in High Lord Helion?"

Lucien nodded, a small smile curling on his lips.

She wanted to say something—wanted to press further—but she caught herself, biting her tongue. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t her business.

Instead, she focused on tying up the next package, gathering Lucien’s order as quickly as possible. When she finally held it out to him, expecting him to take it and leave, he didn’t move.

Instead, he asked, "How will you go there?"

Y/N clenched her jaw. "That doesn’t concern you. Have a good day."

She shoved the package toward him, but he still didn’t budge.

His golden eye gleamed as he murmured, "It seems like you can’t winnow, either. Can you?"

Y/N was seconds away from snapping at him, but her grandmother—traitorous as ever—let out a dramatic sigh and announced, "Nope! She can’t."

Y/N shot her a glare, but the old female only grinned before adding, "A shame, really. Guess the gift of winnowing just skips certain generations. Disappointing, isn't it?"

Y/N hissed, "Keep talking, Grandmother, and I’ll start selling your beloved tea set piece by piece."

Lucien only laughed, shaking his head in amusement. "You know, I could help you."

Y/N raised a brow. "What?"

Lucien shrugged, casual as ever. "Well, I did just say I know Calion personally. And I’m close with Helion, too." He gestured vaguely. "Not to mention, I can winnow you there and back. Easy."

She stared at him, completely indifferent. "No thanks."

He blinked. "But—"

"Don't you have a beloved, sir?" she cut in smoothly, tilting her head.

Lucien’s lips parted slightly, his entire body stilling at the remark.

Y/N didn’t give him the chance to respond before continuing, "And besides, you aren’t the only one who can winnow. Plenty of my friends can do so, too. I do not need your help."

Lucien’s jaw flexed, but he forced himself to remain polite, nodding slightly as if to say, Suit yourself.

Y/N didn’t wait for him to come up with a reply. She simply shoved the package into his hands and turned away, effectively dismissing him.

Lucien lingered for half a second before exhaling and stepping toward the door.

Just as he was about to leave, he glanced at her grandmother, who had been watching the whole exchange with a knowing look.

Arlena gave a dramatic sigh and muttered, "Don’t look at me, boy. She’s been like this for the past couple of days."

Lucien huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Then, without another word, he slipped out of the shop and into the bustling street beyond.

Y/N barely spared him a glance.

But even after he was long gone, her mind still lingered on the offer she had so easily refused.

Elain had invited him for tea. It had been a quiet afternoon in the gardens of the River House, the sun casting golden hues across the table as the scent of fresh blooms lingered in the air. She had been talking—softly, sweetly, as she always did—about something he should have been paying more attention to. He tried, truly. But his mind was elsewhere.

"—I have to say, you’ve really found my favorite place," Elain mused, twirling the delicate porcelain teacup in her hands. Lucien blinked, snapping back to the present.

Elain gave him a knowing look, then gestured to the gift box resting on the table between them—the latest thing he had brought her. “That little shop you go to,” she continued. “Everything you’ve chosen for me from there has been perfect. I don’t know how you always manage to pick exactly what I love.”

Lucien exhaled a soft laugh, rubbing at his jaw. “Well, I can’t take all the credit,” he admitted. “The shopkeeper knows what she’s doing.”

Elain smiled, but her gaze remained sharp as she studied him. “You seem distracted,” she noted, setting her teacup down.

He hesitated, swirling the tea in his own cup. It wasn’t like him to dwell on things like this. And yet—

“I feel like I’ve done something to her,” he finally admitted, surprising even himself with the words.

Elain frowned, confused. “To whom?”

Lucien sighed. “Y/N.”

Recognition flickered in her expression, but her confusion only deepened. “The shopkeeper?”

He nodded, leaning back against the cushioned chair. “She always acts like I’ve personally offended her in some way. Like I’ve done something unforgivable.”

“Have you?”

“No. Not that I know of,” he said, shaking his head. “At least, not until three days ago when I walked into her shop for the first time and was met with her guards all up around me.”

Elain pursed her lips, thoughtful. “You’re sure you’ve never met her before?”

“Never,” Lucien said with certainty. “Not until then.”

Silence stretched between them as Elain considered this, her brows furrowing slightly. “And you’re sure it’s not just her personality?”

He thought about it. It wasn’t as if Y/N was cruel—she wasn’t outright rude to him. But there was something beneath the surface, something sharp and wary in the way she spoke to him, in the way she barely held his gaze for longer than a second.

“It’s more than that,” he murmured. “It’s like she already had her mind made up about me before I ever said a word.”

Elain hummed, tapping her fingers against the table. “Feelings like that don’t come from nowhere.”

Lucien glanced at her, arching a brow. “You think she has a reason to hate me?”

“I think,” she said carefully, “that something about you unsettles her. Whether it’s something you did or just something you remind her of—I don’t know.”

Lucien scoffed, shaking his head. “Great. So my mere presence is an offense.”

Elain rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I meant. But… maybe you should talk to her.”

Lucien huffed a laugh, the very idea of that absurd. “And say what, exactly? ‘Hello, I noticed you look at me like I ruined your life, and I’d really like to know why?’”

Elain laughed, but the sound quickly softened into something more thoughtful. “Maybe she won’t talk to you,” she admitted. “But she might talk to me.”

Lucien stiffened slightly, eyeing her warily. “You want to go there? To talk to her?”

Elain nodded. “She might open up if it’s just the two of us. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to another female about things like this.”

He considered it, tension tightening in his chest. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it felt… ridiculous to pursue an answer over something so small. But also because some part of him wasn’t certain he wanted to know why she had such an obvious grudge against him.

Still, Elain had a point. Feelings like that didn’t come from nowhere. And Y/N’s feelings toward him—whatever they were—had been evident from the start.

Elain reached across the table, touching his hand lightly. “If it bothers you this much,” she said gently, “maybe it’s worth figuring out.”

Lucien exhaled through his nose, considering the weight of that.

Maybe it was.

The past few days had been a whirlwind of chaos.

Between scrambling to find someone to make the delivery to the Day Court on time, handling the usual influx of customers, and him—Lucien—showing up in her shop repeatedly, Y/N felt like her mind was barely clinging to sanity.

Thankfully, she had managed to avoid having to travel to the Day Court herself. One of her employees, a young fae male who owed her a favor, had reluctantly agreed to handle it. A small victory. She hadn’t wanted to leave Velaris, especially not now, when she felt like she had to keep an eye out for a certain red-haired male.

Because for years, she had only ever seen him from a distance. A flicker of movement in a crowd, a presence at gatherings she wasn’t part of, a name she heard in passing but never dared to say aloud. And now? Now he was here, in her space, disrupting the quiet life she had built.

It was unsettling. It was infuriating.

And worse—it was Lucien Vanserra.

Of all the males in the world, he had to be the one tangled up in her life. And not just in any way—but because of her.

Elain.

Y/N’s hands stilled where she was rearranging a small display of trinkets, her jaw clenching. Of all the females he could have been with, it was her. The golden, delicate beauty that fit into his world as if she had been sculpted for it. It wasn’t that Y/N hated her, not really. But something about Elain—about seeing her with him—made her stomach churn unpleasantly.

And maybe, just maybe, that irritation seeped into her interactions with Lucien, whether she meant it to or not.

She sighed, shaking off the thoughts, and resumed sorting the trinkets onto their shelves. The shop was quiet now, save for the occasional rustling of fabric and the soft creaking of wood as she moved.

Until the door opened.

Y/N barely glanced up at first, assuming it was another customer, until her grandmother’s voice called out from the front counter.

“Y/N.”

She turned. “Yes?”

Arlene, perched behind the counter, didn’t bother looking up from the ledger she had been flipping through. But the teasing lilt in her voice was unmistakable.

“You’ve got company,” her grandmother said, dry and amused. “And not the one from the past few days.”

Y/N frowned at that, stepping around a shelf to get a better look—

And then she froze.

Because standing in the shop, bright-eyed and elegant, was Elain Archeron.

Y/N’s heart slammed against her ribs.

Elain, who she had only ever seen from afar. Elain, who was here, standing in her shop, looking like she belonged in a painting of soft pastels and golden light.

Elain smiled, soft and warm as she took a step forward.

“Hello,” she greeted, her voice as sweet as spring.

Y/N’s mind went blank.

Her body locked in place, her thoughts tangling into an incoherent mess.

And she could do nothing—nothing at all—as Elain Archeron closed the space between them.

She was frozen. Completely, utterly frozen.

Elain Archeron was hugging her.

It wasn’t a tight hug, just a light embrace, the kind that barely lasted a second. But it was warm, soft, filled with a kind of unfiltered sweetness that Y/N didn’t know what to do with.

And when Elain pulled back, she was beaming.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet the most creative seller out here!” she said, her voice airy and bright. “You have no idea how much I’ve been loving your creations. Lu has been giving me the most wonderful gifts, and when he told me about your shop, I just had to come see it for myself.”

Lu.

Y/N heard the nickname, felt it like a slow, twisting knife to the ribs.

She had always known they were close. It was obvious in the way he looked at Elain, in the way he spoke about her. But hearing it so casually, so effortlessly affectionate—it made something deep inside her curl inward, as if retreating from a battle she had already lost.

Still, Y/N forced herself to breathe, to gather the splintering pieces of herself and piece them back together before they shattered completely.

Distant but polite. She could do that.

“I’m glad you like them,” Y/N said, keeping her voice even, measured. “Lucien is a generous customer.”

Elain smiled even brighter. “Oh, he really is! He always picks out the most beautiful pieces. You’re very talented.”

Y/N barely managed a nod, her thoughts whirling too fast to grasp onto anything solid.

She needed to breathe. She needed to keep herself together.

So, she tilted her head, forcing a small, unreadable smile onto her lips as she asked, “Well, what brings you to our humble shop? Usually, it’s just Lucien who comes by to buy you surprises, but it seems different now.”

Elain laughed softly, as if Y/N had just uncovered some grand secret. “Oh, you know, he talked a lot about you, and I just had to come check this place out myself.”

Y/N’s smile tightened. Oh, how nice.

She wasn’t sure what made her more uncomfortable—the fact that Lucien had been talking about her, or the fact that Elain, Elain, had gone out of her way to meet her.

Before she could figure out how to respond, Elain turned to her grandmother. “Arlena, is the shop usually busy during these hours?”

Her grandmother barely glanced up from the ledger she was flipping through. “Not particularly. Why?”

Elain’s smile grew as she turned back to Y/N. “Well, I’d love to go out to Velaris Brewhouse—you know the one, right? Just down the road? There are some things I feel like I could talk about with you.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

She barely managed to let out a nervous laugh, her mind racing. What?! What was this girl thinking?! They had just met!

But before she could even attempt to find an excuse, her grandmother—her traitorous grandmother—snorted and waved a hand.

“Oh, please,” Arlena said, far too amused. “Do take her. It’s about time my granddaughter made some friends. I can manage for the next few hours.”

Y/N shot her grandmother a look—a full-bodied death glare that promised a long, long discussion later.

Elain turned back to her, expectant and hopeful. “Great! Would you like to?”

There was no way out.

Y/N barely kept her jaw from clenching as she forced a smile. “Let me grab my cloak. I’ll be right back.”

She turned and strode into the back room before she could betray how fast her heart was racing.

What. The. Hell.

What was happening?

She had merely ever heard of Elain as the Archeron sisters made quite the noise in the immortal lands, and now, suddenly, she was about to go out and have coffee with her like they were friends?

She grabbed her cloak, hands slightly unsteady, her thoughts a whirlwind of panic and frustration.

This was not how she had imagined interacting with Elain Archeron for the first time. And Lucien—Lu—why had he talked about her enough for Elain to seek her out?

Her chest tightened at the thought.

She needed to be careful. Needed to keep her walls up, needed to not let Elain see how deeply this affected her.

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and headed back out.

Because whether she liked it or not, she had no other choice.

She emerged from the back room with her cloak draped over her shoulders, her mind still reeling.

Elain was standing by the door, hands clasped together in front of her, looking as effortlessly radiant as ever. Her soft brown curls framed her delicate face, her hazel eyes filled with warmth and sincerity.

It made Y/N’s stomach twist.

Her grandmother, traitor that she was, gave her an innocent little wave as Y/N hesitated by the counter.

“Go on, dear,” Arlena said, a wicked glint in her eye. “Enjoy yourself.”

Y/N wanted to strangle her. Instead, she forced a tight smile and turned back to Elain. “Shall we?”

Elain beamed, pushing open the door. “Yes!”

The bell above the door jingled as they stepped outside.

Y/N walked beside Elain in silence, her mind still scrambling to make sense of what the hell was happening.

It was a short walk to Velaris Brewhouse, the cozy little café that sat nestled between a bookstore and a florist. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries greeted them as soon as they stepped inside, and Y/N inhaled deeply, as if the familiar aroma might ground her somehow.

Elain led them to a small table by the window, where golden sunlight streamed in, casting everything in a soft glow.

“So,” Elain said as they sat down, her voice light, easy. “Do you come here often?”

Y/N blinked. Really? Small talk?

“I do,” she admitted, settling into her chair. “It’s close to the shop, and the coffee is good.”

Elain didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. She was glancing over the menu, humming softly to herself.

The server came over, and Y/N ordered her usual black coffee, while Elain asked for some floral tea blend that Y/N had never heard of.

The silence stretched for a moment.

Then, Elain set the menu down and leaned forward slightly, her expression shifting.

“I hope you don’t mind me coming to see you,” she said, tilting her head. “It’s just… Lucien has been talking about you quite a bit.”

Y/N’s grip on the edge of the table tightened.

What?

Elain smiled, completely oblivious to the way Y/N’s chest was slowly caving in. “I was curious,” she continued. “He seemed… troubled.”

Y/N forced a breath, forced her lips to curl into something that resembled a smile. “Troubled?”

Elain nodded. “He said he felt like he had done something to offend you, and he couldn’t figure out what. He seemed genuinely bothered by it.”

Y/N’s throat went dry.

She wasn’t sure which part of that sentence made her feel worse—the fact that Lucien had noticed her hostility, or the fact that he cared enough to dwell on it.

Elain watched her closely. “I guess I just wanted to see for myself what kind of a fae you are.”

Y/N swallowed. “And?”

Elain grinned. “I like you.”

Y/N blinked.

The words shouldn’t have affected her, shouldn’t have made her stomach drop like that. But they did.

She opened her mouth, unsure of what she was even about to say, when the server returned with their drinks.

Y/N wrapped her hands around her coffee mug, letting the warmth seep into her skin, trying to steady herself.

Elain took a sip of her tea, then leaned back slightly. “So… why do you dislike him?”

Y/N nearly choked on her coffee.

She coughed, clearing her throat, before slowly setting her mug down. “Excuse me?”

Elain just smiled, as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of their conversation.

“I mean,” she continued, stirring her tea, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so—” she paused, searching for the right word, “—guarded around Lucien before. You look at him like he’s personally wronged you in another life.”

Y/N was stunned into silence.

Because the worst part was—Elain was right.

She did look at Lucien that way. She did hold something against him, even if he had no idea why.

But she wasn’t about to tell Elain that.

So, Y/N exhaled slowly and took another sip of her coffee before giving the only response she could think of.

“I don’t dislike him.”

Elain arched a perfectly shaped brow. “You sure about that?”

Y/N clenched her jaw, gripping her mug a little tighter.

She had no idea how she was going to survive this conversation.

The conversation should have been light. Should have been nothing more than polite pleasantries over coffee. But something about the way Elain looked at her—gentle, curious, but just a bit too knowing—made Y/N uneasy.

Elain hadn’t come here just to meet her.

She had come here to study her.

And it wasn’t long before Y/N felt like she was under a microscope.

“So,” Elain said after a sip of her tea, her voice still honeyed but carrying an undertone of something sharper. “How long have you lived in Velaris?”

Y/N took a careful sip of her coffee, as if it might buy her time. “A while.”

Elain hummed. “And your shop? It’s lovely, by the way.”

“Thank you.” Y/N forced a polite smile. “It was my grandmother’s before mine.”

Elain’s fingers traced the rim of her teacup. “It must be nice, having something passed down like that. A piece of your family’s history.”

Y/N gave a short nod. She wasn’t sure where Elain was going with this, but she had a feeling it wasn’t anywhere good.

Elain watched her for a moment before continuing, “I suppose you already know quite a bit about me, then.”

Y/N tensed. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if you’ve lived here for a while, and if Lucien has been coming to your shop…” Elain trailed off, tilting her head. “I imagine you’ve heard about us.”

There it was.

Y/N kept her expression neutral. “A little.”

Elain smiled, but there was something unreadable in her eyes. “I take it you know the way me and Nesta were turned into Fae, then?”

Y/N’s grip on her coffee mug tightened.

The Cauldron. The war.

She nodded. “Cruel way, truly.”

Elain sighed, looking down at her tea as if it might hold answers. “Yes. Cruel.”

For the first time since they sat down, Y/N caught a flicker of something raw beneath Elain’s carefully composed exterior.

But then Elain exhaled, shaking off the moment like a bird ruffling its feathers. She looked up again, her usual softness returning. “And you? Have you always been Fae?”

Y/N’s breath caught, just for a second.

A simple question. An easy one to answer.

But her mind lurched back—back to that moment, back to that feeling of something snapping inside her, something she had never wanted, something she had lost.

Lost.

Y/N forced a casual shrug. “More or less.”

Elain’s brows lifted slightly, as if catching on to the vagueness of the response.

But she let it slide, instead stirring her tea slowly. “I suppose it must be different for those born this way.”

Y/N swallowed. “In some ways.”

A quiet moment passed between them.

Then, Elain sighed. “I suppose bonds work differently for you too, then.”

Y/N’s body went rigid.

She almost didn’t react, almost kept her face impassive, but—gods, the word bond still made her flinch, still made her stomach twist.

And Elain noticed.

Y/N saw the way her hazel eyes sharpened just slightly, though she kept her expression smooth.

Y/N cleared her throat, trying to cover up whatever had flickered across her face. “Bonds?” She let out a short, forced laugh. “Not much different, I suppose.”

Too much. That was too much.

But Elain just smiled, as if she hadn’t noticed.

Y/N let out a silent breath of relief.

She thought she was in the clear.

What she didn’t notice, however, was the quick flicker of calculation that crossed Elain’s face. The subtle narrowing of her eyes. The slight shift in her posture.

Elain had caught something.

But she didn’t press. Not yet.

Instead, she leaned forward again, resting her chin on her hand. “So, you don’t dislike Lucien?”

Y/N nearly choked on her coffee again.

The sudden shift in topic threw her off balance.

She hesitated, quickly schooling her expression. “I… don’t know him.”

Elain gave her a small, knowing smile. “But you feel something about him.”

Y/N’s heart pounded.

She forced herself to scoff lightly, shaking her head. “I think he’s just…” She exhaled, waving a hand vaguely. “A bit much.”

Elain’s smile didn’t falter, but there was something in her gaze now—something that made Y/N feel exposed.

She knew Elain wasn’t aggressive like Nesta or blunt like Feyre. She wasn’t one to interrogate with sharp edges and harsh words. Atleast that's what she heard.

No.

Elain was different.

Elain’s way of questioning was gentle, subtle—so deceptively kind that people wouldn’t even realize they were being unraveled until it was too late.

And Y/N felt it.

She felt like a thread slowly being pulled apart.

So she drained the last of her coffee and pushed back from the table, eager to end this conversation before she let anything else slip.

“Well,” she said with a tight smile, “this has been… nice.”

Elain studied her for a beat longer, then gave a small nod. “It has.”

Y/N stood, and Elain followed. They stepped out of the café, the air cooler now as the sun dipped lower.

As they started back towards the shop, Elain tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “I hope we can do this again.”

Y/N nearly tripped.

Absolutely not.

She forced another polite, distant smile. “We’ll see.”

Elain just hummed, seemingly unbothered by the noncommittal answer.

They reached the shop far too quickly, and Y/N couldn’t remember the last time she was so eager to be home.

Elain turned to her one last time, that same bright, sweet smile on her lips. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

Y/N nodded stiffly. “Goodnight.”

Then, without another word, she slipped inside and shut the door behind her.

She exhaled heavily, resting her forehead against the wood.

That had been a mistake.

She had let something slip.

But… Elain hadn’t seemed to catch it, right?

Right?

Y/N shook off the unease and turned away.

She prayed to any god that Elain would never come back.

The shop smelled of cedar and vanilla, the scent of newly stocked candles mixing with the warmth of the evening. Y/N went over and sat on a stool behind the counter, picking at the edge of a ribbon that had come loose from one of the display boxes.

Her grandmother, Arlena, stood by the shelves, carefully rearranging a stack of leather-bound journals. The only sound between them was the rustle of pages, the faint creak of wood settling.

Until Arlena spoke.

“So.” Her voice was casual, but Y/N could hear the knowing lilt in it. “How was your little outing with the Archeron girl?”

Y/N stiffened.

She shouldn’t have been surprised that Arlena would bring it up. The elder was sharper than most gave her credit for.

Still, Y/N didn’t look up. “It was…fine.”

Arlena snorted. “Oh, I’m sure.”

Y/N let out a slow exhale, setting the ribbon down. “It was weird.”

Arlena turned, brows lifting in interest. “Weird how?”

Y/N hesitated. But what was the harm in telling her grandmother?

“She was too friendly,” she said, rubbing her temples. “Like, unnaturally friendly.”

“Some people are just like that, dear.”

Y/N shook her head. “No. Not in that way. It felt… like she was studying me.”

Arlena hummed, crossing her arms. “Maybe she was just curious.”

Y/N let out a short laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe she was looking for something.”

Her grandmother tilted her head. “Like what?”

Y/N hesitated again. She couldn’t tell Arlena about the bond—about what had once tied her to Lucien. That was a secret she had vowed to keep buried.

So she shrugged instead. “I don’t know. It just didn’t feel right.”

Arlena considered her for a long moment before sighing and shaking her head. “I told you before, child. Stay away from complicated people.”

Y/N scoffed. “If only it were that easy.”

Arlena smirked. “It is that easy. You just have to actually do it.”

Y/N didn’t respond.

Because wasn’t that what she had been trying to do? To keep her distance, to forget, to pretend none of it had ever happened?

And yet—

For the next few days, Lucien didn’t come to the shop.

Y/N told herself she was grateful.

At last, she wouldn’t have to see him. Wouldn’t have to deal with his lingering presence, wouldn’t have to feel that ache deep in her ribs every time he walked through the door.

And most of all, she wouldn’t have to see Elain either.

He had probably gifted her enough things by now. Probably had no reason to come back anytime soon.

Which was good.

It was what she wanted.

And yet—

The shop felt a little quieter.

A little emptier.

She shook the thought away.

It didn’t matter.

Lucien Vanserra was not her concern.

And whatever game Elain was playing—whatever that strange, polite interrogation had been—Y/N would not let herself get caught up in it.

Because none of it mattered anymore.

It couldn’t.

It had been a week since Elain’s visit to the shop.

At first, it seemed like nothing had changed. The usual hum of life in the shop, the steady stream of customers, the soothing rhythm of placing trinkets on shelves and organizing the displays. But then, whispers began. At first, they were subtle—just a few low murmurs as people passed by the front of the shop. Y/N thought little of it, chalking it up to the usual gossip that floated through the streets. After all, she was used to being somewhat of a mystery in the neighborhood, being a quiet female with an uncommon shop.

But as the days passed, the whispers grew louder.

Customers who had been regulars for months suddenly stopped coming. She could see their eyes darting away when they saw her, like they had something to hide. The air in the shop felt heavier, like a weight she couldn't escape. Her grandmother Arlena noticed it too, her sharp eyes narrowing as she made her way to the counter.

“What’s going on, child?” Arlena asked one morning as she placed a hand on Y/N’s shoulder, her voice laced with concern. “Why are there so many fae talking behind your back?"

Y/N stiffened, her stomach flipping. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but the rumors had been growing more bizarre and outrageous by the day. “Did you hear about Y/N?” one woman had whispered to another as she passed by the window the other day. “Apparently she was once a lover of Lord Theon... but she drove him mad, and now she's in hiding here, desperate to get him back.”

The rumors were becoming more scandalous by the minute—talk of betrayal, manipulation, even that Y/N had used forbidden magic to keep this...this Lord Theon bound to her in some twisted way. How had this happened?

Y/N’s hands trembled as she set down the delicate porcelain cup she had been polishing. “I don’t know, Grandma,” she muttered, her voice thick with disbelief. “I don’t know what they’re saying. Why would they—why would anyone say these things about me?”

Arlena’s eyes darkened. “I know you, girl. You don’t tell me everything, but I can tell when something’s off. You better set this straight before it ruins your name. You’ve worked hard for this shop, and I won’t have it fall because of some... rumor.”

Y/N’s mind spun. The thought of Lucien, of everything that had happened between them, seemed so distant now. And yet, here she was, caught in a web of lies she hadn’t spun. But who had? Who was behind these rumors? The connections between them were fuzzy, but one thing was clear: this wasn’t something that was just happening by chance.

The next day, things only got worse. A couple of familiar faces walked into the shop, only to turn on their heels and leave when they saw Y/N behind the counter. Their whispered words traveled to her ears: “Oh, no. Not her. I heard enough already.”

A cold sweat prickled Y/N’s skin as she watched them go. She could feel the walls of her shop closing in on her.

And then, she saw it: the headline on the local gossip board.

Lord Theon’s Ex-Fiancee? Witchcraft? A Hybern Loyalist? Secrets and Scandals Surround the Mysterious Shopkeeper.

Her heart dropped to her stomach. This was no coincidence. Someone had been spreading lies—dangerous lies. But why? Why was she being targeted like this?

Her hands gripped the counter as her mind raced. Who could this all be linked to?

As the whispers continued to grow and the people continued to shun her, Y/N’s thoughts churned like a storm inside her mind.

And as the days passed, she found herself slipping deeper into uncertainty and fear, unsure of who to trust, unsure of what to do.

The past few days had been a blur. Whispers, gossip, rumors—nothing but a whirlwind of chaotic stories that seemed to swirl around Y/N like smoke, obscuring her true nature. Every time Lucien walked through the streets, he overheard hushed conversations, people casting furtive glances in his direction as if he should somehow know more about it. And yet, he hadn’t.

He didn’t understand why this was happening. Why would anyone target her? The Y/N he knew—quiet, reserved, and focused on her shop—was nothing like what the rumors painted her to be. Even if he didn't know her for too long. Yet, despite all the outrageous claims, one thing had become clear: she was not being left alone.

It troubled him more than he cared to admit. His thoughts constantly circled back to her—her coldness, her guarded nature. Had it all been an act? Had her aloofness been the result of some past betrayal, or was it because of something that had been building all along? Something that, even now, he couldn’t quite grasp.

The question gnawed at him: was Y/N hiding a darker side? Or was she simply someone who had been dragged into a web of lies, caught in the aftermath of forces beyond her control?

Lucien stood up from the window, rubbing the back of his neck as he thought of the one place that might offer him answers: her shop. He wasn’t planning to buy anything, of course. He had no need for her goods, but something in him wanted to visit. To offer some support, maybe even to clear the air. It wasn’t like he was the one who’d been wronged here—if anything, it was her who had been dragged into this mess, and it unsettled him to think of her going through it alone.

But there was hesitation. He couldn’t help but wonder what he’d be walking into. After all, if the rumors were true... If she really had betrayed someone, as they said...

Lucien’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Elain’s soft voice, like honey dripping into his ears. He was sitting out in the garden of the townhouse, a comfortable yet uneasy silence filling the space between them. Elain had been talking about something—likely her latest social endeavors, but Lucien wasn’t really listening. His mind was elsewhere, wandering back to the shop, to Y/N, to the heavy weight of the gossip that had been spreading.

“Lucien?” Elain’s voice reached him again, this time with a soft, sweet question that made him blink, as if she had been speaking for a while.

He looked over at her, caught off guard by the sudden shift in her tone. "Sorry, what?"

Her expression was bright, almost innocent, and Lucien was a fool. Elain had perfected that look—the one that made her seem all sweetness and light when, in truth, her thoughts were never as pure as they appeared.

“I asked you what was bothering you.” Elain smiled at him, a soft, concerned curve of her lips. “You’ve been quiet. Is something wrong?”

Lucien sighed, a hand running through his tousled hair as he glanced back down at the empty garden, the silence almost too much to bear. “It’s Y/N,” he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of his thoughts. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but... things have been difficult for her lately. People are saying things.”

Elain’s gaze flickered, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Lucien to catch it. Her eyes widened slightly, and she tilted her head, feigning innocence. “What do you mean, ‘things’?”

Lucien’s frown deepened, his frustration growing. “Rumors, Elain. Terrible rumors. About her... and her past. It’s getting out of hand. I was thinking of going to her shop, just to... check on her. Offer some kind of support.”

He looked down at his hands, feeling the weight of uncertainty pressing on his chest. There was something inside him, something deep and unsettled, that wanted to be there for Y/N. She had helped him in the past—she had given him something precious when he needed it, and that was something that wouldn’t be forgotten.

But as his thoughts spiraled, his voice trailed off, unsure whether visiting her was the right thing to do. Was it a good idea? Or was he only walking into a trap that others had set for her?

Lucien didn’t notice Elain’s subtle shift, the slight narrowing of her eyes as she processed his words. Instead, he was too caught up in his own guilt and confusion to realize how the conversation was unfolding.

“Oh, Lucien,” Elain’s voice broke through his thoughts again, but this time, it was coated in something different—sweet, almost condescending. She leaned forward slightly, her smile still soft but her words cutting through the air with precision. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea, you know? We have... a reputation, after all.”

Lucien frowned, sensing the shift in her tone but not fully understanding it yet. “What do you mean?”

Her expression grew more serious, her gaze locking onto his with that same intensity he knew so well. “Lucien, you’re a respected figure. People look up to you. If you go to that shop, everyone will know. You’ll be seen as just another person who’s been fooled by a woman who clearly isn’t what she seems. I mean, the rumors—the truth—they’re everywhere.”

Lucien blinked, momentarily taken aback. “But... there’s no proof. It’s just gossip. You can’t honestly believe—”

Elain cut him off gently, her voice coaxing and smooth. “Of course I believe you, Lucien. You know I do.” She placed a hand on his arm, her touch soft but firm. “But think about the bigger picture. People are already questioning her. Her loyalty. Her intentions. You wouldn’t want to risk your image by associating with someone who’s been labeled... a fraud, would you?”

Lucien’s mouth went dry. “But I thought she—”

“I know,” Elain interrupted, her voice turning softer, sympathetic, but with just the slightest hint of mockery hiding behind her words. “Not everyone is how we perceive them. People can be deceptive, no matter how kind they seem. And, honestly, what’s the point in defending someone who’s only going to drag you down with her?”

Lucien’s gut churned, but there was a part of him—a part that he could barely recognize—that hesitated. Elain’s words were soothing, in a way. They made sense, at least on the surface. He was starting to feel the pull of her reasoning, the doubt beginning to take root in his mind.

She gave him a small, almost pleading look. “Lucien, please. We have an image to maintain. Think of us. Think of ourfuture, the way people view us.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but Elain’s voice was soft, sweet, persuasive. “We’re above all of this, above the gossip. You’re better than that. You deserve to be surrounded by people who lift you up, not drag you into their messes.”

Lucien ran a hand over his face, feeling the weight of her words sink in. His heart, once determined to visit Y/N and see her through whatever storm she was facing, now wavered. The idea of being seen with her, of standing by her when so many others were turning away, felt less certain now.

Elain smiled sweetly, a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Lucien’s mind was still a storm of confusion, but as he glanced at Elain, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this conversation—this manipulation—had been planned all along. Still, with her voice ringing in his ears, he couldn’t help but feel as though he had no choice but to let go of his initial plan.

He sighed heavily. “Fine. I won’t go.”

Elain’s smile deepened, though it never quite reached her eyes. “Good. I’m glad you’re seeing reason.”

The past few days had been a blur of silence. The usually steady hum of her shop had dissolved into a haunting emptiness. The customers who once bustled in and out, filling the air with chatter and curiosity, had disappeared. The shelves she’d meticulously organized now stood untouched, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel as though the walls themselves were closing in on her.

She sat behind the counter, mind spiraling into a labyrinth of confusion, disbelief, and anxiety. The whispers outside her door were becoming unbearable, lingering like an oppressive fog in the back of her mind. Hybern loyalist? A witch? Ex-fiancée of Lord Theon?

Who was Lord Theon?

Y/N couldn’t make sense of any of it. She had never even heard that name before. And as for the rumors—well, they were all nonsense. But no matter how hard she tried to push them away, they stuck to her like tar. And now, with her customers turning their backs, the weight of it all felt suffocating.

Alone in the quiet of the shop, with only her racing thoughts for company, Y/N sank deeper into her spiraling confusion. She hadn’t even thought of Lucien in days, not truly. The rumors were too consuming, too overwhelming. Yet, even as her mind churned through every possible scenario, she couldn't help but wonder: Was this why he never came back?

She thought about the time they'd spent together—the closeness, the surprising comfort. The connection that had drawn them to one another, despite the distance and the years. Did he know? Had he heard the rumors? Or worse, had he believed them?

Her chest tightened at the thought. She’d always known their bond was complicated, full of unspoken words and tangled emotions. But she never expected this.

Just as Y/N was lost in the mess of her thoughts, the door to the shop burst open, the force of it shaking the walls. The door slammed shut just as violently, making her jump. She looked up, her heart hammering in her chest, and saw Elain standing in the doorway.

But this time, there was no warm, bubbly smile on Elain’s face. No soft, welcoming energy. Elain’s eyes were cold, calculating—a far cry from the sweet, innocent demeanor Y/N had once seen in her.

Y/N stood up instinctively, confusion flooding her. What was she doing here?

“Hello, Y/N,” Elain said, her voice deceptively sweet, but there was a sharp edge to it that made Y/N’s blood run cold.

“Can I help you with something?” Y/N asked, her voice betraying none of the unease swirling inside her.

Elain’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Yes, you can. You can pack your things and leave. Now. Before things get worse for you.”

Y/N froze. Her pulse raced, her mind scrambling to make sense of what was happening. “Excuse me?” she asked, her voice shaking with disbelief.

Elain’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t play coy with me, Y/N. I know the truth.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped. The truth? She felt a chill run down her spine. “What do you mean?”

Elain stepped forward, her heels clicking with a rhythm that seemed far too confident. “After our little conversation in the café, I had my suspicions. The way you reacted to that talk about bonds... it wasn’t hard to figure out that you have quite a past, and one that involves a mate.”

Y/N’s breath hitched. She hadn’t told anyone. She hadn’t even spoken of Lucien in years, not in the way she should have. How could Elain know?

Elain continued, her tone mocking. “I took a little time to investigate. Turns out, you and Lucien have more than just a bond. You’ve had it for years—a hundred years, in fact. But poor Lucien doesn’t even know, does he? Funny how that works, isn’t it? But don’t worry, I’ll make sure everyone knows the truth soon enough.”

Y/N’s mouth went dry. “How?” she breathed, her mind racing, trying to piece it all together. How did she know?

Elain’s smile widened, almost sinister. “It wasn’t hard to figure out, really. My gift isn’t just for the future, Y/N. I can see the past, too. And what I saw was... illuminating.”

The words hit Y/N like a physical blow. Elain had used her powers to pry into her life, to find out what she’d hidden so carefully. She wanted to scream, to demand why Elain thought she had the right to invade her privacy like that. But Y/N was frozen in place, her body rooted to the spot as Elain’s words continued to echo in her ears.

“And now,” Elain’s voice dropped, cold and dangerous, “I’m going to make sure everyone knows. The rumors are just the beginning. You’re going to leave this shop, Y/N. And if you don’t, well...”

Elain’s gaze darkened. “In a few days, I’m afraid I’ll have to make sure you’re locked up in a cell. That’s what happens to traitors, isn’t it? People like you.” She laughed softly. “Hybern loyalist, witch... betrayal... Oh, I’m sure you’ll fit right in with the rest of the scum.”

Y/N’s mind was reeling. She couldn’t process the storm of emotions crashing into her all at once. “Why?” she finally managed to croak. “Why are you doing this?”

Elain’s eyes hardened. “Because I can’t have Lucien’s attention wandering. He’s mine, and I’m not about to let someone like you get in the way.”

Y/N was stunned, her breath coming in sharp gasps. “You... can’t... You wouldn’t...”

Elain’s smile was smug, full of superiority. “I already have. You’re nothing to him, Y/N. Nothing more than a memory he doesn’t even know he has. I’m the one who deserves his love, his attention. I’m the one who’s worthy.”

Y/N’s chest tightened with anger and shock. This was the woman who had once seemed so sweet, so kind. But now, she stood before Y/N, a cold, calculating enemy.

“But... Lucien doesn’t know? Does he know about all this? Is that why he hasn’t come to see me?” Y/N’s voice was barely a whisper, filled with fear and confusion.

Elain’s eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction. “Oh, he knows, alright. I told him everything. And do you want to know what he said? He was disgusted. So disgusted that he couldn’t even bring himself to look at your little shop again.”

The words hit Y/N like a slap to the face. Disgusted. The word reverberated in her head, over and over again, until it felt like it was drowning her.

She shook her head in disbelief. “You’re lying,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Elain tilted her head, feigning sympathy. “I’m not, darling. I wish I were. But you’ve already lost him. He’ll never come back to you.”

Y/N felt the ground beneath her feet shift. All the uncertainty, the fear, the confusion—it was suddenly too much. She was drowning in it. And all she could do was stand there, unable to fight back, as Elain’s cruel words swirled around her.

With a final, venomous smile, Elain stepped toward the door, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. “You have 24 hours, Y/N,” she called over her shoulder. “Pack your things. Leave this place, and never come back. Or I’ll make sure these rumors get even worse. I promise you, you’ll regret this.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving Y/N standing in the quiet of her shop, her heart pounding in her chest, the weight of the threat heavy on her shoulders.

Lucien... She didn’t know what to think anymore. Did he believe Elain? Was she really so insignificant to him now? Had he ever cared?

Y/N’s mind spun in endless circles, the weight of the rumors and Elain’s cruel words crashing over her like a tidal wave. Her breath caught in her throat as the reality settled in: she was alone.

And soon, she would lose everything.

He lied.

Even as Elain’s soft words curled around his mind, urging him to let go, to forget, to move on—he had lied. He was going back to see her. He didn’t know why, didn’t know what he expected to find, but the thought of Y/N, alone in that little shop, had lingered in his mind like a splinter he couldn’t remove.

He shouldn’t care.

Shouldn’t be thinking about her at all.

But something about the way she had looked at him that last time—something in her eyes, in the way she held herself, in the quiet hesitations between her words—had unsettled him in a way he couldn’t shake. It was wrong, the way her absence gnawed at him. It was wrong that he still remembered the way she smelled, the way her fingers had once brushed against his when she handed him something, the way she looked away just a second too late, as if she didn’t want to stop looking at him at all.

Elain would hate this.

The thought slithered into his mind, unwanted.

But he pushed it away because it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He just needed to see her, just once, just to put this restless feeling to rest.

Lucien turned the corner, his heart beating just a little too fast, the familiar sight of her shop coming into view—

And then—

He stopped.

Everything inside him stopped.

The door was boarded shut.

Rough wooden planks nailed haphazardly across the entrance. Red paint smeared in crude lettering. Out of Service.

His breath left him.

The street moved around him, the city still alive, but Lucien stood utterly still, staring at the place where her shop should have been. The place where she should have been.

Gone.

Without thinking, his feet carried him forward. His throat was tight when he turned to the nearest person, catching the sleeve of a passerby. "This is—this was—Y/N’s shop," his voice came out rough. "Did she move? Where did she go?"

The male barely spared him a glance. "Oh, her? Last I heard, she left a day ago."

Lucien's fingers clenched. "Where?"

The male only shrugged. "Don’t know. All I know is she doesn’t work or live here anymore." Then he shook Lucien’s grip off and walked away, disappearing into the crowd as if he hadn't just unraveled something deep in Lucien’s chest.

Lucien didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

Y/N had left Velaris.

[maaeveeee]

𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐆’𝐒 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐊

Pairing: live action Snotlout x female!oc!reader

Warnings: fluff, mild jealousy, light romance tension, mild language, slow burn.

Credits: idea again from @cxce15. Since you liked my last one I hope you like this one too!

You didn't quite ask to be adopted by a dragon. It just sort of. did.

There was no deal. No fiery declaration. No solemn Viking ceremony where Hookfang stood up in front of the village and gave you a stolen goat as a token of eternal fealty.

(Though, now that you think about it, you had received a goat. Three times.)

No—your new and unlikely friendship with the most theatrical dragon on the island began with him sitting—utterly sprawled—in your garden, in the middle of your lavender bed.

You stood there, dirty—handed, staring at eight hundred pounds of fire—breathing personality who had just crushed your mother's herbs without a second glance.

"Hookfang," you said mildly, "you're sitting on my basil."

Hookfang blinked.

"Which I just planted."

A second blink. Slower.

Then he blew smoke in your face and rolled over like a lizard claiming a warm rock.

You sighed. "Right. Okay. So we're doing this now."

And you were doing this now.

Because after the garden incident, Hookfang started showing up everywhere. Initially it was once or twice a week. Then daily. Then demanding every day.

You’d walk outside to find him waiting. At the stream. At the edge of the forest. Once, inside your woodshed, tail wrapped around a barrel like he was guarding it.

(he wasn't. He was sleeping. And accidentally seet it on fire.)

He brought you gifts. Rocks. Bones. A shield that quite clearly still belonged to a Viking who was actively using it.

And, once—a fish that quite clearly already had been chewed and spat out. On your front step. As a gift.

You had no clue what you'd done to warrant his loyalty, but there it was. A great scale—covered presence who followed you around like a winged horror with boundary issues.

The others told you it was strange.

Snotlout called it treason.

Which brings you to the present.

The sun was setting behind the western cliffs, casting the tall grass in warm orange glow.

You were sitting near the edge of the bluff, arms wrapped around your knees, letting the wind run its fingers through your hair.

The air still had the warmth of summer. Everything smelled of wildflowers, smoke, and dragonfire.

Peaceful. Serene.

Until the sky changed.

You didn't even need to turn around. You could feel it.

The wind parched up. The insects fell silent. A blast of heat rolled down your back like someone had just opened the world's grumpiest oven.

And then—

BOOM.

A very loud, very dramatic THUD vibrated the earth as Hookfang landed behind you like the world's noisiest punctuation mark.

You didn't even flinch.

"Hookfang," you said wryly, brushing your hair away from your face, "if this is about the fish thing, I already forgave you. Kind of."

Hookfang tucked his wings with an offended snort. Then—with all the elegance of a collapsing building—he dropped his massive head into your lap and set to work at once snuffling your pockets.

You leaned back on your hands, blowing out a breath. "I don't have snacks. This is a snackless zone. You've just eaten a sheep."

He ignored you and nuzzled into your hip like a child who'd just heard about blanket forts. Then, satisfied, he emitted a low, rumbling sound and went boneless across the grass.

You scratched behind his horn, and he made a noise that could only be defined as smug dragon purring.

"I'm amazed I'm facilitating this," you muttered.

And still—you stayed. Because for as much chaos as Hookfang wrought, he also brought warmth. Comfort. Loyalty. Bizarre gifts. The occasional goat.

And also—

Crashing.

Loud crashing.

The snapping of twigs. The breaking of branches. Furious shouting.

You sighed. "Three… two…"

"HOOKFANG, YOU DOUBLE—CROSSING SCALED TRAITOR, I KNOW YOU'RE OUT HERE!"

Hookfang didn't even flinch.

You glanced over at the treeline, where an enraged, muddy Snotlout burst out of the trees like he'd just been chased by a bear and lost the fight.

He was dripping wet, held one boot, and was covered in leaves.

Hookfang let out a breath of steam out if his nose.

Snotlout panted, stalked up to you, and pointed a finger like he was accusing someone of a war crime.

"I SAID ONE BARREL ROLL," he shrieked, "AND YOU DUMPED ME IN A LAKE."

Hookfang blinked.

Snotlout spun on you. "And you—you just let him do this? Just—just lie here like this? Like some giant fire—lizard snuggling his soulmate while I was eating algae?! "

"I didn't let him," you said softly, scratching Hookfang's chin. "He does what he wants."

"He was supposed to be doing what I want. Because I'm his RIDER."

You nodded at the dragon. "Yeah, well, he's not riding anyone now. He's nesting."

Hookfang grunted happily and wound his tail carefully around your legs like a living blanket.

Snotlout felt personally betrayed. "He's spooning you. I have never been spooned by him!"

"That's a you problem."

"This is an end—of—the—world problem! My own dragon has traded me in for—" he gestured wildly at you—"a person who doesn't even fly."

You looked at him. "Perhaps he simply likes me."

Snotlout stared, mouth agape. "…I like you!"

You blinked.

He blinked.

Hookfang let out a long, meaningful snort.

Snotlout turned pink. "That's—not—what I meant. I mean, I do. Like. Generally. Platonically. Like—adjacent. Whatever."

You raised an eyebrow.

He coughed and dropped to the grass beside you like a wounded animal resigned to fate.

Hookfang immediately swatted him with his tail.

Snotlout shoved it off. “You’re the worst best friend I’ve ever had.”

Hookfang yawned in his face.

You bit back a laugh.

“You think this is funny?” he muttered.

“A little.”

“I almost drowned.”

“You smell like pond weed.”

“I found a snail in my pocket.”

You cracked a grin. “Is that a new pet or—?”

“Not the point!”

Hookfang rumbled again and rested his chin more heavily in your lap, smug as sin.

Snotlout moaned, falling onto his back in the grass with arms spread out like a Viking martyr.

"He's in love with you. This is worse than losing him to a Night Fury. At least Toothless is cool. You—you're just nice and thoughtful and non—flammable! That's not even fair."

You looked down at Hookfang. "You hear that, buddy? You broke up with him for someone non—flammable."

Hookfang let out a happy little puff of steam.

Snotlout sat up, defeated. "I trained him. I fed him. I made fire—based bonding rituals."

"He likes my face," you said.

He paused. "Yeah, well. It is a nice face. Stupid symmetrical features."

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

"Did I say that out loud?" he muttered.

“You did.”

"Cool. Just checking."

You shook your head, still smiling. He was absurd. But also—completely transparent.

In his own insane, backwards, emotionally—damaged way, Snotlout cared.

Maybe more than he realized.

And maybe Hookfang had realized that long before either of you had.

Snotlout sat beside you, pond water dripping off of him, scraps of moss still stuck to his knee.

His hair was mussed, his face a mess, and his dragon—his actual life—long bonded war—beast—was currently curled around your legs like a sleep—satisfied golden retriever.

Hookfang was purring.

Actually purring.

Like he hadn’t just emotionally devastated his rider.

The sky was warm with sunset now, the air cooling just enough to mist your breath.

You leaned a bit into the warmth of Hookfang's side, scraping your knuckles along the scales between his horns. He sighed like a tired king and let his entire weight fall into your lap.

Snotlout saw it happen.

Then hid his face in his hands and groaned.

"Okay. Alright. New plan," he muttered into his hands. "If I can't win him back, I'll just… win you instead."

You blinked. "I'm sorry—what now?"

He peeked through his fingers, realized he said that out loud, then sat up straight and cleared his throat like a man who'd definitely practiced this speech in front of a mirror.

"I just meant—since you and Hookfang are clearly a thing, and since I trained Hookfang, and since we're both, like, available adults with the same trauma—mostly dragon—inflicted—I thought perhaps we could… y'know."

You tilted your head to one side. "Are you asking me out? In third person?"

Snotlout tripped. "No! I mean, yes. Kind of. That wasn't the plan, but now it's beginning to seem like the plan, and to be truthful, I'm switching direction because you're looking very kissable in this lighting."

You laughed outright. "Snotlout—"

"I'm being vulnerable!" he cried, tossing a hand heavenward. "I'm saying I like you! In a genuine, sincere, chest—aching kind of way! Like, I'm thinking about you when I'm supposed to be thinking about dragon saddle upkeep, which has some very real safety implications, incidentally!"

You opened your mouth to reply.

And Hookfang—perhaps sensing the dangerous build—up of romantic tension—opted for violence.

He snorted loudly, swished his tail and slapped it squarely across Snotlout's chest, causing him to tumble backwards into the grass with a shocked "ooF!"

You stifled a laugh.

Snotlout sat up, his face flushing. "SERIOUSLY?! That was a confession, you big oven mitt!"

Hookfang let out a contented, self—satisfied growl and lazily shifted his body closer, wedging himself further into your side.

He wasn't in your lap now—he was sprawled across your lower half, regarding Snotlout with an expression of: You may speak when spoken to.

Snotlout glared at him, then, with stubborn determination, turned back to you.

"Alright. Alright. I'll repeat myself. Without the tail—smack.".

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "Okay."

He took a breath.

"'I like you,' he said, clearly trying very hard not to shout. "Like, really like you. Not because Hookfang does. Not because you're pretty—though you are, and that's been its own emotional crisis—but because you're actually nice to be around. You don't act like I'm a joke. You don't tease me for being loud or overcompensating or a bit… much."

You were quiet. He was actually talking.

"You make me feel like maybe being me is okay," he said. Then added quickly, "And not just because Hookfang kidnapped you and I'm trying to win some sort of strange cuddle—based custody battle."

You smiled. Soft and real.

And just as you were about to respond—

Hookfang sneezed.

Directly at him.

A smoky, aggressive blast of dragon breath hit Snotlout like an airbag of disappointment. His hair blew back. His shirt flapped. He just sat there blinking, eyes wide, face smeared with ash and confusion.

You bit your lip so hard you almost bruised it.

Snotlout wiped soot from his cheek “I am this close to sending you off this Island.”

Hookfang emitted a little chirp. That was a mocking chirp.

Snotlout stood before you once more, embarrassed but resolute.

"Okay, one last time," he said, standing up straight. "And if I get flamed again, I'm going to take it as a sign from the gods that I'm cursed."

You nodded solemnly. "Go ahead."

"I like you."

You blinked. "That was it?"

"YES. Because I've said it four times now and I'm sweating in my boots, which I only just got back on, thank you very much.

There was a pause. Waves crashing could be heard on the wind.

You leaned in slightly. "I like you too."

Snotlout's brain seemed to malfunction. His eyes went wide. His mouth dropped open. Then closed. Then opened again.

"…You do?"

You nodded.

A slow, stupid smile crept across his face. "Wait, really? You're sure? Like, not just sympathy liking, like when Hiccup says I look good in red just to get me to shut up?"

"Really."

He blinked at you. "This is incredible. This is better than dragon racing. Hookfang—buddy—did you hear that?"

Hookfang, who had already curled tighter around you like a smug, giant blanket, issued one last victorious rumble.

Snotlout smiled.

"Wait… do I still have to share you with him?"

You leaned back, your head on Hookfang's shoulder. "Pretty sure that was never optional."

Snotlout groaned, falling backward again. "This is the worst best day of my life."

[em1i2a3]

Dawn: Making An Effort

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x New Avengers/Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: After a mission gone wrong with your old team, you are recruited by Valentina to be a part of The New Avengers. You reluctantly take the spot, but it comes with you needing to face the past to form a better future for yourself.

Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Depictions of Death, Loss, and Grief, References to Violence, Reader is a bit troubled, Reader is going through it a bit.

Author’s Note: I really liked this request and want to thank anon for requesting it (I literally cannot find your request, but I will respond to it so you’re aware this is the story lol), hopefully it meets expectations <3

Word Count: 7,197

The room smelled like metal–a rusted copper tang that clung to the air, thick and cloying, the kind that settled in the back of your throat and invaded your senses. It was the scent of oxidized steel, of damp rebar, of blood dried too long on unsealed floors. You couldn’t tell whether it was the room itself, the bones of the infrastructure corroding slowly around you, or if it was you–your gloves, soaked dark and stiff with someone else’s blood. The knuckles were cracked leather, heavy with the weight of the past hour, and they hadn’t stopped shaking.

You sat motionless at the metal table, elbows planted, back straight, boots flat to the ground like it might steady the thunder in your spine. The walls around you were concrete–grey, pockmarked, uneven. A fluorescent bulb buzzed above you, casting everything in a sterile, unflattering hue. The shadows it left beneath your eyes made you look hollow–like a ghost in a borrowed body.

A slow drip echoed from the far corner. You thought it was a pipe leak, maybe, or something far worse, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

There were no windows, no clocks, and no indication of how long you had been sitting there. Only the dried blood on your forearms that grew tacky beneath your jacket, and the sickening memory of the last face you saw before it all went to hell.

Then the door creaked.

You didn’t move a muscle.

The woman who entered didn’t need an introduction. You knew her from the sharp line of her jaw, the high collar of her stark white coat–that had no stains and was probably dry cleaned that day–, the unapologetic click of her heels against the tile, and the white pieces of hair that framed her face.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine…

She didn’t offer her name. She didn’t sit right away either–she just looked at you, her gaze sliding over the cracked knuckles of your gloves, the blood drying on your face and collarbone, and the silence behind your eyes.

“Well,” She started lightly, “They really weren’t kidding about you hmm?” Her voice was rich with amusement, but beneath it–buried deep–there was something else. Something cool, calculating, curious…Almost impressed.

She dropped a Manila folder onto the table with a thud that echoed louder than it should’ve. It fanned open on impact, and you didn’t need to look to know your photo was clipped inside. The file was thick, it had followed you since you were a child, so it was much more than just your mission records.

“Don’t worry,” She reassured, sliding into the chair across from you, like she’d done it a hundred times before, “I’ve read all the redacted parts.” A small grin came up on her lips, waiting for you to react, but you stayed stoic. You stared past her shoulder, past the glass where hidden people behind it were probably watching, and past the moment that was brewing between you and Valentina.

She leaned forward slightly, resting one manicured hand atop the folder.

”I watched your little press conference disaster,” She commented with a sly tilt of her mouth, “The way you took down those six tactical agents and shattered the stage barrier before the cameras even cut to commercial–riveting television…I must say.” Your gaze snapped to hers, flat and steady.

“Did you come here gloat?”

“No,” Valentina said smoothly, “I came to recruit.” She tapped her fingers once against the folder, “You’ve got quite the body count…Three hundred and twenty six by the ripe age of twenty one…You’re skilled. Precise. Adaptable…Which makes you useful to me.” You let out a huff of a laugh, dry and humourless.

”I’m already part of a team.” Valentina arched a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching like she couldn’t quite believe you had said it with a straight face.

”A team?” She repeated, like the word itself offended her, “You call two people a team? That’s generous.” She leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, “Last time I checked…You had more than that. Or need I remind you what happened to the other two?” Your jaw clenched. The leather of your gloves creaking.

“I was there,” You snapped, voice low and acidic, “I don’t need you to remind me of the mistake I made.” The silence cracked like a tension wire.

”Speak another word about it,” You added, your stare locked onto hers with surgical precision, “And you’ll be taken out of here on a gurney.” Valentina blinked once, then raised her hands in mock surrender, lips pulling into a grin that made something deep in your gut tighten.

“Easy there,” She said, like she was humouring a child with a live grenade, “No need for theatrics. I’m not your enemy.” You rolled your eyes.

”Could’ve fooled me.”

”I’m offering you something you won’t be able to get anywhere else,” She said plainly, like she had not just poked at the open wound in your chest with her manicured fingers, “Maybe you should listen before you go off the rails.” You leaned back in your chair, expression unreadable. The silence between you both was colder now. Heavier.

“And what could you possibly offer me that I can’t achieve myself?” You questioned. Valentina’s smile didn’t fade. She leaned forward, her voice dropping just slightly–low, firm, and quiet enough to draw you in.

“Redemption.” The word landed like a bullet–clean and quiet–hitting you straight through your chest.

”My team isn’t exactly made of saints,” She continued, “They’ve got baggage. Blood on their hands. They’re broken pieces that don’t fit anywhere else. But look at them now…” You didn’t move, so she continued, “They’re not just surviving. They’re useful. Trusted. Publicly adored in just the right doses and feared in all the places that matter. They’ve been given a second chance to write a new story…I think you could use that kind of opportunity.” You bit the inside of your cheek, drawing blood.

”Yeah. They’re rebranded Avengers with issues. Whoopee.” Valentina laughed–genuinely this time.

”Touché.” She reached for the folder, tapping it again, as if she were sealing something shut.

”You’re smart. Lethal. Too dangerous for a world that only understands clean endings and golden headlines. But I understand you…And I don’t need you to smile for a camera or kiss babies in a flak jacket. I just need you to do what you’re built to do…For someone who actually knows how to use it.” Your silence was almost an answer, and you watched as Valentina stood and smoothed her coat.

”Jet’s wheels up at 0600. You walk out of this room, you’re mine…You stay…Well. You know how that story ends I bet.” She stepped toward the door, heels echoing in the hollow space. Then, just before leaving, she glanced over her shoulder.

“For what it’s worth,” She added, tone quieter now–less sharp, more knowing, “You didn’t make a mistake. You made a decision. A bad one you didn’t know the consequences of. Your training just didn’t teach you how to live with those…” Then the door shut behind her, leaving you in silence.

———————

You stood at the far end of the debriefing table, spine straight, hands clasped behind your back in a posture that screamed control. The kind of control that had been conditioned, not chosen. Your boots were planted shoulder-width apart on the polished concrete, motionless despite the low thrum of adrenaline that still lived somewhere behind your ribs. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, their hum threading into the silence like static in your skull.

Across from you, six operatives sat in a staggered row, each flanked by the long stretch of matte black table like pieces on a chessboard. The New Avengers. A name wrapped in PR and repurposed rage.

They were all watching you.

Walker leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest like he was trying to figure out if he wanted to challenge you or flirt. His smirk twitched as he whispered something under his breath to Alexei–something you couldn’t quite catch, but the low rumble of amusement that followed wasn’t subtle.

Yelena nudged Ava beside her, voice hushed but sharp, and you didn’t need super-hearing to know she was referencing the press conference. You could tell from the timing of her glance toward your gloved hands. You didn’t react.

Ava didn’t laugh. She just stared, calculating and unreadable, still flipping her phase mask around in one hand like it was a coin she might bet on you–or against you.

Bucky said nothing, but his jaw was tight, his gaze heavy. He didn’t flinch when you looked at him. He didn’t blink either.

But it was Bob who stood out the most.

Not because he spoke–he didn’t.

Not because he looked afraid–he didn’t do that either.

He just…Watched.

Quiet. Still. Brows faintly knit, like he was trying to understand a language he hadn’t heard spoken in years. His hands were folded neatly on the table in front of him, thumbs tracing each other in slow, nervous repetition. He wasn’t whispering like the others. Wasn’t sizing you up. Wasn’t looking at your scars or your stance.

He was just listening.

To Valentina.

Who stood beside you, poised and razor-sharp in a black pantsuit number as she addressed the room like she was unveiling a new weapon.

Valentina let the silence stretch just long enough to make them uneasy. Her presence was as deliberate as her words–every movement precise, every pause calculated to remind the room that she was in charge, not them.

“I’m assuming you already know who this is,” She said, her voice cool and composed, with a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “But if you want a formal introduction…” She extended a hand lazily toward you like she was showcasing a piece of rare, volatile tech. “This is your new teammate. Y/N.”

A beat passed.

Two.

The name hung in the air like smoke, and you felt the shift ripple across the room. Subtle postures changing. Weight redistribution. Eyes narrowing.

Walker’s brows shot up. “Wait a second–new teammate?” His voice had that familiar drawl of annoyance disguised as charm. “I thought you said she was a temp. Just some short-term cleanup, maybe a field fill-in, not–” He motioned vaguely toward you, “–a permanent seat at the table.”

Valentina didn’t even blink.

She turned slightly, one arm draping across her stomach while the other gestured loosely back toward the table like she was entertaining children.

“There was a change of plans,” She said with a sigh, flicking her gaze from Walker back to you with something like calculated amusement. “After that press conference, I figured we could use a little expansion.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t give them anything to work with.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Walker muttered, leaning toward Bucky with a grin, “She was impressive. Six agents down in under thirty seconds? Most people need a gun for that kind of show.”

“She had a gun,” Yelena cut in, tone flat. “She just didn’t use it.”

Bob’s head tilted slightly, his gaze never leaving you.

Valentina ignored them.

“She’s here for real,” She said plainly. “She trains with you. Briefs with you. Deploys with you. That’s not negotiable.”

“Why now?” Bucky finally asked, voice low. Not a challenge. Just a question grounded in something deeper. Experience. Weariness. The kind of tired that came from too many missions and too many trust exercises gone wrong.

Valentina gave him a smile that was far too controlled to be warm.

“Because she was wasted where she was. Buried. Blamed. And whether or not any of you like it, she’s one of the most effective operatives I’ve ever had my eye on. She’s not just here for muscle.”

You could feel the weight of Bob’s gaze settle heavier on you at that.

“She’s here because she’s lethal,” Val continued, “and because despite the mess the media made, she still has something left to give. Something no one’s asked her for in a long time.”

The silence thickened.

It wasn’t distrust exactly–it was something closer to unease. Like they were all trying to figure out where you would fit in a team already stitched together from frayed edges.

“Try not to scare them too badly,” She murmured, just loud enough for the table to hear as she turned away. “Or do. Honestly, I don’t care, as long as you don’t miss your marks.”

With that, she walked off–heels clicking against the polished floor, the door hissing shut behind her like punctuation on a loaded statement.

You were left standing at the head of the table. No backup. No defense.

Just you.

And six people trained to kill you if necessary.

————————

That night, the compound’s kitchen was dim and still when you stepped inside. It was late–late enough that even the most restless of them had retreated to their quarters, leaving the common areas swallowed in silence. The overhead lights had been left off, and the only illumination came from the soft, pale-blue under-lighting beneath the cabinets. It cast long shadows across the countertops and bathed the space in a low, almost surgical glow.

You didn’t hear music. No TV playing in the next room. Just the low, steady hum of the refrigerator and the soft, rhythmic clink of metal tapping against ceramic.

You froze in the doorway.

Bob stood at the stove, back to you, completely unaware of your presence.

His frame was relaxed but slightly hunched, like he hadn’t realized how tired he was until he finally stood still. The hoodie he wore was a heathered navy, too big in the sleeves and worn thin at the seams. The fabric gathered gently around his elbows where the sleeves were shoved up–revealing forearms pale and dusted with light brown hair, scattered freckles, and old, barely visible burn marks, worn away by time.

There was a carton of eggs open beside him. One shell was cracked clean in half on the counter, and the other had just been emptied into a skillet that sizzled faintly on a low flame. A chipped ceramic plate sat off to the side, holding two misshapen pancakes and what looked like the world’s most awkwardly sliced avocado.

He was cooking. Slowly. Methodically. Like it was the only thing in the world keeping him grounded.

You almost backed out of the room.

You weren’t sure why you’d come in the first place. Hunger, maybe. Habit. But now that you saw him, the urge to retreat was strong. You didn’t want to make it worse for him. The formal meeting that afternoon had been…Uncomfortable. Stiff. And being the new person never came easily–but being the people to welcome that new person in was probably worse on a whole different level.

Especially when you came with blood on your name and a body count thick enough to silence a room.

You took a quiet step back, attempting to make a quick escape without being noticed.

That’s when it happened.

A sharp hiss–then a low, muffled grunt of pain.

“Sh–Shit,” Bob gasped, pulling his hand back from the stove.

You were already moving toward him. Instinct.

“Did you get burned?” You asked, your voice breaking the silence as you stepped up beside him.

He nearly jumped out of his skin.

Bob turned quickly, stumbling a step to the side. His wide, ocean-colored eyes locked with yours–startled, shimmering faintly in the glow of the counter light. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the hitched breath in his chest. His right hand was curled loosely in front of him, trembling faintly. He immediately tucked his hand behind him.

”I-I’m fine,” He said quickly, voice breathy with embarrassment. “Just a li-little burn.” You raised your eyebrows at him.

”I’ll be the judge of that.” Your tone was low, careful–but not cold. You held out a hand, palm up, waiting.

He hesitated.

For a second, you saw it–the indecision flickering across his features like static. His shoulders hunched a little tighter, and his eyes flicked between your outstretched fingers and your face, unsure whether to retreat or comply.

Then–reluctantly–he gave in.

Bob brought his hand into view, unfolding his fingers stiffly.

You winced.

The burn had already begun to swell. A searing red patch spread across the heel of his palm and the base of his fingers, the skin taut and angry. It was definitely the kind of burn that would blister pretty badly. The kind that would sting for days every time water touched it. You could already see the faint shine of moisture where it had broken the skin.

“Jesus…All from making eggs, hmm?” You muttered softly, more to yourself than to him. He gave you a sheepish shrug.

”Ev-Evidently I’m not…Great with he-heat.” You stepped a little closer, reaching out without asking this time. Your fingers curled gently around the edges of his palm, careful not to brush the raw skin. His hand was warm–warmer than it should’ve been–and shaking slightly. Whether from the pain or your touch, you couldn’t tell.

And then–

Everything went black.

It wasn’t a fade or a flicker. It was a snap. A complete, suffocating absence of light that dropped like a curtain–fast and unforgiving.

You blinked, startled. For a moment, you honestly thought the lights had gone out–power cut, breaker blown, maybe even a Void surge overhead–but then you realized something far more unsettling:

You didn’t feel Bob’s palm under yours anymore.

His hand was gone.

So was the stove. The counter. The hum of the fridge. The floor.

All of it.

Gone.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you stepped backward into what felt like nothing. Your boots made no sound. There was no air current. No walls. Just thick, absolute darkness.

“Bob?” you called out, your voice cracking.

Nothing.

You turned, spinning once, twice–arms instinctively lifting like you could feel your way through the black. There was no shape, no surface, not even a glimmer of light to orient yourself by. You could’ve been standing still, or falling.

And then–

You heard it.

A sound that made your blood run cold.

Your sobs.

But not the kind you could pass off as frustration or grief behind closed doors.

These were broken.

Gut-wrenching, wild, animalistic.

Ragged wails, full of something you hadn’t let yourself feel in months. Something raw. Terrible.

And with them came the smell–

Blood.

Gunpowder.

Fire.

It hit you all at once, flooding your senses. Copper on your tongue. Smoke in your lungs. The sharp sting of scorched ozone and melted steel. You could feel the heat pressing against your skin, phantom burns crawling up your arms, through your jacket.

You spun again, faster this time.

“No,” You whispered.

But it was too late.

The crashing started. Shouts. Gunfire. Screams that cut off too fast. The wail of twisted metal and the shriek of something overhead collapsing. Your hands curled into fists, trying to drown it out, trying to anchor yourself–but it was everywhere.

You dropped to your knees in the dark, head between your hands.

“What the hell is happening…” You gasped, shaking your head hard.

And that’s when it changed.

The darkness didn’t disappear–but it bent inward, caving in like smoke being sucked into a vacuum–until, with a jolt of sickening clarity, you were no longer alone.

The scene unfurled in front of you like a projection burned directly into your retinas.

The wreckage.

Twisted beams. Fire blooming from the remains of an armored transport. Ash still drifting in the air like snow.

And you–you were there.

On your knees, just like you’d been that night. Cradling one of your teammates against you–his chest unmoving, his body limp against your lap, blood pouring from the wounds he was littered with. His blonde hair had been stained red, and all you could see was the back of his head, as you rocked back and forth. Your gloves were soaked through. Your face was stained with ash, blood and tears. Your whole body trembled with the effort of holding him together even as you knew he was already gone.

The version of you in the memory let out another choked sob.

You could barely breathe. You felt everything. The weight. The failure. The crushing, unbearable truth of it all. It wrapped around your throat, buried itself in your lungs, making your chest ache like it had that night–the same desperate, futile ache that you had as you were trying to will someone back to life with your bare hands.

And then–

You heard it.

A breath.

Sharp. Quiet. Real.

Your eyes snapped toward the sound.

There–just beyond the smoke and blood and wreckage, standing between a collapsed girder and the still-burning wreck of the transport truck–was Bob.

He looked pale. Completely out of place. Like his body had been dropped into a memory it was never meant to occupy. His chest was rising and falling in shallow, stunned bursts, lips parted, hands slack at his sides.

Eyes wide.

Wide with grief.

Wide with recognition.

Like he felt it.

Not just saw it–felt it.

Like your pain had hit him the same way it had once shattered you.

“What the fuck,” You gasped.

The words left your mouth just as the image around you fractured. The wreckage began to peel back, like it was being burned out of frame. Flame and ash collapsed inward, shadows curling away into that same darkness you were in at the beginning of this scenario.

Your body seized–and then suddenly–

You were back in the kitchen, watching it snap into place around you. The stove, the counter, the low hum of the refrigerator, the egg that Bob had been cooking moments before now burning and smoking up.

Your hands were still wrapped around Bob’s, but you yanked them back like you had been burned, your breath coming in sharp and panicked.

Bob’s expression shattered into something horrified.

“I–I’m so sorry,” He said immediately, breath catching. “I didn’t mean to–I swear, I–I didn’t even know that would happen–It hasn’t ha–”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked like a whip.

He froze mid-word.

You took a step back, then another, your hands clenched tight at your sides, jaw locked, eyes burning. You weren’t crying–but it was close.

“I don’t want to hear it,” You snapped, voice breaking despite your best effort.

Bob’s mouth opened like he was about to say something–anything–but he hesitated.

And that hesitation was all you needed.

You turned on your heel and bolted.

Your boots echoed once, twice on the tile–and then you were gone, the kitchen left behind in your wake like smoke after a blast.

————————

Since the kitchen situation you hadn’t spoken to anyone.

You came to training late and left early. You skipped meals unless the common areas were empty. And any time Bob walked into a room, you walked out like the air had been poisoned.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the team to notice.

Which is why the morning meeting quickly derailed.

The table was quiet, but not with focus. Not with strategy. The air wasn’t tense–it was uncertain. Uneasy. Like everyone knew something had broken but didn’t know which piece to pick up first.

Bob sat on the far end of the room, one sleeve pulled down awkwardly over his palm, even though the skin had already begun to heal. His jaw was tight. Eyes red around the edges. He had barely slept.

“Alright,” Walker finally muttered, tossing a pen onto the table with a sharp clatter. “Are we all just gonna pretend this isn’t a thing? Because it’s a thing.”

Alexei lifted a brow. “You mean the fact that she nearly punched a hole in the gym wall yesterday after Bob walked in?”

“Or the fact that she hasn’t spoken to anyone in forty-eight hours and growls when you say her name?” Yelena added. “Yeah. It’s getting hard to miss.”

Bucky just looked at Bob.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t push.

Not yet.

But Bob felt the weight of the stare anyway. And eventually–after a long, brittle pause–he cracked.

“I–I got burned,” He said quietly. The words barely scraped out of him. “She to-touched my hand…And I saw it.”

“Saw what?” Ava asked, voice cool but attentive.

Bob looked up, eyes glassy, like he wasn’t quite here. “Her shame room.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Until–

“Wait a minute.” Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “The Void is back?”

Bob’s brow furrowed. His hand twitched. Then slowly, he rubbed at his temple like a headache had been buried there since that night.

“I do–don’t know…” He mumbled. “I di-didn’t think so. I’ve been feeling fine… No blackouts. No…no voices. Could’ve been fr-from the burn. Or…Maybe it was her. I don’t know…”

Bucky cleared his throat. Not loud. Not sharp. Just enough to cut through the fog.

“How bad was it?”

Bob’s mouth opened—but no words came. His throat worked. His eyes dropped to the table.

Then he shook his head slowly, jaw tightening.

“I–I’m not talking about it,” He said, voice low but firm. “It’s no-not my place to say.”

Ava exhaled through her nose and leaned back in her chair. “Well… Does she at least understand you didn’t mean to do it?” Her tone wasn’t cruel–it was pragmatic. “Did you try to talk to her about it?” Bob’s shoulders stiffened.

“I tr-tried,” He whispered. “But she ran off.”

There was a beat of silence.

Alexei leaned forward, voice surprisingly soft. “Maybe talk to her again. Poor girl…She doesn’t understand, you cannot control it.” Bob’s jaw clenched again. His fingers tapped once against the sleeve still pulled over his palm, a twitchy, unfocused rhythm.

Then, finally, he exhaled–sharp, bitter.

“Wh–what am I supposed to say?” He muttered. “Hey, I–I’ve got this shadow that li–lives inside me and he ca–can see into your worst memories, ho–hope you can forgive me?” His voice cracked on the last word, brittle and acidic like he was choking on the truth of it.

Walker tilted his head, almost like he thought that what Bob had just said would suffice.

“I mean…” He said slowly, “Something like that should do.”

Bob blinked.

Walker shrugged one shoulder, and added, “Maybe don’t be so self-deprecating about it. You make it sound like you’re handing her a bomb with a ‘sorry’ sticker on it.”

Yelena snorted. “It kind of is a bomb.”

“Sure, but you don’t have to say it like that,” Walker replied, gesturing toward Bob with the edge of his coffee mug. “Just explain what it was. Tell her it wasn’t intentional. And that you’re not judging her for what you saw.”

Bob’s gaze dropped again.

”An-And what if she doesn’t allow me to ta-talk?”

“Then you give her some time alone and try again.” Bucky replied simply, “Sometimes patience is key. You probably reopened a pretty bad wound, and she is spiraling with it right now…I can’t blame her for being distant.” Bob nodded slowly, rubbing the side of his neck. His voice came out smaller this time, threaded with genuine hesitation.

“Sh–Should I bring her food or so–something?” He asked. “Like a peace offering?”

Ava’s brows lifted in surprise.

Then–unexpectedly–she let out a quiet laugh. Just one, short and soft, like it slipped through the cracks before she could stop it.

“Only you would suggest something like that,” She said, shaking her head faintly. “Jesus.”

Bob flushed a little, ducking his chin, but Ava wasn’t done.

“But…” She added, dragging the word out. “Maybe a snack might help. I don’t know. Do what you think is right. I’m sure she won’t, you know…stab you for bringing toast.”

Walker raised his cup. “Bring borscht and she might.”

Alexei looked mildly offended. “You insult culture with every word, you know this?”

Bob let out a small sigh, and stood slowly, uncertain, but clearly determined to act before the courage ebbed again. He took a shaky step back, then paused with one last glance toward the table.

”Wish m-me luck I guess…”

————————

Bob stood in front of your bedroom door, gripping a paper bag so stuffed with snacks it looked like it might split open at the bottom.

He had gone to the corner store like a man on a mission–one with absolutely no sense of proportion or restraint either. He filled his basket up with Chocolate-covered almonds. Trail mix. Sour candy. Gummy bears. Granola bars. Kettle chips. Seaweed snacks. Fruit roll-ups. Three different brands of chips, in three different flavours–sour cream, barbecue, and original. And a tin of Danish butter cookies he was pretty sure no one actually liked but everyone ate anyway.

He’d spent way too much.

And now he wasn’t sure if he was more terrified of the silence behind your door—or what he’d say if you actually opened it.

He shifted the weight of the bag awkwardly in his arms and knocked—three soft taps that still sounded too loud in the quiet corridor.

Seconds passed.

His heart stuttered.

Then–

The door cracked open.

Just a few inches.

You appeared behind it, eyes sharp and guarded, posture drawn tight with hesitation–but not closed off. Just…Braced. Like you’d expected someone else. Definitely not him. Definitely not with that bag in his arms. Almost instantly he felt the need to explain himself.

“I–I didn’t know what yo-you liked so…” He gave a small, sheepish shrug and glanced down at the groceries in his hands.

Your eyes dropped to the bag–bulging with plastic and bright colors and crinkled wrappers–then back up to him. Your eyebrows raised, dry and unimpressed.

“So you bought the whole snack aisle?”

Bob flushed instantly. “I–uh–I didn’t mean to, I just–thought maybe–”

You stepped aside.

He froze.

“You can come in,” You said quietly.

His eyes flicked past your shoulder. The lights were dim. Your bed wasn’t made. A blanket lay half-crumpled on the chair by the desk, and a half-finished cup of tea sat forgotten on the windowsill. It didn’t look messy. Just…Untouched. Like a space being lived in without being inhabited.

“Yo-you sure?” he asked, voice soft. You hesitated, gaze flicking to his hands–the burn barely visible now, pink and healing–and something in your jaw tensed. But you nodded once.

“Yeah,” You said, stepping further back. “Just come in.”

Bob hesitated for only a second longer, then crossed the threshold like it might collapse behind him. You shut the door quietly behind him, the soft click of the latch sounding louder than it should’ve. With a flick of your fingers, you turned the dimmer switch up on the wall, coaxing the overhead light into a warm, amber glow. Not bright. Just enough to chase out the shadows pooling at the edges of the room.

His eyes moved instinctively with the shift, adjusting quickly–but not before they caught on the open boxes that littered one side of your space.

You didn’t explain them. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you walked over to the closest box–half-unpacked, the flaps still tucked neatly back like you’d only just opened it–and reached in. Your fingers brushed against paper, cloth, metal. You pulled out a picture frame, holding it loosely at your side before letting your arms curl around it, pressing the glass to your sternum like armor.

Bob gently set the bag of snacks down on the floor beside him with a quiet rustle of crinkling wrappers. He didn’t touch the chair or the bed. Just lowered himself to sit on the floor near the edge of your rug, knees bent, legs crossed in front of him. It looked like a peace offering in motion–quiet and unobtrusive. Like he wanted to be on your level. To make himself small.

You didn’t look at him when you spoke.

“I’m sorry for overreacting,” You said, voice low but even. “When you…Did whatever you did. I should’ve given you a second to ex–”

“I-I should be the one apologizing,” Bob cut in gently. His tone wasn’t sharp, but it was immediate. He leaned forward a little, elbows resting loosely on his knees. “I di–didn’t really know it would ha-happen. I haven’t gotten one of those episodes in a wh-while…” You stared at Bob for a long moment, the frame still pressed against your sternum like it might hold you together.

“…Is it like…A superpower or something?” You asked finally, your voice quieter now. Not accusatory. Just searching. Like you weren’t sure what to do with the weight of what had happened, so you were trying to make sense of it with the only framework you had left–logic. Or maybe sarcasm.

Bob flushed a little and dropped his gaze, the red climbing faintly up the sides of his neck. He reached into the bag beside him, rifling through candy and chips and unopened trail mix, his hands moving just to have something to do.

“I wo–wouldn’t really consider go–going into someone’s worst me–memories a superpower…” He said softly, almost like the words stung as they left his mouth.

You exhaled slowly, a dry sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. You finally pulled the picture frame away from your chest, letting the glass catch the room’s amber light. Your thumb brushed against the edge of the photo, tracing the outline of someone’s shoulder–his shoulder.

“Well…” You muttered, your voice a little unsteady, a little sardonic, “It definitely brought back one of the worst days of my life… So at least it’s doing what it needs to, I guess?”

You tried to smile, just a little, as you said it.

Tried to make the bitterness taste like a joke.

But it didn’t hit. Not really.

Not with Bob.

His hands stilled in the snack bag, and he didn’t say anything.

You turned away, walking to the wall slowly–quietly–and placed the picture frame on the ledge beside a half-unpacked box of books. You took a step back, adjusting it slightly so it stood straight, then let your arms fall loosely at your sides.

Bob’s eyes caught on the photo instantly.

And stayed there.

It was you.

You, younger. Cleaner. Lighter somehow.

Your arm was wrapped around the waist of the same blonde man you had cradled in that memory–his grin caught mid-laugh, his fingers brushing your shoulder like he’d been pulling you closer. Behind you, two others–a red headed woman, and a man with a buzzcut–were flashing peace signs, faces smudged with dust and adrenaline but alive with the kind of chaotic joy that only came at the end of something brutal. A finished op. A hard win.

You were all in full tactical gear–helmets off, hair windblown, vests half-unbuckled. The four of you stood in front of what looked like an armored convoy vehicle, the kind built to withstand a small war. It was dented. Smoked. You must have won that day.

You looked radiant.

Exhausted. Sweaty. But bright.

Untouched by what came next.

Bob swallowed hard. He didn’t ask who they were.

He didn’t need to, because his assumptions were already answering all the questions he had.

The weight of the moment pressed between you both, a silence thick with memory and absence. You stood there in front of the shelf, shoulders drawn in faintly, arms loose but tense at your sides. You didn’t need to turn around to know he was still looking at the photo. You could feel it in the way the air shifted, the way the silence felt heavier behind you–like grief had pressed itself into the room’s seams and refused to move.

So, you cleared your throat–just once–and said, low and flat:

“His name was Tommy.”

A pause.

You didn’t move. Just kept your eyes on the frame.

“He was my mission partner. Practically my older brother.” You exhaled through your nose. “Always had my back. Always made me laugh, even in hellzones. Always knew what to say when I couldn’t… when I was slipping.”

Your throat tightened.

You pressed your tongue to the roof of your mouth, trying to hold the rest down, but it came anyway. Quiet. Croaked.

“I let my guard down on a mission. We were in a hot zone, doing recon sweep. I was supposed to be covering him.” Your voice cracked faintly. “Didn’t see the sniper eyeing us. I-I was distracted. One fucking second.”

You turned a little then, just enough to gesture toward the redhead in the photo—your finger hovering midair before curling faintly inward like you couldn’t bear to point directly.

“Same shooter got Dawn. I didn’t even know until the debrief. She bled out behind a wrecked ATV while I was trying to drag Tommy back.” A bitter laugh puffed out of you. “Didn’t even know she was down. I was too busy trying to bring someone already gone back from the edge.”

Behind you, Bob’s hand stilled over his knee. His breath caught, faint but audible, and when he spoke, it was hesitant. Fragile.

“I-Is…Is th-that why you…Killed those agents? At the p-press conference?”

The words were careful. Not an accusation. Just a thread, tugged gently.

You swallowed.

Hard.

Then you let out a long breath, the kind that cracked on the way out.

“There’s more to that story than just me ruthlessly killing them,” You muttered. “They were dirty. The footage didn’t show what happened before I pulled the trigger. It didn’t show Tommy’s name on their classified documents. It didn’t show the microdrive Dawn smuggled out before she died. It didn’t show them laughing when I brought it up in private. How proud they were. How little they cared.”

You sniffled once–sharp, involuntary–and swiped at the corners of your eyes before the tears had the chance to fall.

“A video may be worth a million words,” you added, voice hoarse, “but nobody knows why I did it. They just saw blood.”

Bob rose slowly.

Not abruptly. Not like he’d made a decision–more like his body had needed to move toward you. His legs unfolded with care, quiet and fluid, and his footsteps were near silent as he crossed the small space between you. You didn’t look up. Didn’t turn. Just kept staring ahead, chest rising and falling in tight, shallow beats as you tried to keep the ache at bay.

He stopped just behind you.

For a second, he said nothing.

Then–softly, almost too quiet to catch:

“I-I’m sorry…”

You didn’t move.

He hesitated.

Then, barely above a whisper:

“F-For your loss.”

The breath you exhaled trembled through your chest. You nodded faintly, wiping again at your eyes, voice thick as you murmured:

“It’s…It’s fine.”

It wasn’t.

But there were no words left to say that wouldn’t unravel you.

And that’s when Bob stepped closer.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t warn.

He just moved, gently, like he was trying not to scare you away–and wrapped his arms around you from behind. His touch was careful, and timid. One arm curled around your middle, the other across your chest, drawing you back softly into him. He rested his chin on your shoulder–not heavy, just there. Warm. Real. Anchoring.

Your breath hitched again, but you didn’t pull away.

You let yourself lean into him, just a little. Just enough to feel the shape of another body around yours.

And then, softly:

“I-I kn-know it must be hard…To be on a new te-team again.”

His voice cracked near the end, the consonants snagging like barbed wire. His grip around you tightened slightly.

“I can’t imagine ho-how it makes you feel…” You let out a shaky breath, one that caught hard in your chest and shuddered on the way out. Your eyes squeezed shut, lashes damp as the tears you’d been fighting finally broke loose, slipping down your cheeks one after another in silence.

You didn’t sob. Didn’t wail.

Just stood there, still and small in the center of your own room, wrapped in someone else’s arms, crying like it had been held in too long to come out any other way.

And Bob held you tighter.

Not crushing. Not desperate. Just steady. Like he knew what it meant to feel like a fault line–cracked in too many places, hoping someone might hold the pieces still for a little while.

His chin pressed gently into your shoulder, and his voice–low and careful–broke through the quiet.

“Bu-But…” He started, the word catching a little in the middle, “Hopefully… we can make it ea-easier for you.”

You didn’t speak.

You just kept breathing–tight and trembling and uneven.

Bob’s thumb moved slowly against your side, tracing a small arc just under the fabric of your sleeve. Not in a way that expected anything. Just a grounding touch, something to keep you tethered.

“The en-entire team’s lost someone,” He continued, his voice almost a whisper now. “B-Bucky doesn’t talk about it, but you can see it in the way he watches every back but his own, and lo-looks like he’s expecting his friend to walk through the door. Yelena pretends she doesn’t care, b-but she hasn’t taken her sister’s name off her emergency contact. And Ava…she still wears her p-partner’s patch inside her boot. Walker doesn’t admit it, but he looks for someone who isn’t there every time he runs drills. Alexei…just drinks more when it gets bad.”

He paused.

And you could feel it–not just in the way his breath hit your skin, but in the way the room seemed to settle into what he said.

“Th-They’ll understand you.”

You opened your eyes slowly. Let them rest on the photo again, blurred now by the tears clinging to your lashes. You sniffled softly, then wiped your cheek with the back of your hand, exhaling like it hurt to do it.

Bob didn’t let go.

He just kept holding you, warm and steady and real behind you, like he didn’t care how long it took.

And in a voice so soft it barely escaped your throat, you whispered:

“I don’t know how to be a part of something again.”

Bob’s arms tightened.

Not in fear.

But in certainty.

“I kn-know,” He whispered, almost broken with how sure he was. “But you do-don’t have to know how. Just…Let us try.”

You nodded against him–barely–but it was enough.

And in that quiet little room with unpacked boxes and unopened snacks, held in arms that trembled just a little less than your own, you didn’t feel entirely alone. Not for the first time in a long while.

[ponyboysgf]

🚬 ₊  ponyboy dating headcannons ✦ °. •

୨୧⋆. sfw + nsfw (NOT PROOFREAD)

⋆·˚ ༘ * — warnings : p in v, unprotected sex, eating out, anddd i think thats it

⋆·˚ ༘ * — word count : 4.4k

i do NOT consent for my work to be translated, stolen, used for ai, or used anywhere else except my page!!!

₊˚⊹♡

• all of your sleepovers/hangouts would have to be at your house, darry would NEVER let you two in the same room together alone (poor pony💔)

• every time you and Ponyboy hold hands, he gets all giddy and does everything possible not to let go. Needs to eat? He can use his left hand. Need to hold something with two hands? One is fine.

• Cuddling depends on before or after book. Before book Pony would definitely just slug an arm around your waist, his head buried in your shoulder. After book Pony would CLING onto you. He’s already lost two of his best friends, he doesn’t want to lose you either. Also 100% gets afraid when he can’t hear your breathing.

- Ponyboy was just laying his head on your chest until your breathing pattern faltered for a second, He immediately lifted his head up and cupped your face in his hands and starred at your face. “Wha—What the fuck, Pone.” You said, awakening from your slumber from the cold palms pressed against your face. He breathed a sigh of relief and laid his head back on your chest and fell back asleep, leaving you with hundreds of questions.

• He would LOVE to read for you. Your head on his chest, his fingers running through your hair while he read his new favorite book to you.

• If you asked him to leave his hair ungreased he would definitely put up a fight but if you persisted enough, he would let you play with his hair for a little bit after a shower while its soft and has those slight curls, but almost immediately after he let you play with it he would slap grease on it again. (God forbid Pony has no grease in his hair for more than 4 minutes 💔) Don’t get me wrong, he loves when you play with his hair, he just doesn’t like not having grease in his hair.

• DEFINITELY calls you Darling without a doubt. He also has a box in his room full of poems about you that he’s too nervous to give to you. (Which you already know about because Sodapop told you when Ponyboy went to go use the bathroom.)

₊˚⊹♡

• since Darry is very overprotective, you guys would have to have sex at your house or somewhere else private. Of course, Pony would have to lie to Darry about where he was going, Darry would strangle him before letting him go to a girls house alone with a pack of condoms in his pocket.

• he doesn’t perfer to use condoms because they make him feel weird but he would 100% use them if you didn’t feel comfortable with him doing the pull out method. He completely understands and won’t complain.

• the first time you are doing it, he would be so nervousss💔, poor baby doesnt want to hurt you. Best believe he will ask “Is it too much?” after every time you make a noise.

— You bit your lip as Ponyboy gently pushed himself in, stopping halfway.

“Is it— Is it too much? I dont wan’t to hurt-“

“No no, keep going.” You cut him off. The pleasure was too good just for him to stop. He pushed in further until he was fully inside you, giving you time to adjust to him. He slowly began thrusting, gradually gaining speed, his arms caging around your head as he laid between your legs, thrusting into you. He kept gaining speed until you started whimpering, he quickly slowed down. Lifting his head from your neck.

“I’m sorry, I-“

“Don’t stop.” You interrupted once again, biting your lip as he immediately gained his speed again. His face buried in your neck, leaving hickeys down your collar bone. It all felt so good, his lips against your neck, his cock hitting your cervix perfectly. You felt his cock twitch inside of you and he sped up, making sure you would cum before him. You felt yourself getting closer and closer to the edge.

“Pony i’m gonna-“ You moaned, not being able to finish your sentence before you released all over Pony’s cock. He quickly pulled out and stroked himself a few times before releasing on your stomach. He collapsed onto you, his face buried in your neck, breathing heavily as sweat dripped down his forehead.

• After getting comfortable, he LOVES to fuck missionary so he can stare at your pretty face as you take him in.

• He would most likely be a switch, dom mostly but would DEFINITELY WOULD BEG FOR YOU TO LET HIM CUM.

• 100% Vanilla, he doesn’t want to try anything that would hurt you. He would die before he let himself hurt you so choking is off the table!!!!!

• Loves eating you out, man breathes and lives for it. His arms wrapped around your thighs, his face buried in your pussy as he ate you out. AGHHHH

.ೃ࿐ okayy thats itt, IM SO SOFFY IF THIS IS BAD ITS MY FIRST TIME WRITING SMUT😞

[oceantornadoo]

welcome home (johnny mactavish x f!reader x the lucky third simon riley)

slightly dub con (only kissing tho)

—

“hi bonnie.”

johnny crushed you in a bear hug, wrapped up in the feeling of your body against his. he’d been gone for three long, torturous weeks, full of spotty phone calls and one or two dirty texts.

his hands groped you up and down, cheek nuzzling your neck with new stubble. you closed your eyes at the feeling of your man finally home in your arms. when you opened them, you were staring into the bottomless pits that were simon riley’s eyes, all hulking silence behind johnny.

“simon i-“ johnny shut you up with a sloppy kiss, grabbing your jaw with his right hand as he groped your ass with his left. you closed your eyes and moaned on instinct, forgetting about your ghostly audience right in front of you. you could feel johnny’s erection poking through his cargo pants, three weeks of frustration at the loss of your wet cunt clenching around his cock. “missed ya, lassie.” he murmured in your ear, hand traveling from your jaw to your tits, squeezing hard at your pointed nipples. “don’t be rude, johnny, your friend is watching.” he gave you a low chuckle as your hands ran through his mohawk. “‘es enjoyin’ the show. tha’ righ’ l.t.?”

johnny turned and smirked knowingly at his lieutenant. “go’on.” he nudged you. “‘e gets a welcome home too.” you’d been friends with simon for years ever since you and johnny had started dating, but for some reason the energy felt different today. you approached simon with doe eyes, suddenly nervous around a man who’d seen you throw up after too many shots. “hi, si.” you reached up on your tippy toes, giving him your customary cheek kiss. he grabbed your jaw with the same ferocity as johnny, turning you to look at his eyes. “no kiss?” you nervously turned back to johnny, who looked up from unlacing his boots. “‘es practically me, lass, jus’ more lonely. go’on now.”

you lifted simon’s mask with shaking hands. you’d seen his face hundreds of times, but it always made your breath catch when you saw his rugged scars. he heard it too, lips stretching over bone into a smirk. he brought you in for a kiss, a real one, opening your lips by sheer force. you moaned as his lips slotted with yours, the unfamiliar texture turning you on. his hands traveled to your ass and hiked you up against him, your legs scrambling for purchase around his thick torso. he was bigger than johnny, more tree trunk than man. he reached with one hand in between you two to adjust you against him, his paw cupping your pussy and ass as he pulled you against him. it was completely inappropriate, so many lines being crossed as his hand stayed there, thumb pressing against your clothed clit, applying pressure. your core clenched around nothing, the unfamiliar feeling of wanting a man who wasn’t johnny rolling around in your head. then, quick as lightning, he put you down, separating your lips with ease. “thanks, dove.” he grunted as he passed around you, giving your ass a small smack as he toed off his boots and made his way to your kitchen.

you turned around bewildered, hand covering your lips as if you couldn’t believe what had just happened. johnny was watching from the hallway, that smug look ever present on his face. you caught his eye and the bastard winked, not helping the confusion and guilt roiling around in your gut. you were in for a very long welcome home party.

[thecheshireprincess]

Loyal

Suguru Niragi x F!Reader

Part of the One Look Collection ✨️

Summary: Niragi doesn't like when other people make you laugh

Content Warning: NSFW (18+); porn with very little plot, smutty smut, just smut fr, jealous/enraged Niragi, Niragi's hands, choking, thigh riding, filthy talk, sex in a public space (what's new?), Daddy kink, curse words

A/N: Uh.

Yeah.

Your head falls back against the plush cushioning of the daybed you're lounging on, an airy laugh falling from your glossed lips. Hatter had approached you and Kuina just moments ago, casually leaning against the patio table to your right and offering the latest juicy Beach gossip. You'd been especially tickled to hear about Last Boss's apparent secret admirer; it was hilarious and confusing to imagine someone actually trying to hold a conversation with him, let alone flirt with the silent and unique man.

Around you, the citizens of The Beach have once again lost themselves in poison-filled glasses disguised as fruity libations, bumping and grinding to the beat of the music as heavy bass rattles their bones. The sun is high in the bright blue sky, not a single cloud in sight to interrupt its shine. That is until an irate Niragi storms out, his violent mood swirling around the pool deck like the most destructive hurricane. The raw power that your boyfriend still holds over the Beach is palpable. Though your relationship had changed him for the better, making him softer and less violent; you still couldn't strip the people of their memories of the old Niragi. When his temper flared on days like this, there was always a visceral reaction. This time, the people around you are distracted from their belligerent escapades to gawk at the way he pulls you up by your wrists and drags you away without a word of explanation.

Your head snaps quickly back in Kuina's direction, exchanging a puzzled look with her as Hatter pays no mind, already chattering away with another group resting at the edge of the glittering pool. "What the fuck?" you demand of Niragi, attempting in vain to yank your wrists from his grasp. His slender fingers only constrict more tightly, likely to leave his mark tattooed on your skin for days to come. He walks you smoothly into the building of the hotel, the freezing cold air hitting your sunkissed skin like hundreds of knives. The man, grumbling under his breath in fury, doesn't stop moving until he's shoved you into the empty elevator; the former occupants smartly scattering quickly from the scene. The pressure on your wrists is temporarily relieved as he punches the door close button, directing the elevator to the correct floor; though you were certain you wouldn't be making it to your destination right away based on what you were seeing.

The elevator doors glide together slowly, closing you off from the rest of The Beach, as if aware you'd be in for it as soon as they were fully closed. In one swift motion, Niragi has his fingers wrapped around the column of your throat, driving your bare back into the burning cold steel of the elevator wall and lifting your feet slightly off the ground. Full control. You can only whimper in arousal as the man hits the emergency stop button, upward movement halting and leaving you locked alone in the tiny metal prison with your infuriated boyfriend.

"Don't you know who you belong to, angel?" He finally demands, speaking for the first time since interrupting your pool day. His face is centimeters from your own, hot breath ghosting across your face as he pants in rage. Hot. His hand remains locked around your throat, thumb squeezing into your pulse point; his wild eyes looking down on you and waiting impatiently for an answer. You whine again, the air being crushed from your lungs in the most glorious way.

"Cat got your tongue, baby? Answer me," he growls, thrusting his knee between your thighs to relieve some pressure on your throat. Him doing so admittedly amplifies pressure elsewhere in your body, but you aren't going to complain. Not about this. You groan lewdly, the carnal sound bouncing between the four walls and making Niragi grin wickedly. "Oh, you like that, angel? Grind your pussy on my leg baby, soak my jeans. Take the pleasure you need from me."

The filthy words falling out of his mouth flow through your veins like molten lava and you obey. Your bikini bottom is soaked through already just from having NIragi's hand at your throat, his thigh pressing into your clothed clit in a way that has you seeing stars without creating additional friction. Your arms instinctively drape across your boyfriend's shoulders, though as always, he's doing all the work to hold you up against the wall.

"Come on, baby," he murmurs wickedly, his free hand coming to rest at your hip to guide you encouragingly, "Feels good, doesn't it?" You should be more ashamed, more aware that this is supposed to be a punishment for something you'd done that Niragi didn't like. But as you rock your hips back and forth against him, your clit catching against his rippling muscles just right, you don't think you'll ever feel shame again. The hot friction you create in riding your boyfriend's thigh makes both of you whine, Niragi's pupils blown wide as he watches you take pleasure from his body.

It isn't long before the sticky slick of your arousal is shining on his dark jeans, your breaths coming heavier as the familiar knot in your belly coils tighter and tighter. "Wanna cum, baby? Do it yourself. I don't think you deserve my help," he snarls, removing his hand from your hip and forcing his long fingers into your mouth instead. You lubricate each digit diligently, licking and sucking on them in time with the grind of your hips against him. Sweat beads at your forehead, a combination of how hard you were working yourself against Niragi and the stifling hot air of the elevator.

"Niragi," you plead with your boyfriend, your cunt a tight, sticky mess already but needing more. He clicks his tongue in mocking, saliva soaked fingers wrapping tight around your jaw to bring your face closer to his. "What is it, baby? Poor thing can't even make herself cum without my help, hm?" You let out a whine of desperation, trying in vain to capture his lips with yours, to increase the pressure against your windpipe, anything to send you over the edge.

"Daddy! Please!" you wail uninhibited, knowing that if anything would get you what you wanted from NIragi, it would be that particular phrase. A feral growl rumbles low in his chest, the man responding in an instant - his hand squeezing against your throat and lips crashing onto yours, the wrathful kiss a mess of teeth and tongue. With a calculated shift of his thigh muscle against your puffy clit, your orgasm wracks through your body violently with a wail of his name; arousal gushing over your boyfriend as you're sure you reach the moon. Niragi rocks his thigh against you through your high, your entire body shaking in overstimulation. Slowly the pressure on your neck is released, and you fall bonelessly against him to catch your breath.

Niragi supports your body for only a moment, taking time to adore how wrecked you look for him; pretty bikini soaked through, mascara running down your perfect cheeks, hair a gorgeously tangled mess. If he didn't have a lesson to teach you this afternoon, he was sure he'd be on his knees for you right this second. Determined though to remind you who you belong to, the man removes his leg from between your thighs, letting you fall to your unstable feet. You're quick to brace yourself against the cool wall, entire body still shaking from the magnitude of the orgasm you'd just experienced.

Niragi's pupils take over his eyes, now a deep abyss that you'd love to drown in as he admires the wet patch of arousal you've marked his dark jeans with. Marked your territory with. Your jelly-like legs sway underneath you as if you were just learning to stand on your own; Niragi finally pressing the button to make the elevator move again. The sudden jerk of the metal box sends you careening into your boyfriend, who takes the opportunity to capture you once again in his arms, tossing you easily over his shoulder. A squeal of surprise escapes you as you're turned upside down, the man's large palm colliding harshly with your barely clothed ass.

"Did you think we were done, angel? I haven't even gotten started with you yet," he teases, carrying you through the hallway on display over his shoulder, much in the way that he would usually proudly tote his rifle around. A sick part of you hopes to run into someone so they can see what a mess you are for your boyfriend, the man in question having the same exact thought.

You're both slightly disappointed as you make it back to your shared room without crossing paths with anyone in the hallway; though you assume the entire Beach had heard by now that Niragi was in a mood today and were doing everything in their power to avoid him. The world spins under you disorientingly as your boyfriend flops your body down across the bed, his palm splaying flat against your bare belly to hold you down under him.

He leans menacingly over you, gaze still fully black as he studies your already wrecked form. "Do you know what you did today, princess?" he questions, his free hand tracing the lacy edges of your floral blue bikini top. You shake your head underneath him, not trusting your voice to answer without cracking. His pierced eyebrow quirks up, disbelieving. He lets out a dangerous chuckle, pressing his thumb against your plush bottom lip and dragging it down before standing and towering over you.

The man removes his leather belt from his pants, eyes flicking to your face with a smirk. Your breath hitches seeing the black piece of leather, the article often being a great source of pleasure pain for you in the bedroom. You're disappointed as he lays it gently on the bed beside you, fingers deftly unbuttoning his pants to allow his red, leaky cock to spring out. "Come here, pretty baby. I'm going to fuck that pretty mouth of yours until you learn your lesson." He gathers your hair into a makeshift ponytail, sending molten heat burning into your core once again. Your boyfriend's fingers were your favorite hairtie after all.

Niragi guides you by your hair to the floor at his feet, your knees scraping against the carpet harshly. You forget the burn in your flesh entirely as you come face to face with his pretty cock, immediately dragging your wet tongue up the underside of his shaft desperate to taste him. Niragi graciously allows you to have your fun, your hand smearing his pre-cum liberally from the senstive tip down to the base, twisting and jerking your hand over the skin in the way you know that he loves the most. You swirl your warm tongue over his reddened tip, sucking just a bit of him into your mouth as you continue teasing him; shining eyes never once leaving his.

Niragi growls after a few moments of your game, grabbing tightly onto your hair and driving his cock through your swollen lips to hit the back of your throat. The sudden intrusion makes you sputter and gag, but you relax your throat for him as he thrusts into you; fucking your face as he'd promised. He finds a liberal pace that makes you moan around him, the vibration sending the man to cloud nine as his thrusts become sloppy and desperate. Your sharp nails find purchase against his thighs, digging crescent markings into his skin as you balance against him.

"Fuck angel, so good for Daddy," he whimpers, muscles tensing up as he takes pleasure from you just as you had earlier from him. The wet heat of your mouth surrounding his member combined with the provocative look you're giving him through tear soaked lashes send him quickly over the edge, ropes of hot cum shooting into the back of your throat with an untamed growl. With an erotic moan of your own, you swallow every drop of his seed and lick your lips for dramatic effect.

Still catching his breath, your boyfriend pulls you up to him to crash his lips to yours, whining as he tastes himself on you. His hand grips your jaw again, lifting your face to look him in the eye, "Do you remember what you did now, princess?" Your eyes sparkle mischievously, eyeing the leather belt still against the bed. You shake your head, "No Daddy. I didn't do anything wrong."

His eyes widen slightly in mock surprise, an erotic smirk dancing on his lips. "Looks like Daddy needs to teach his brat a lesson in loyalty then." Niragi scoops you up, laying your tingling body down on the bed underneath him. His nimble fingers expertly maneuver the belt around each of your wrists, tying them up above your head in the position that leaves you most vulnerable to him. The leather cuts beautifully into your skin, the bite making you whimper in pleasure and writhe against the fluffy comforter to find the friction you're seeking. Your boyfriend wastes no time stripping his clothes off before yanking your flimsy bikini top out of the way to aggressively drag his teeth against each hardened nipple. While his mouth is occupied, his fingers loop into the soaked bottoms of your bikini, pulling them from your body and running two digits up through your drenched folds with a hum of acknowledgement for how soaked you were. Your full body jolts as his thumb circles your swollen clit a couple of times before he removes his hand completely. Niragi's other hand clamps over your mouth before you can complain about the loss of his touch, effectively shutting you up as he continues.

His hand rubs down his hardened shaft, spreading your sticky arousal over it as he shifts to position himself between your thighs. "Tell me this is the only cock you want to have stretching this tight pussy," he demands, a tiny bit of actual insecurity bleeding through his facade. You whine as his tip presses firmly against your entrance in waiting, "Please baby, it's only you. It's always been only you, Niragi. Please please please fuck me," you mewl in desperation to be filled by him. He growls, sheathing himself inside you with one swift motion; luring a wail from deep inside you, finally having NIragi back at home inside your channel. How he could ever think you wanted someone else, you'd never know. You would, however, tell him as many times as he needed to hear it that you were loyal to him only.

Niragi sets a punishing pace, hips snapping into yours with fervor, his pelvis grazing against your clit with each thrust. One hand grips tightly at your hips, the other pressing against the leather belt binding your wrists together. His lips and teeth find the sweet spot on your neck, sucking his mark into your salty, sweat-soaked skin. You won't last long with him impaling you like this, the ridges of his cock imprinting themselves deliciously against your walls. The squelching sound of your arousal and the strong scent of sex fill the room and make your mind drift away in a haze. With the way that Niragi's thrusts have become erratic, you know he's getting close too. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, begging the man to fill you with his hot seed, the only right answer for it to be.

"Cum for me, baby. Soak my cock," he pleads breathlessly, his own orgasm definitely impending. With one more stroke and the power of his dirty words of encouragement, your orgasm crashes over you in a wave of heat and pleasure as your back arches off the bed impossibly. Your tight pussy squeezes Niragi so hard it nearly hurts, but the gush of cum you reward him with is so worth it. He reaches his own high just a moment later, emptying his balls into your womb and only adding to the mess that you've made of yourself. Niragi is quick to remove his belt from your wrists, doing so before even pulling his cock out of your cunt, rubbing gently over the reddened welts the leather had left against your delicate skin.

As you come down from your high feeling relaxed and tired from an afternoon of steamy activities, you recognize a flicker of insecurity remaining in your boyfriend's eyes. Your hands, now free of their bind, grip onto his cheeks and pull him down to you once more. "Niragi, I really don't know what this was about, but I love you. I am loyal to you now and forever. I'll remind you every day if I have to," you whisper, hoping with everything in you that he is really hearing and understanding your words.

He smiles - a genuine smile - before pressing a tender kiss filled with his own love for you into your lips. Before things can escalate again, he pulls away and looks away toward the window. "Why was Hatter making you laugh earlier?" So this was about Hatter talking to you.

A laugh bubbles up in your chest and escapes, echoing around your shared room; the kind of laugh you usually reserve just for him. "Baby! He was just telling us about Last Boss's secret admirer!" Niragi's eyes widen slightly initially, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as the information sinks in. Like you said, it was humorous and confusing to think about.

"What?!"

♤ ♡ ◇ ♧

Masterlist

Everything Tag List: @potato-vagina @28361573 @maxinehufflepuffprincess @mocchii-writes @monkey4lifer @trinibadgyal @izzybizzyk

Niragi Tag List: @niragisugur1

Please don't hesitate to let me know if you want to be added to (or removed from) any of my tag lists! You can specify if there's a character you like or if you want to see everything. Also, my asks and messages are open, PLEASE reach out, I would literally die to interact with you; ily guys endlessly 💕✨️

[wonlovie]

— RACING, BEATING.

You didn’t mean to show up to one of the most important meetings of your year completely hungover. No, in reality you would have preferred being sober when you met the man your father was marrying you off to. But how could you resist those dark eyes and plump lips that tempted you on your final night of freedom?

— starring. illegal-racer!heeseung x model!reader

— tags. arranged marriage!au but they kind of not really hate each other for like one scene, reader is touch starved af, smut [mild public sex (car, elevator), vaginal fingering, oral (m. receiving), face-fucking, establishment of a safeword but it's never used, degrading (use of whore and stupid bitch) [MINORS DNI]]

— word count. 11.9k

— notes. there was a whole other part to this but i kept rewriting it until i could not anymore 💀 if i do finally get it written the way i want to, i might release it as a part two to this 👀👀 lmk if u'd be interested!!

You were used to playing pretend. As the daughter of an influential CEO, you were born in the spotlight, never knowing what living without a camera pointed at you was like. By seven years old, you were a master at faking a smile. A gentle smile, never too broad because people would call you an overachiever but never too little, or you’d be caught up in unhappy scandals. 

By fifteen years old, your father had announced your title as the face of his company and your ‘normal’ life as you knew it was gone forever. You no longer had time for actual studies nor for the fruitless relationships you had gathered. Instead, you spent your hours practicing your runway walk and your model face. Almost every wall in your lofty house was lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, never allowing you for a second to forget how you looked to others.

Your father was never one to miss out on making money, priding himself on his cynical and opportunistic ways of life. If something could be monetized, he was always the first one to come up with a foolproof plan to capitalize on it. Which is why you weren’t surprised when he announced to you that you were to be married off to the heir of a big company whose name you saw almost everywhere. 

Years spent watching your peers grow up normally, studying hard and partying harder, left behind a bitter jealousy that you could never voice. For once, you wanted to feel normal. For once, you wanted to feel like your father’s daughter and not his employee. For once, you wanted to forget the world and experience true freedom. 

That was how you found yourself sitting on an uncomfortable barstool, leaning your elbows on the sticky countertop with a glass of some mystery drink hanging from your fingertips. The dress you wore stuck to your skin, showing off more of your body than you were ever allowed to in public. There was a dull burn in your calves from the stilettos you wore, but you paid no mind to them as you sipped gingerly on the liquor.

Tomorrow, you would be meeting the man your father was giving you away to. You knew nothing about him other than the fact that he was one of your father’s business partner’s son. You silently tipped up your drink, a silent toast to your last night of freedom. Knocking your head back, you winced at the unfamiliar burn as you emptied the glass.

When you ungracefully dropped the empty glass onto the counter, red lips stained the rim. “Another, miss?” you vaguely heard the bartender ask. You nodded without thinking, eyes staring forward without focus. Your cheeks felt warm from the few drinks you’d had since you sat down. As the bartender poured you another drink, you allowed your gaze to drift, scanning the room in curiosity.

Red lights lit up the space, random spotlights moving about from the ceiling. The music played loud enough to leave a slight ringing in your ear, your bones vibrating to the beat. Hundreds of people flooded the floor, you noted. Some pairs danced against each other provocatively, intriguing you as you eyed a girl making out with a taller man over her shoulder. Some people danced alone, mouthing the words to a song you didn’t recognize.

As you looked around, your eyes met a stranger’s from across the bar. He sat alone, unlike the many other patrons of the club, a half-emptied pint in front of him. From where you were, you could make out the details of his attire—a dark blazer that fit snugly over the expanse of his shoulders. He wore a silk button-up, rudely unbuttoned low, allowing you to see the curve of his collarbones down to the lines of his chest.

When your eyes flit up to glance at his face, he was already staring at you. His expression, which you can only describe as alluring, prompted you to suck your bottom lip under your teeth, gently biting at the skin. Dark eyes watched you from across the room, looking you up and down slowly before settling on your face. You watched carefully as a tongue flicked out to lick his pink lips before the corners pulled up into a smirk. He rose a brow at you, hair pushed back enough to let you see his silent beckon.

You mirrored his expression, taking a sip of your drink as you stared at him through the glass. The man held a hand up, showing off silver rings wrapped around his slender fingers that made you want to sin. Clearing your throat, you looked away and down at your drink, amber liquid sloshing around in the glass. Before you could even take another swig, a shot glass slid in front of you, its contents almost spilling out.

Looking up in confusion, you called over the bartender, who’d already turned his back to you. “Excuse me? I didn’t order a shot,” you yelled over the blaring music. The bartender glanced at you for a second before nodding his head in the direction of the man who, when you looked, was already gone. The bartender continued, already pouring a drink for another.

Knitting your brows together, you brought the shot glass up to your nose, scrunching it when the strong smell of vodka invaded your senses. A cough tickled your throat as you held the offending shot glass away. Your eyes danced over the many heads in the room, but the mystery man was nowhere in sight. Heaving a sigh, you tipped your head back, swallowing the bitter liquid as quickly as you could. Wincing slightly, you let out a breath as you placed the glass next to the other one.

“Atta’ girl,” a smooth voice crooned in your ear, tickling your skin and leaving behind goosebumps. A hand reached around, grazing the tops of your thighs as its owner spun your barstool around. Face to face with the man of the night, your breath hitched as you found yourself inches away from him. You wondered if he could hear your racing heartbeat over the pounding music.

Up close, you could see his lip ring, plump pink lips pushing against the silver as he peered down at you. His hand moved from the barstool to your waist, his warmth spreading over your skin like wildfire. His other hand leaned on the counter behind you, surrounding you in his essence. His attention was overwhelming as you caught his eyes glimpsing down at your lips before dropping to the curve of your breasts under your dress.

Your hands hovered over your lap, clenching and unclenching as you tried to figure out what to do with them. Keeping eye contact with you, the man leaned forward until he was a hair away, closer than any other man had been. “I’ve never seen you here before,” he spoke lowly, your ears just barely grabbing onto his words. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing stuck at the bar, hm?” 

You bit your lip, his eyes quickly darting down. “Just… enjoying the night,” you mumbled, resisting the urge to lean forward. The air in your lungs felt trapped as your mind filled with incoherent thoughts. 

The man tilted his head at you, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he bore his gaze into you. The hand on your waist pulled you forward until you were almost pressed against him, his thumb rubbing up and down over the fabric of your dress. “Didn’t seem like you were enjoying it,” he said, his breath fanning over your neck as he leaned to whisper in your ear. “I know how you can really start enjoying your night, sweetheart.”

When his lips brushed against your jugular, you had to stop yourself from throwing your head back, the simple touch sending you haywire. “Yeah?” your voice came out breathy, your hands finally settling to rest on his chest. Bent over you like this, his shirt rode lower than ever, letting you see his chiselled torso. You brushed a thumb over his skin, burning to the touch as he leaned back to look you in the eye. “How so?”

He smirked, bringing a hand up to cup your cheek. He pulled you closer by the chin, using his thumb to pull at your bottom lip gently. Your heart raced as he came closer, his nose nudging your own as your eyes subconsciously started to close. “Just let me take care of you,” he rasped, his lips brushing against yours. The cool metal of his lip ring sent a shiver down your spine, something that didn’t go unnoticed by him as his grin seemingly grew. “Let’s get outta here, yeah?”

It didn’t take much convincing for you to follow the man out of the crowded club, guided by a hand on the wrist. With as many drinks as you had in you, it might’ve been worrying with the ease with which he was able to take you by the hand. You couldn’t find it in yourself to care as excitement bubbled in your lower abdomen. 

Even his back was attractive, all broad shoulders and straight lines. A few earrings hooped around his ears, glinting under the strobe lights. When he pulled you outside, the cool night air was starkly different from the hot temperature inside. Goosebumps rose on your bare arms, causing the man to glance back at you with a worried look. Not another word was said as he brought you to a car you’d never seen anyone actually drive around town.

It was a bold red colour, something that reminded you of a crimson fire. You blinked when he opened the passenger side door for you as it swung upwards. The car was low, and you felt a bit awkward climbing in with your stilettos, but the man waited patiently until you were inside before closing the door. You watched as he walked around the car to the driver’s side, the head-up display blinking on the windshield when he started the ignition.

“Wow,” you mumbled dumbly, easily getting comfortable on the leather seat. He spared you an amused look, one eyebrow raised, paired with a smug smile. Leaning over, your breath hitched as he pulled the seatbelt over you, the click of its buckle cutting through the silence. He stayed there for a moment, hovering over you with eyes so intense you felt your mouth dry out. 

“So fucking pretty,” he whispered, finally leaning in to kiss you. The kiss was aggressive, his calloused hand cupping your face and forcing you closer. Your teeth clashed as he licked into your mouth, but the searing feeling in your stomach made it impossible for you to care. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip, eliciting a moan as his hand wandered down to your outer thigh. His fingers danced across your skin, pushing your skirt up until your black lace panties were exposed. 

You threw your head back as he pressed his thumb against your folds, feeling how wet you’d gotten over the course of your earlier conversation. He breathed harshly, attaching his lips to your neck as he grazed a finger up and down your clothed cunt. You had no doubt that by morning, you would be painted with bruises. The thought was exciting to you.

He slipped a finger underneath the fabric of your panties, groaning when he felt your slick coat him in an instant. “So wet for me,” he almost growled, pulling his hand out despite your whines of disapproval. He pulled back, eyes flitting over your heaving form before settling into his seat. His lips were smudged red with your lipstick, and you found it unfair at how hot it was.

He was quick to pull away from the curb, the engine roaring to life as he drove down the busy street. It felt uncomfortably sticky between your thighs, rubbing them together. He was quick to grasp your thigh, pulling your legs open as he drove. While the hand on your thigh was still, his impatience showed in the hand that held the steering wheel, his finger tapping against it whenever he’d hit a red light.

You weakly moaned when his hand drifted higher, his pinky brushing against your core. You spread your legs further, urging him to do more than just light touches, but he didn’t give in to your silent pleas. The ride to, what you presumed was his place, was unbearably long as he continued to tease you. He would grip your thigh tightly, his rings pressing into your skin, and suddenly move up to flick at your covered clit. His sporadic movements left you a whining mess, your heart pounding against your ribcage. “Need you so badly,” you whined, flushing in embarrassment at how you sounded. 

He scoffed, scraping his nail over your thigh, making you jump. “I can tell,” he said, his tone degrading as he pinched your skin. “Whining like a whore in my front seat, like it’ll make me fuck you any faster.” You gasped, his words going straight to your cunt. You could feel yourself get wetter, your panties sticking to your folds agonizingly. 

You bit your lip as he pulled into an underground parking lot, the orange-hued lights casting an intimidating shadow over his face. When he finally parked, you realized he had brought you to a fancy apartment building. The parking lot was empty, not a soul in sight. Despite his words, he still opened your door for you, pulling you out of the car roughly. When the door closed, he pressed you against it, forcing his lips against yours as he ground his hips into yours. You moaned into his mouth at how hard he’d gotten, gripping at his blazer with shaking hands.

His kiss left you breathless, and you found that you really liked the feeling of his hands harshly holding your hips, keeping you from moving too far from him. You tongued at his piercing, taking his bottom lip into your mouth as he moved to push your dress up again. Pulling away, he was quick to kiss your neck as your eyes darted around the empty lot.

“Not here,” you gasped when he bit at the skin under your ear, “what if someone…”

He bit down harder, making you whine. “Let them see then,” he spat. “Let them see how much of a slut you are for me, sweetheart.” You made a noise of disagreement, causing him to pull away. You looked like a mess in heels, hair tousled, no longer in neat waves as you had them before, and makeup smudged. The glassy look in your eyes made him grin at you, a menacing curve of his pink lips. 

He grabbed your wrist again, tugging you to the underground elevator as his car beeped behind you. The few seconds it took for the elevator to reach the parking lot felt agonizingly long, your legs shaking in anticipation.

The second the doors opened, he had you pressed against the frigid elevator walls, his hand blindly reaching to touch one of the top buttons. He pushed your dress up past your hips, fingering the lace undergarment between his thumb and pointer. Without wasting a second, he tugged. The sound of fabric ripping took you out of your trance as you realized he had completely torn them off you.

“Hey,” your voice was clipped as you frowned. “Those were expensive.”

He rolled his eyes at you, tucking the tattered fabric into his back pocket. “I’ll buy you a new set,” he said, annoyed that you had interrupted him. “Now shut up, princess.” He took your lips again, his hand moving to wrap loosely around your neck. He swiped his tongue over your lip as his free hand grasped at your hips.

“Fuck,” you whined highly when he traced a line up your cunt, collecting your juices on his fingertip. He made quick work with you, swiping over your clit with his thumb as he pushed two fingers into your sopping hole. The hand around your neck pressed down lightly, sending your senses into overdrive as he kissed you again. 

“My name’s Heeseung,” he said against your lips. “Moan it for me tonight, yeah?” You nodded feebly as you spouted your own name in a mess of stutters.

When the elevator beeped, indicating that you were on the designated floor, he unwillingly pulled away from you. He stared at you darkly, pupils blown as he sucked his fingers clean. Your eyes trained on the way his tongue flicked at his rings, your slick disappearing into his mouth. You pulled your dress down as he guided you out with a hand on the small of your back.

When you made it into his apartment, you didn’t have time to gawk at how fancy it was, decked out with marble tiles and sleek glass light fixtures. As the door closed behind him, he pressed himself against your behind, grinding into your ass as he groaned lowly in your ear. His fingers dragged the fabric of your dress up to your waist, leaving your lower half exposed as Heeseung left dainty kisses against your bare shoulder.

Pulling the dress up and off, he ushered you further into the apartment, pushing open the door to his bedroom. He dropped the dress in the corner of the room before turning you around to face him. He took your lips, pressing deeply against you as he felt you up. His hands roamed as he licked into your mouth, one hand cupping and groping your left breast while the other shifted downwards. Resting on your hip, he brought you closer to him, pressing your bare cunt against his boner.

You reached down, palming his hard-on through his pants. He threw his head back in a silent moan, allowing you to continue with your ministrations. You hastily unbuckled his belt, tossing it on the floor next to your dress. Pushing his pants and boxers down past his knees, you almost moaned at the sight of his pretty cock.

It was long and thick, twitching as it wept pre-cum at the tip. It was a pretty flushed colour, enticing you closer. Looking up at him through your lashes, you watched Heeseung’s reaction as you licked the mushroom head gingerly. You scrunched up your nose at the bitter taste, but Heeseung’s wanton expression urged you to continue.

Taking the whole tip in your mouth, you sucked gently. You could feel yourself gush at the sound of his loud moan, pressing your thighs together as you tried to take more of him. He grazed the back of your throat before you could even take half of him. The sight of you struggling on his length made him feel impossibly hard, his ringed hand moving to grasp at your hair. Determined to make him feel good, you traced one of the veins that stretched along the length of his shaft with your fingernail before taking his cock in your fist.

Bobbing your head slowly, you matched your pass with your hand wherever your mouth couldn’t reach. Heeseung breathed heavily at the feeling of your hot cavern taking him in, your tongue swirling around his tip in a way that drove him up the wall. He could barely imagine how being in your cunt would feel, the mental image making him thrust unexpectedly against you.

When you gagged at the suddenness, Heeseung groaned, using your fisted hair to guide you up and down his shaft. “Fuck, baby,” he sighed, head thrown back and eyes scrunched in pleasure as you gained speed. “That mouth of yours is so fucking perfect. Like it was made for my cock.” He hissed when his head pressed against the back of your throat, holding it there until you swallowed around him, tears welling in your eyes.

The sounds that you were making would normally disgust you, the wet gags and spit dripping down your front as you struggled to take his girth, but with Heeseung, it only turned you on more. You rubbed your thighs together, feeling your slick coat your puffy folds.

Using his other hand to grip at your hair, he held you still as he fucked into your mouth, jaw agape as he watched you suckle on his length. You looked like the embodiment of sin, on your knees and taking his cock so well. He rubbed at the smudged mascara underneath your eyes, only making it spread as tears dripped down your face. “Shit,” he mumbled, gripping your hair tighter. “Fuck, I wanna make a mess on you, baby. Can I?” 

You nodded the best you could, the thought of him cumming all over you making you impossibly wet. Swearing loudly, Heeseung pulled himself out of your mouth, using his hand to force your mouth open. You stuck your tongue out as he pumped himself desperately, chasing his release as he bore into your eyes. You gasped when he came, ropes of his cum shooting over your face and tongue.

He watched intently as you swallowed whatever landed in your mouth, wiping at the cum that dripped down your cheeks. “Get on the bed,” he said gruffly, not wanting to go another second without feeling your cunt drip around him.

You wasted no time in following his instructions, scooting further up the bed as he crawled on after you. He spread your legs roughly, situating himself between your thighs. Heeseung leaned forward, kissing you again as one of his hands rested around your throat. As he kissed you, sucking on your bottom lip before shoving his tongue into your mouth, his free hand traced down the side of your body.

Without warning, he touched your core, collecting your wetness on his fingertips as he rubbed up and down your cunt. You moaned loudly as he switched between teasing your entrance and swiping across your clit. “You’re so fucking wet, princess,” he groaned, kissing you deeply as he finally thrust two fingers into your hole.

You cried out into the kiss, arching your back up and into him as you held on. You gripped at his bicep that flexed with each movement, his fingers curling up into you. It didn’t take long for him to find your G-spot, rubbing dedicatedly against the spongey walls of your cunt. He sped up, thrusting his fingers into you with ease, slipping around your juices.

“Fuck, Heeseung,” you almost screamed as you neared your orgasm, “I’m so, so close, please—”

He pulled his fingers out, making you whine in disapproval, your eyes opening wide as you begged him to keep touching you. He ignored your silent pleas, taking his soaked fingers into his mouth as he had before. You watched, in a trance, as he swirled his tongue around his slender digits, the sight making you squirm in anticipation.

He reached over to his bedside drawer and pulled out a few packages. You glanced at them through your ditzy stupor, surprised to see several condom wrappers. Upon closer inspection, you realized they all had different flavours. “Pick one,” he instructed in an almost joking manner as if he didn’t just bring you to the edge with his fingers.

You contemplated just grabbing one at random, not wanting to wait any longer to feel him inside you. Reaching for one, you subconsciously made a face when you read what flavour it was.

“Not a fan of strawberry?” he asked rhetorically as he took the wrapper from you and tossed it back in the drawer. Impatient, he picked one and threw the rest back where he got them. You watched with intrigue as he opened the package with his teeth before rolling it onto his already hard cock.

“Hey,” he mumbled once he got the condom fully rolled on. “If you want me to stop at any moment, just say… Bambi, okay?”

You looked at him warily. “Bambi?”

He didn’t elaborate any further, pressing the tip of his cock against your folds. He rubbed the head through your slick, bumping against your clit before pressing into your tight entrance. He groaned in unison with you at the intrusion. You winced at the stretch, shoving your face into one of his pillows.

When he bottomed out, he pressed a sweet kiss against your cheek before pulling back and slamming into you. Your breath caught in your throat as you gasped for air, his sudden harsh thrusts surprising you. He breathed heavily as he moved, draping your legs over his shoulders as he leaned into you. 

“So deep,” you cried, squirming at the stimulation. “Fuck, Heeseung!”

He moaned at the sound of his name on your tongue, leaning down to kiss you. The position only made him go deeper, and you struggled to kiss him properly, mind foggy with pleasure. His balls slapped against your ass, echoing against the walls. The sound of your sex was burned into your mind, Heeseung’s breathy groans and moans of your name bound to haunt your dreams from now on.

Heeseung pulled out and flipped you onto your side, re-entering you with ease. The position was something you’d never done before as Heeseung held your leg against his torso as he thrust harshly. He moaned out your name as he closed his eyes, as lost in the pleasure as you were.

“‘M gonna cum,” you warned, your voice high and shaking as you reached down to circle your clit. At the sight of you touching yourself, Heeseung sighed with rapture, trying hard to get you to the edge. 

“Cum around me, baby,” he hushed as his thrusts grew harder, rougher. “Come on, you can do it.”

At his words, it felt like a cord had snapped inside of you, and you cried out as you came. He helped you through your orgasm, thrusting shallowly as your body shook and jolted. Once you had calmed down, he pulled out and fisted himself over the condom, the lube mixed with your wetness making it easy for his hand to slip up and down.

You watched, exhausted, as he leaned over you, a look of concentration on his face as he got off on your body. White filled the condom, low groans of your name reverberating in his chest as he collapsed on the bed next to you. You barely processed him standing to throw out the used rubber or how he came back with a warm towel and wiped you down gently. 

Your eyes closed, and you felt yourself succumb to slumber.

When you awoke the next morning, you swore. Head pounding, you pressed your face into your pillow in annoyance. Of course, you would be having the worst hangover of your life. You didn’t even want to think about what your father would say if he knew you’d be walking into the meeting in a few hours, completely hungover.

You paused, pressing your face further into the pillow. The smell was unfamiliar, you noted. Not a second later, you sat up, eyes wide. Your lips parted in disbelief as you remembered where you were, memories of last night quickly returning to you. Holding the blanket up to your bare chest, you willed yourself to look over at the other side of the bed. 

Heeseung lay there, rolled over onto his stomach, his cheek resting against the pillow as he slept. His hair was messy, sticking up in different directions almost cutely. You made a face when you caught a glimpse of angry red scratches down his back.

He looked unnervingly peaceful, considering the stampede your heart was experiencing. You swore under your breath again, quietly stepping out of the bed. The floorboard creaked underneath your weight, your head snapping back to see if the noise woke him up. Fortunately, he stayed blissfully in rest. You held your breath as you collected your discarded dress and your heels, also picking up the silk button-up you had thrown off of him last night. 

He’s rich, clearly, you justified, taking a brief look around the room. His closet was cracked open, revealing several more expensive-looking clothes. Though, in your haste to make it to the bedroom, you didn’t get a good look at the rest of his apartment. You knew that it was huge if the building’s name wasn’t an indicator already. He won’t miss one shirt.

Not wanting to risk waking him up, you tip-toed out of the room before getting dressed in the hallway. You slipped the button-up on top of your dress and made your way to the front door, heels in hand. As you pushed the door open, you panicked when it beeped in alarm. With haste, you ran outside and closed the door before Heeseung could catch you sneaking out.

Without bothering to put your heels on, you booked it to the elevator, making it inside in time for you to hear Heeseung call your name. With wide eyes, you pressed the close doors button more times than necessary, only relaxing when they finally did close.

You opened your phone, only to see a text from your father asking where you were. Making an excuse, you used the reflective elevator walls to fix your appearance.

If anyone saw you, they would be none the wiser to the previous night. The automatic doors to your father’s company opened as you approached, a gust of air from the air conditioning pushing your freshly styled hair out of your face. Any marks that littered across your neck and shoulders were expertly covered up, and your eyebags were concealed just as well.

The sound of your heels, which your father insisted you wore in public, in the otherwise quiet lobby gathered the attention of the gaggle of people. Having so many eyes on you didn’t bother you as much as it had before, something you’re grateful to have gotten used to. Smiling politely at the pair of receptionists, you were quick to make your way up to your father’s office.

The elevator dinged, and you couldn’t help but think back to last night. The feeling of Heeseung’s warmth pressed against you as he fingered you and touched you was a thrill you don’t think you could forget if you tried. Clearing your throat, you looked at yourself in the mirrored walls, another habit you couldn’t get rid of. 

Deeming yourself as presentable, you stepped out of the elevator and into your father’s large office. He sat at his desk, typing away at his computer. If he heard you come in, which he must’ve, he didn’t react. His graying hair stood out under the sunlight that the floor-to-ceiling windows let in. The glasses perched on his nose bridge threatened to fall down as his fingers tapped relentlessly. 

“Good morning, Father,” you greeted, sitting down at the chair adjacent to his desk. He didn’t look up. “I’m a little early.” You crossed your legs, resting clasped hands on top of your knees. It didn’t surprise you when he didn’t say anything in reply, so you opted to look out the window. Being on the top floor, you could see most of the town. You could watch the bustling traffic and pedestrian-filled streets for hours, the busyness of life fascinating to you.

You weren’t able to stare for too long before a familiar ding interrupted your daydreams. You straightened your back, facing forward as your father stood to greet the newcomer. Unlike when you came in, your father straightened out his blazer with a warm smile, something that looked foreign to you. You watched quietly as he manoeuvred around the desk to formally greet the guest.

“Ah,” your father greeted placatingly, his timber voice filling the space.. “Lee Heeseung, it is great to finally meet you. I have heard much about you from your father.”

You felt your heart stop when you heard his name. Unwilling to turn around, you stared into the window’s faint reflection in hopes of seeing the man’s face. Maybe your Heeseung wasn’t the only Lee Heeseung in town. Surely, it wasn’t too uncommon of a name because there was no way that your one-night stand just happened to be your husband-to-be.

If your heart stopped when you heard his name, your soul left your body when you heard him talk. 

“It’s wonderful to meet you, sir. I am honoured that you picked me out of all of your daughter’s candidates.”

As subtly as you could, you slapped a hand over your mouth.

You heard their footsteps grow closer. “Well, please have a seat,” your father ushered. “She’s right here. You ought to meet your future bride, right?” With each of their perfectly synced steps, you could imagine another foot of your grave being dug. “Heeseung, this is my daughter.” You inhaled sharply and took his cue to stand.

When you turned on your heel, you were sure that Heeseung’s shocked expression matched your own. Recognition burst behind his eyes, hidden behind a pair of glasses, and his lips—which you noticed was missing its piercing—parted in shock. You silently willed him to keep quiet about the night before, looking at him with widened eyes and a painfully fake smile.

“It’s you,” he blurted out, pointing at you with the slightest bend of his elbow. If you weren’t in front of your father, you could have smacked him over the head. “I was wondering where you went.”

Internally screaming, you put on a faux confused expression to match your father’s. “You two are acquainted already?” he asked, looking at you for confirmation. You were quick to shake your head no, glaring at Heeseung when your father looked away.

Bowing your head slightly, you smiled up at Heeseung as you would any other businessman. “You must have me mistaken for someone else,” you lied through your teeth, desperately hoping he would catch on. “We have never met before today. But it is nice to meet you.” You held out a hand for him to shake, which he did after fumbling for a bit.

Heeseung looked at you with a confused gaze, eyebrows knitted together before a lightbulb went off. “Right,” he smiled graciously, putting on a persona completely different from the one you met before. “My apologies. It is nice to meet you. I’m Lee Heeseung.” Letting go of your hand, he nodded when you introduced yourself. 

Clapping his hands together, your father grinned widely at the both of you. “Now, I have some work to tend to, but the two of you can continue to get to know each other downstairs.” Wanting nothing more than to escape the stuffy room, you agreed stiffly. “I’ll have the wedding planners contact you both later on.” Your father nodded at Heeseung once more before returning to his desk, the sound of his noisy keyboard filling the room again.

Heeseung followed you out after saying goodbye to your father, standing far too close to you in the elevator. “Isn’t this a pleasant surprise,” he drawled out, voice dry. “The very woman who I happened to have a fun night with, only to wake up with her nowhere in sight, is the very woman whom I’m marrying.” He bore his gaze into you as he leaned against the elevator wall, his prim posture long gone. “How exciting, is it not?”

“Please, Heeseung, do not bring up last night.” Your voice was terse as you pinched your nose bridge in frustration, your ears and face warming up. 

Heeseung raised a brow at your request, pushing off the elevator wall and stepping close to you. Your eyes widened as he backed you into the wall, eyes darting to the LED screen that showed which floor you were on. If anyone were to need the elevator, they would catch Heeseung pinning you to the wall, and you would have no excuse for it. “Come on, princess,” his voice lifted into a tease, “that’s not how you were begging me last night.”

You groaned, dropping your head and hitting it against the wall behind you. “Heeseung,” you hissed, glaring at him. You tried very hard to ignore the way that his glasses framed his face nicely and made him even more handsome, which you didn’t think was possible. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Do not bring up last night unless you want me to castrate you.”

Heeseung pouted at you, resting a hand on his chest as though you’d mortally wounded him. “But if you castrate me, how am I supposed to please—”

“Heeseung!”

He laughed openly at you, shoulders shaking as his lips split open into a grin. “You’re so easy to rile up, princess.” He leaned toward you, hovering himself above you by resting his forearm against the wall. You glanced at the screen again, silently cursing your father for owning a building with slow elevators. “I don’t know what’s so bad about people finding out that we’re—how do you say it?—well acquainted.”

You breathed out in annoyance at his ignorance. “Did you hit your head? I don’t know about you, Heeseung, but I do care about how the public perceives me.” You jabbed a finger at his chest, though it had no effect on him. “If people find out, then…” You trailed off, your brows furrowing as you looked at the ground, the recently shined tiles sparkingly under the fluorescent lights.

“Then?”

You bit your lip, thinking back at your father and his cold demeanour. “Look,” you started, shoulders deflating. “If my father finds out that I went to that club at all and had sex with some guy that I didn’t know… He wouldn’t react well.” You spoke lowly, the topic dampening your mood immensely.

“Ouch,” Heeseung joked, tilting his head at you. “So, I’m just some guy to you?”

You deadpanned at him, unimpressed with the small snippet of information he chose to focus on. “You get what I mean, asshole. So please, just stop bringing it up. At least, not in front of him.” Your faith in his compassion was dwindling by the second, and his silence wasn’t doing much to help. When the elevator doors opened, you were ready to give up and began formulating an apology to your father for your behaviour.

Before you could duck under his arm to make your way out, he laid a gentle hand on your wrist. “Okay, okay. I won’t talk about it again. You have my word, princess.” You balked at his sudden sincerity, but before you could even utter a thank you, he opened his mouth again. “No more talking about how we had the most mindblowing sex—”

“Lee Heeseung!” You chided, quickly ducking under his arm and rushing out of the elevator. Your face burned as you walked through the lobby, no doubt catching the attention of curious onlookers. Embarrassment flooded your veins as you exited the building, standing on the curb with your face in your hands.

Not wanting to be there any longer, you pulled out your phone and searched for your personal driver’s contact. Before you could press the green call button, your phone was snatched out of your manicured hands. “Hey—!”

To your surprise, or perhaps you weren’t surprised at all, Heeseung stood next to you with your phone haphazardly dangling between his fingers. “What are you doing?” You asked as you reached to grab it. He pulled it away, grinning when it left you pressed against him.

“What are you doing?”

You rolled your eyes, jumping to grab your phone. Once it was back in your possession, you went to call your driver. “Going,” you answered simply.

“Going where?”

“Going anywhere but here.”

He clicked his tongue, pulling a pair of keys out of his pocket. “I’ll drive you. There’s no need to wait for your driver.”

You eyed him suspiciously, your thumb hovering over the call button. “I don’t think you understand. When I said I wanted to be anywhere but here, here is referring to here with you.”

He gave you the same look as he did in the elevator, lips upturned into a pout as his eyebrows arched upward. “You really do wound me, princess.” He pressed a button on his fob, and you could see a car’s lights flash a few meters away. It wasn’t the same one he had driven you in last night, so you looked at him in question. “I have two cars. One for business, one for fun,” he winked at you when he said the last word, only laughing when you pretended to vomit in your mouth.

“Come on, princess,” he took your wrist for the nth time. “Let’s go.” You begrudgingly followed, not missing the way several workers from inside had lined up against the window to watch the interaction. You smiled politely at them again, waving goodbye as Heeseung practically dragged you along.

Just as he had the night before, he opened the door for you. This car was much simpler in design than the bright red one, with a dashboard instead of a HUD and a simple touch screen instead of dozens of buttons and features you were too distracted to play with.

As he drove off, you stared out the window, refusing to look in his direction. He had pushed up the sleeves of his blazer, showing off his toned and veiny forearms as he drove, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the middle console. “I’ll take you home,” Heeseung claimed as he slowed to a stop for a red light. “But let me show you something first.”

You looked at him incredulously but only nodded before looking out the window again.

You didn’t pay attention to where he was taking you, watching fondly as groups of friends walked down the streets, wide grins splitting their faces as they talked. It was rush hour, and you ended up paused in traffic long enough to watch a couple emerge from one of the street stores, arms linked and full of shopping bags. They were wearing matching sweatpants and sweaters, making you look down at the dress you wore. Pursing your lips, you stopped looking as you pulled your skirt down.

“Y’know, last night your skirt was getting pushed up.”

At his words, you glared at him. “You are so sleazy.”

Heeseung only grinned, never taking his eyes off of the road. “Something’s on your mind. Had to get you out of that head of yours somehow.” He briefly glanced at you, “Did it work?”

You blinked in surprise before looking away. Your hands clenched on your lap. “Where are we going?” you asked, changing the subject. You pretended not to notice when Heeseung stared at you, opting to look straight ahead.

“Somewhere I frequent. I’ll give you some leverage over me.” You peeked at him as he made a left turn, tracing over the lines of his arms. “Sound good, princess?”

You could only scrunch your nose in confusion. “Why would you want me to have leverage over you in the first place?”

Heeseung shrugged. “It’s clear you don’t trust me. I meant it when I said I wouldn’t bring us up again in front of your dad, but I don’t think you believe me ‘cause you’ve barely looked at me since you got in the car.” You winced, not liking how he read through you so easily when you couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “So, I’m bringing you somewhere that I’ve kept secret. You’ll be the only one who knows who could actually, you know, get me in shit with my dad.”

Unsure of what to say, you stared at his side profile in shock. “You are so confusing,” you muttered, leaning over to look out the window. You rested your chin on your palm to cover your warming face.

Before long, Heeseung pulled into an indoor race track’s parking lot. You looked out the window in confusion. Even from outside, you could hear the revving of engines and the squeaking of tires against asphalt. You spared Heeseung a look, climbing out of the car wordlessly. He nodded his head at you, guiding you to the entrance. 

When you entered, the first thing you noticed was the yelling. Specifically, the sounds of fifth graders screaming as they circled the track in their go-karts. “Heeseung, buddy, I hate to break it to you, but a kiddie go-kart track isn’t exactly a best-kept secret.” A kid zoomed by on his kart, screaming at the top of his lungs as he pressed hard on the gas.

Heeseung only rolled his eyes at you, “So impatient.” Taking your hand in his, he tugged you along the back wall until you reached a staff-only door. Before you could argue, clearly neither of you was staff, Heeseung pushed the door open as if he owned the place. You gawked at him, whipping your head around to see if any staff were coming to kick you out.

To your surprise, the man behind the front counter only nodded in acknowledgement before going back to his morning coffee.

Heeseung kept walking, his large hand never leaving yours. You subconsciously balled them, swallowing thickly when Heeseung untangled your fingers to interlock them with his. Sneaking a look at you over his shoulder, he cheekily stuck his tongue out. The hallway beyond the door was empty, aside from a few bulletins with weekly events posted on them. 

Once you reached the end of the hall, a staircase leading to a basement came into view. You pinched your eyebrows together in suspicion, rooting your feet on the ground before Heeseung could pull you any further. “Look, I’m not really in the mood to be murdered today, so I think we’ll have to reschedule—”

Rolling his eyes at you for the nth time that day, he pulled harder on your hand, almost knocking you off your feet. He caught you with ease, his warm palm pressing against your waist as he waited for you to steady yourself. “Trust me a little, please? I promise you won’t get murdered.” At the end of his sentence, he held out a pinky. You stared incredulously at him, decked out in office attire yet holding out his baby finger to you like an adolescent.

“Are you five?”

“Hey, cut me some slack. I’m six, actually,” he teased, wiggling his pinky at you as he silently urged you to follow through with it. Heaving a sigh, you latched your finger with his.

After following Heeseung down the dingy staircase, you were met with a similar sight. A large racing track encompassed the room, looping and curving in a way that filled the space. However, unlike the track you saw upstairs, this one was occupied by cars you’ve seen in racing movies. A deafening rush of cars drove past, sending a gust of wind your way.

“Holy shit,” you mumbled, staring at the cars drive uncomfortably close to one another as they made another harsh turn.

Heeseung smiled at your awed expression, a sense of pride blooming in his chest. “Well,” he exhaled, “this is my secret.”

You turned to him quickly in disbelief. “You race?” As surprising as it might’ve been, the longer you thought about it, the more it made sense. Maybe it’d be hard to believe that the Heeseung in front of you was a racer, but the one from last night? With his dark demeanour and fancy car, you’d believe it in a heartbeat.

“Only on my work breaks,” he winked. “I’ve been coming here for years. This is where loads of the street racers in town come to get their fix when there are no races going on up top.”

“Street racers?” you echoed. “Like… the illegal ones?”

“Totally like… the illegal ones.”

You slapped his shoulder at his remark, bristling as you turned away. Heeseung only laughed, a loud laugh that stemmed from his tummy as he threw his head back at your displeasure. Ruffling your hair, he walked away, leaving you standing at the bottom of the staircase. You sputtered, moving to follow him, but before you could take another step, a man blocked your view of him.

“You must be Heeseung’s girl.”

You frowned at the assumption, even if it was technically true. “What on earth are you talking about?” you combatted, looking over the man with disdain.

He threw his arms up in surrender, silently telling you he meant no harm. “Relax! I just assumed because Heeseung has never brought anyone down here before.” He paused for a moment before smiling at you with a glint in his eye. “But you were also holding hands just now, so…”

Your face flushed at the prospect of getting caught. “Shut it. Who are you, anyway?”

The man’s smile widened into a grin, showing off his pearly whites. “I’m Jake. I run this place, so I’ve known Heeseung for forever. You, on the other hand,” he jutted a finger in your direction. “You’re a new face. Usually, newbies need clearance before coming down here, but I’ll trust Hee on this one. ‘Sides, I’ve seen you on a few posters here and there.” He whistled lowly, looking over his shoulder at the direction Heeseung left in. “I knew he was some hotshot, but I didn’t know he could actually pull someone like you.”

“Like me?”

Jake raised a brow at you, scanning your face as if you’d just insulted him to his face. “Uh, yeah? You’re a model, right? You’ve got the looks, so don’t be so bashful down here.” The sound of loud engines cut him off. The excitement seemed to burst from within him as he immediately ushered you over to some bleachers. “C’mon, they’re starting soon.”

He sat next to you as you tried to make yourself comfortable, feeling jittery from being left alone with a stranger. Not that Heeseung was any less strange to you, but it was better than being sat thigh-to-thigh with someone you’d just met.

“Purple car’s Yang Jungwon. The silver one is Park Jongseong,” he listed off to you as if you would know who either of those people were. You couldn’t help but nod along, his golden-retriever-like excitement rubbing off on you. You’ve never watched a car race in person before, nor have you ever gone to any event like it. “Green is our baby, Riki Nikimura. He just started racing a few months ago.”

As he talked, a familiar red car pulled up next to the others, revving its engine loudly as if to proclaim I’m here. “You probably know,” Jake continued. “But that one’s Heeseung.”

A whistle blew, and suddenly the four cars became blurs. It was as if you’d miss half the race if you even dared to blink. You watched, astounded, as the racers circled the track with ease, not bumping into each other a single time. 

The race was over before you knew it, four laps around the large track driven in a matter of minutes. The victor, Heeseung, erupted out of his vehicle with a large grin on his face, pulling at his cheeks in pure joy. The other racers met him on the tracks; their car doors opened as they joined together on the asphalt. 

You watched from a distance as they conversed excitedly, too far for you to make out any of their words. Beside you, Jake nudged you with his elbow. “Cool, huh?”

You breathed out, making eye contact with Heeseung as he beamed at you, sending you a wave before turning back to the other three. “Yeah,” you said simply. “Really cool.”

After Heeseung showed you the race track, you ended up seeing each other more often than you first thought you would. Turns out your father was serious about your engagement. True to his words, wedding planners met with you the day after the meeting. And the one after that. And the next.

A whole week of wedding planning sped past, and by the end of it, you were exhausted. You had one more stop on your schedule for the day, a simple cake tasting with Heeseung. You made it to the bakery first, standing outside idly on your phone as you waited for your husband-to-be to arrive. Your driver and security guard waited in the car parked nearby.

An engine revved twice, something that you’ve come to know as Heeseung’s way of greeting. When you looked up, he was already locking his car across the street, jogging across the empty road to meet you. “Hey,” he breathed, running a hand through his locks. “Sorry, I’m late. Riki’s engine was busted, and the kid doesn’t know how to fix ‘em yet. Normally we get Jay or Sunghoon to do the mechanic work, but they’re out scouting for spots.”

The mention of a possible race piqued your interest. You shook your head, smiling softly at him. “I just got here. You’re fine, Hee. Let’s head in?” He nodded, opening the bakery door for you before following you in.

The smell of fresh cake invaded your senses the second you stepped in. You closed your eyes in delight, taking in the scent blissfully. Heeseung chuckled at your antics, using his hand to guide you further into the building by the small of your back.

Before long, a head popped out from the back, a rather young-looking boy with a tall chef’s hat placed neatly atop his cotton-candy pink hair. His eyes were bright as he caught your gaze, cheeks pinkening at the sight of you. “Hi,” he greeted the both of you, dusting off leftover flour on his apron. “You must be Lee Heeseung and—” the boy turned to you, awestruck as he sputtered out your name. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to stare,” he apologized bashfully, bowing his head. “You’re just prettier in person. The magazines don’t do you justice.”

You had the gall to blush at his words, turning your head in slight embarrassment. “Thank you,” you paused to read his nametag. “Kim Sunoo. That’s very sweet of you.”

If possible, he turned redder at the sound of his name coming from your cherry lips. Beside you, Heeseung watched the interaction with displeasure soaking into his skin. “We’re here to taste your cakes,” he cut in before Sunoo could say another word, knocking him out of his reverie. “For our wedding.” If Sunoo noticed that Heeseung had stressed the last word, he didn’t say anything. You nudged him gently, telling him with your eyes to behave. 

Heeseung’s eyes narrowed, but he kept his lips together.

The two of you followed Sunoo to the back, where an assortment of cake slices were laid on the counter. Your eyes bulged at the sight, counting over twenty cakes. “Your wedding planners gave me a list of what flavours you both had mentioned wanting,” Sunoo introduced, gesturing to the cakes with a wave. “There were… quite a few between the both of you, but luckily some overlapped.”

A few seemed to be an understatement. Heeseung looked over the variety of cakes before pointing at one. “Is this one strawberry?” he asked, inspecting it closely. You hovered by his side, gazing down at the many plates. Sunoo nodded in confirmation, clasping his hands in front of him. “Are any of the other ones strawberry-flavoured?”

“We have a few, yes—”

“Take them away; we won’t be choosing those.”

You blinked in surprise at his firm standing, as did Sunoo, who tilted his head in confusion. The movement reminded you of a puppy, and you fought the urge to giggle at it. “But the strawberry flavours were on your profile.” 

At his words, you turned to Heeseung with a frown. “If you picked them, shouldn’t we at least try them first?” You surveyed the many strawberry cakes that Sunoo was in the process of putting away. “You obviously like them.”

Heeseung didn’t even spare you a glance. “You don’t like them.”

You stared open-mouthed at him. “How do you know I don’t like strawberries?” At your question, Heeseung finally met your gaze, only smirking at you as he rested his weight against the countertop, leaning on his palms.

“Do you really want me to get into that story here, princess?” You frowned in confusion. However, when you looked over at Sunoo, it seemed as though a light bulb had gone off for him, as his face became redder than the strawberries on the cake he was holding. A second passed before realization dawned on you, and you refrained from smacking Heeseung upside the head.

“Whatever,” you grumbled, ignoring the heat pooling in your tummy. “Let’s just taste these cakes and go home.”

Heeseung chortled, not even minding the fact that he may have left a rather lewd image in the younger man’s mind. “Whatever you say.”

After the first hiccup, the cake tasting went smoothly. You and Heeseung had finally decided on a cake with multiple tiers, allowing for multiple flavours. All of the bigwigs will be invited, Heeseung argued. Might as well appease them all.

A long hour had passed before the final order was set, and Sunoo told you to come by a couple weeks before the wedding to finalize the cake. Before you left, Sunoo came up to you, notepad in hand. “Sorry to bother you,” he spoke lowly, looking at you with a pretty smile. “Could I get your autograph?”

You agreed wordlessly, taking the pen from his outstretched hand. After signing it, Sunoo didn’t even give you the option of returning the pen on your own, instead taking your hand in his fondly. “I did mean it,” he said with sincerity dripping from his honey voice. “You really are prettier in person.”

You didn’t get to reply before Sunoo’s hand was slapped away. Heeseung’s arm wrapped around your shoulder, bringing you close to his side as he stared daggers at the baker. “Might I remind you that the woman you’re talking to will be my wife?” He spoke firmly, leaving no room for questions as he turned, dragging you out of the bakery. Your driver and security guard were long gone, having left at Heeseung’s promise to bring you home. 

“What was that?” You asked in disbelief, glancing over your shoulder in time to watch Sunoo disappear in the back. “He’s just a fan, Heeseung.”

He said nothing, opening the door for you before promptly slamming it once you were situated. You flinched at the aggression, eyes trained on the man as he made his way into the driver’s seat. He started the engine silently, the keys jingling as they hung from the ignition. His left hand wrapped around the steering wheel, but he made no motion to pull away from the curb.

Instead, he leaned over the middle console and pulled you closer by the chin, three fingers gripping you tightly. You gasped at the sudden forceful movement, staring widely into his dark eyes. You felt his breath tickle your skin as he stared at you, eyes fixated on you as if you’d disappear if he looked away.

“You’re driving me mad,” he uttered, lips just barely brushing over yours as he spoke. He had his lip ring in today, and you shivered at the feeling. “Ever since that night, you’ve been on my mind. And it’s driving me insane because I can’t do anything about it,” he hushed, his tone torturous as he bore into you.

“When I walked into your father’s office last week, you have no idea how happy it made me knowing that you were going to be mine,” he hissed, fingers digging into your skin almost uncomfortably. “You’re mine, and yet you’re here entertaining other men that shouldn’t even matter to you.”

“Heeseung,” you mumbled breathlessly, eyes darting down to his plump lips. He narrowed his eyes at you harshly, his normally rounded eyes growing sharper as irritation swirled in his dark hues. 

“You’re mine, princess,” he rasped, leaning forward. His lips pressed against yours in a kiss, his body moving fervently against yours to convey his turmoil. You moaned loudly when he bit down on your lower lip, his tongue licking into your mouth as he kept his hold on you. Unlike his other kisses, this one was messy. Your teeth clashed as he shifted closer, spit dribbling down your chin and onto your pressed clothing. 

The hand that gripped your chin moved to wrap around your neck. He didn’t press down, but the heat that surrounded you sent shivers down your spine. “Let me take you home,” he almost begged, moving to bite at your ear. “Wanna show you who you belong to.”

You whimpered at his words, pressing your thighs together fruitlessly. “My apartment’s closer,” you gasped when he bit down on your jugular, his hot tongue shooting out to lick at the teeth marks. “Go there, please.”

The ride passed by in a blur, and it wasn’t long before you found yourself pressed against another elevator wall. It was hard to contain your moans as Heeseung made his way down your neck, unbuttoning your shirt until your bra was available to him. He fisted your breasts through the fabric, eliciting a lewd groan from you. 

“Such a whore,” he jeered against your lips as he kissed you again. “Letting me touch you like this, undress you like this. You probably want to get caught, don’t you?” He groaned, grinding his growing hard-on against you through your clothes. You let out a noise at how hard he’d gotten, your mind swirling as continued to press himself against you. “Fuck, baby. You’re driving me crazy,” he sucked your earlobe, the sensation making you squirm.

When the elevator dinged, Heeseung made haste, tugging you into your apartment after fumbling with your keys. The door slammed behind you, and you felt the cool touch of wood against your back as he pressed you against it. He wasted no time kissing you deeply, hands roaming your sides as he pushed your shirt off completely. Your bra followed soon after, his expert hands unclasping it with ease. You barely caught sight of it being thrown haphazardly across the hall in a haze.

He tugged down your pants after popping the button, shoving them down your legs unceremoniously. You whined into his mouth, tugging at the fabric of his shirt. Letting go of your lips, he pulled the shirt over his head before coming back for more. You could get addicted to the way he kissed you, needy and full of desire. His lip ring pressed against your skin, the contrast making you sigh.

“Jump,” he mumbled against your lips before claiming them as his own once more. With ease, he hoisted your legs around his slim waist, pressing you harder against the door as he ground into you. You moaned loudly at the feeling of his clothed dick, your thin panties doing little to mask the sensation. You briefly wondered if your neighbours could hear you, but the thought left as soon as it came when Heeseung cupped your breasts roughly. “You remember the safe words?”

You nodded impatiently, moving your hips against his desperately. “Yes! Please, just fuck me,” you begged, trying and failing to feel more of him. Your hands dragged down his toned front, grasping onto his warmth like a parasite.

“Where’s your bedroom,” he asked, pulling away to look you in the eye. His bare chest heaved, his skin turning pink. The sight of Heeseung’s bruising lips and glossy eyes had you falling apart in his arms as you directed him to your bedroom.

You were less-than-gracefully dropped onto your mattress as Heeseung stood over you, unbuckling his belt. The light from the hallway illuminated him, casting a glow around his figure. His eyes never left your body, eyes roaming up and down as he rid himself of his trousers. You trained your sight on his bulge, his boxers doing little to hide his length.

“You’re mine,” he repeated, climbing over you slowly. “Mine. Your smile is mine. Your laugh is mine.” He cupped your boobs, circling your nipples with calloused thumbs as he watched you carefully. “These are mine.” Heeseung leaned forward, pressing his clothed cock against your cunt. “Fuck—this pussy’s mine too, yeah? You were made for me, all mine.”

You could only nod, not trusting your own voice, as he moved to pull your panties off. You whined when you felt the fabric stick to your folds, your slick acting like glue. Heeseung balled up the fabric, unceremoniously shoving it in your mouth. You whined, the noise coming out muffled as Heeseung pulled off his boxers, revealing his hard dick.

“You don’t need to talk,” he growled, leaning down to bite at your neck. “Clearly, you’re just a stupid bitch who doesn’t know when she should speak. Why else would you let that fuck flirt with you in front of me, huh?”

You shook your head adamantly, attempting to speak through your cum soaked panties. 

“You think he knows that you’re laying here, spread out for me like this? Do you think he knows just how fucking wet you are for me?” He slapped your cunt as he spoke, causing you to jump. A sick look of pride took over his features at the sight of your glassy eyes, drool dripping from the corner of your mouth. He dragged two fingers up your cunt from your weeping entrance up to your puffy clit. 

“Shit,” he groaned at the touch. “Gonna make you mine. Gonna fill you with my cum, so everyone knows, yeah?” Using your slick as lube, he rubbed his shaft slowly, never taking his eyes off you. You lifted your hips off the bed, wanting nothing more than for him to rail you, but he was quick to push your body down, his large palm pressing against your tummy firmly.

You cried out as best you could when he rubbed the tip of his cock against your folds, collecting your juices as he fucked against your clit. He pressed the fat tip into your entrance, the familiar burn causing your eyes to roll back. He groaned lowly as he pressed himself into you, heaving when his hips met yours.

He watched as his cock slipped in and out of your clenched hole with ease, your heat sucking him in. Pushing your legs up against your chest, Heeseung steadied himself on his knees as he buried himself in your pussy. “Fuck,” he drawled out, his head thrown back in pleasure. Your eyes trailed down his neck, his Adam’s apple jutting out deliciously as he swallowed. 

Pushing down on the back of your thighs, pressing your legs almost uncomfortably against your body, he moved with the same passion he used to kiss you in the car. You almost screamed, biting down on your soaked panties as he drilled into you. The sound of your wetness slipping against his cock was obscene, but God did Heeseung love it. He moved faster and faster, pistoling into you with an unrivalled enthusiasm.

Releasing one of your legs, he reached down to circle your clit, making you jolt up from the bed. You threw your head back, loud cries escaping your throat even through your improvised gag. “So fucking good for me,” Heeseung groaned, draping his body over you as he shoved his face into the crook of your neck. His pace never faltered, strong and hard thrusts pushing your body up the bed. “Fuck—! This fucking pussy was made for me.”

Without warning, he pulled your panties out of your mouth, now dripping with saliva. He dropped them somewhere on the bed, his hips slamming against yours as he kissed you. You moaned into the kiss, hands grabbing blindly at his back. “H-Heeseung!” You cried, burying your face into your comforter as hot tears burned the corners of your eyes.

“Come on,” he hushed, pressing against your clit faster. “Cum for me, baby. Wanna feel you cream around my cock. You can do that for me, can’t you?” You blabbered out nonsense, unable to make any coherent words as his hardness dragged along your gummy walls. You could feel the rope in your stomach tightening as his thrust became more desperate. His rhythm stayed constant, even as the back of his thighs burned and his cock twitched.

“F—uck,” he almost sobbed, his voice breaking as he fucked into you ruthlessly. “God, baby, feel so fucking good. Gonna cum inside, yeah?” His voice echoed in your ear, leaving goosebumps on your skin. You couldn’t tell if you were nodding or shaking your head to his words, your mind a mess, as all you could focus on was the feeling of his cock. “You’re gonna take it for me—shit—take it all. Don’t want any of it coming out.”

You felt something snap as you arched your back, your orgasm washing over you in brutal waves, like a tsunami crashing against your body over and over. You sobbed as Heeseung kept moving, never relenting in his pace as he chased his own release. His fingers kept circling your clit, even with your feeble attempts to push them away. “Heeseung,” you cried as overstimulation racked your body.

Heeseung swore under his breath, kissing you gently, contrasting his harsh thrusts. “I know, baby,” he sighed, sweat rolling down his face as he pecked your lips. “Just a bit longer for me, shit, you’re taking me so well.” He moaned loudly as he neared, gripping your hips tightly as he plunged into you.

He bit your shoulder as he came, ropes of thick cum painting your walls white. His hips stuttered, a quiet fuck, fuck, fuck spoken into your shoulder. Heeseung didn’t stop thrusting into you gently until his orgasm faded away, pressing his softening cock deeper into you. You could feel his cum seeping out of you, soft whimpers rumbling in your throat at the feeling.

His breath was heavy as he all but collapsed on you, using what little strength he had to hold himself up so he didn’t crush you. He left gentle kisses on the marks on your neck, making you shiver in sensitivity. He pressed a lingering peck against your lips before leaning back slightly to look you in the eye.

Heeseung shifted to move a stray hair out of your face, and you couldn’t help but melt at the way he was rubbing circles on your hip. Leaning up, your eyes fluttered closed as you kissed him, wrapping tired arms around his nape as you brought his body flush against yours. The movement made him accidentally press against your clit, and the both of you moaned into the kiss. You swiped your tongue over his lip ring, sucking it into your mouth as you moved your hips slowly.

“You’re insatiable,” he mumbled against your lips. Despite his words, he felt himself grow hard when he glanced down at your shifting hips and the ring of white around his shaft. 

“You love it,” you countered, holding him against your body tighter.

He scoffed, pressing a kiss against your forehead before rolling you over so that you were sitting on his lap, dick still inside. You squeaked when he took your hips and rolled you back and forth over his cock, your cunt still sensitive. “No more running away,” he rasped as he fucked up into you slowly.

You leaned down to kiss him once more in silent agreement.

©WONLOVIE please do not plagiarize, repost, translate, or copy any of my works.

[clingonlikeclingwrap]

I’m in hysterics over Feng Xin naming Nan Feng, it’s one thing to name a disguise that, it’s a whole OTHER thing naming a completely grown person that 😭 bro deadass changed TWO letters is he fr? 😭 I know Nan Feng is sick of him omg my chest genuinely hurts I can’t breathe 😂

I’m down on my knees here, how did Nan Feng react to that name? If my boss gave me a new name that had a two letter difference from his I would be concerned he’s trying to become my dad

HAHA NOW THAT'S A THOUGHT

At the time he was a bit too preoccupied to think about it, but when it registers later… well, it ends up becoming a secret point of pride, despite how fucking embarrassing it is 🤦

Nan Feng and Fu Yao are real deputies AU Masterpost

(Writing wip under cut)

It could have been ten times longer, or a hundred times more bloody. It could have been the cruellest slaughter you’d ever seen, could have left not a single survivor. But in the end, the pages of history did not have space for an insignificant skirmish such as this. Seemingly important, as all things were in the moment, but ultimately forgettable—by now, 600 years had passed. Who still bothered to remember? Who still lived on to wallow?

A single soldier.

Conscripted from the streets, an orphan with no name—but he’d been called all sorts of things while he fought. Frequently on the battlefield were insulting monikers like wild beast and monster brat and unkillable barbarian. And at moments of reprieve there were made-up endearments and nicknames from comrades and friends, a taste of something he’d never had before. That child had joined the army because he had nothing to lose; how ironic that only there did he find anything he wanted to keep.

But though he was greedy and clutched everything he had desperately, they slipped through his fingers all the same. One by one, then all at once. Toppled, fallen, destroyed. Nothing but ash and bone now.

So the war was over, but the battles never ceased. He’d only just grown into a name, but had no one left to call it; he had an urge for revenge, but no longer enemies to taste it. He owned nothing but a sword in his fingers and sputtering resolve in his chest, so he walked, and regretted, and having nothing better to do, joined in any fight that crossed his path. He fought because everything there was to lose, had already since been lost.

He should have learned, really. How foolish was it to make the same mistake twice? Another name laid to waste, dying along with all the ones who knew it.

But this time, someone else stood with him in the aftermath. Gore weighed down his blade, bodies stained the battered field, and he could hardly tell anymore if that warm wetness on his face was sweat or blood or tears—but someone breathed, beside him. Someone spoke.

“You,” that person called. “You fought well. What’s your name?”

“I am no one,” he said. And again, I have nothing.

“Then what do I call you?”

Names only mattered in the mouths of those who spoke it, and twice now had his been erased from living memory. Oh, he never learned. So as for what he should be called…

“You can decide.”

It must’ve been a good name after all, because 600 years had passed since then, and Nan Feng still bore it.

[bluemerakis]

┌── ˚*❀*̥˚ ─── ˚*̥❀*˚ ──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━• ❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃ •━━┛

❝ nothing left to lose ❞

⤷ Word count: 5.2k

It’s that time of the month (yippeee) and my hormones are all over the place. And then I found this gif and I just need this man to hold me this way because I feel like it could solve a world crisis. Thank you.

═════════════════

PAIRINGS:

S7!Negan x fem!reader

WARNINGS:

Cussing, fluff, mentions of reader on her period, tame cutesie stuff

SYNOPSIS:

It had been another fairly quiet day as you lounged about the Sanctuary, your mood only dampened by the first day of your period. You were perfectly content to dwell in your bed and rot away for the remainder of the week, not so eager to do much else when the twisting and contracting of your stomach was so prominent, but those plans are set awry when Negan makes a stop at your room with his usual request for a good time.

When you enlighten him on your situation, he decides he’d like to stay regardless and indulge in your company, revealing a side to him you weren’t aware he had.

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It had been roughly a month since a group of saviours had scavenged you from your pathetic life of living off the woods. You’d been practically half-starved when the saviours had found you, a pitiful amalgamation of skin and bones that served no purpose other than to earn their ridicule. They’d have put you down and served you up as walker deterrent for their borders had it not been for one of the men recognising your face.

You’d been tracking the Sanctuary’s dealings for quite some time then, successfully managing to map out their routines and planning sparse trips to steal a few supplies from the pick up points. You’d had a few close calls, but even then you were like a goddamn shadow, in and out quicker than a blink. The men had never managed to catch you—up until that day, at least. The man had insisted you be dragged back to the Sanctuary, where Negan would hear of your actions and decide the best manner to make you atone for them.

Much to everybody’s surprise, though, he’d been oddly impressed with your skill—despite it being a massive leech on their supplies. His anger was more directed at the inability for his men to contain your posed threat, especially since you were no more than ‘a ghost of a woman’. You’d decided to ignore the implied misogyny in his words, instead focusing on the relief in his decision to spare your life—tied to the condition that you become his wife, of course. You’d reluctantly obliged, acutely aware of how the title would come to violate your own morals at some point, but he’d promised good treatment and up until now, he’d been nothing but true to his word.

The murmur of a light rain trailed through the crack of your partially opened window, infusing the atmosphere of your dim room with a further sense of serenity. You were curled up between the sheets of your bed, lounging on your aching stomach as you paged through your book of the week—a one thousand-paged hardcover on the tragedy of wars. It didn’t play into your usual tastes—it was far from it, actually, but there were so few options available that you couldn’t afford to be picky. It was amazing, really, what things you could convince yourself to indulge in when you were burdened with nothing but free time.

When you’d decidedly punished your stomach—and your mind—enough, you sluggishly rolled onto your side with a groan, flipping the book closed in the process. You didn’t think you could endure another mention of forced cannibalism, and you were only two hundred-odd pages into the historical hell. You doubted you’d find the strength to power through this pick, never having been much of a history fan to begin with.

Your back was turned on the book now, and there it stayed out of sight and out of mind as your eyes fluttered closed around a pressing series of cramps. You instinctively tucked into the foetal position, as though it would somehow lovingly cradle your stomach cramps and encourage it to ease off its painful hold. When the sensation didn’t budge, you opted for resting your eyes, allowing darkness to consume you as you fried to focus on the pattering of the rain against your window. In a way, nature had always been a mother, the rain her very own gentle lullaby that encouraged warmth and a long, peaceful sleep. You’d never get tired of that particular song.

A string of impatient knocks booted your door. You’d barely managed to open your eyes and give permission to enter before you heard the wood creek open, heavy footsteps striking the floor for only a few moments before silence re-emerged. Your head remained pressed against your pillow, your eyes squinting against the dim air as you managed to make out the tall figure of Simon. His arms were crossed against his chest as he glared at you motionlessly through the haze. You didn’t offer the courtesy of sitting up to greet him, which is as much as he’d offered by not waiting for your answer at the door.

“What?” You demanded, the echo of your voice damped by the downfall of rain.

“You know what,” Simon answered bluntly with that coarse annoyance edging his tone. “I don’t make a habit of visiting you for fun. If I’m here, it’s cause Negan’s in the mood for your goods.”

“God,” you groaned, finally lifting your head to properly glare at Simon. “Don’t ever say that again.” You settled for turning onto your back, your head upturned to face the white ceiling. There was a brief moment of silence before you sighed and said, “tell Negan that I’ll be unavailable for the next week.”

“Unavailable?” Simon echoed with a scoff. “You got some other plans we don’t know about?”

“Just my period, dipshit,” you responded thinly before lifting your hand in a shooing gesture. “Now scoot.”

Much to your dismay, Simon’s footsteps seemed to grow closer instead of further, and moments later his silhouette appeared at the foot of your bed. You felt a spark of annoyance at his insistence—the blood that quite literally poured from your insides left you little patience for social interactions.

“You think a little blood’s gonna deter Negan?” The man asked you, his tone mocking at the idea that you could be so stupid. “You’ve seen the guy, he can’t go a single day without that shit smeared all over him. Matters little to him how the blood is obtained—you know?”

You did. Murder and women, the two things Negan couldn’t absolutely ever have his fill of. But you also knew that you’d never been the one to frolic around while on your period, a fact that Negan would have to make peace with. Not only did you find it unappealing, but needlessly messy, too, and you’d rather not spend the aftermath of it all wringing your sheets out. No, your answer was final.

“You’re ruining my peace,” you told Simon pointedly, your eyes still studying the beams that reached between the walls of your room and upheld your pointed ceiling. When he didn’t seem to falter from his position, you sat yourself up with a huff, your fingers clutching your propped up knees. “Tell Negan that I politely decline his request—that is, if you have the balls to. Clearly you’ve got some reservations since you’re still loitering in my room after my many invitations for you to take your leave.”

Simon ignored your jest, running his hand across his hair to tame rogue strands. “He ain’t gon’ take nicely to your answer, sweetheart,” he said.

The pet name made your stomach curl beyond the cramps. “He’ll get over it when he gets on-top of the next wife.”

“Nah,” the man disagreed, rubbing a hand across his moustache. “You know he’s got some special obsession with you. You’ve been here for what—less than a month? Yet you’ve already left quite a mark on the boss-man.” He paused as his gaze lowered across you. “Can’t say I get the charm beyond your beckoning tits and ass.”

You glowered at his crudeness. “Gross, Simon. This is why you’re going to die alone, and the only hint of action you’ll ever experience is the caress of that explosion of bad taste stuck beneath your nose.”

Simon looked briefly offended by your dig at his stash, his jaw evidently clenched around his reckless temper, but he didn’t dare to unleash his fist or tongue. One of the few perks of being Negan’s wife was that you were awarded the opportunities to condescend his men time and time again, yet they were completely helpless in returning the sentiment—that is if they wanted to remain in goodwill at Negan’s side as opposed to being plastered along Lucille’s length.

“I’ll let Negan know,” was all that Simon offered before he departed your room, clearly eager to preserve what little dignity he had left. He made a point to slam the door behind him, which only made you chuckle.

Oh men and their fragile egos.

You could hardly believe they’d been made to rule the earth when their entire masculinity could so easily collapse at their rejected cock. You eased yourself back against the mattress, unable to help the faint smirk spread across your lips as your eyes fluttered closed once more. You were prepared for your second attempt at a nap, the rain growing progressively louder beyond a light drizzle. You remembered seeing the swath of grey clouds stretched across the horizon like an impending doom when you’d opened your windows this morning. It seemed that they’d finally arrived to deliver their promise of a heavy downpour.

It wasn’t long before the hum of the rain became distorted by your amassing fatigue, sleep arriving hastily to claim what remnants of your consciousness remained. You had surrendered all control, so eager to melt into the peaceful expanse of black where you could leave behind your mortal pain. You’d barely been gifted half an hour of that haven before Negan’s voice tethered you and withdrew you from the dark breaches of your mind, your eyes flickering open. You hadn’t even even heard him enter the bedroom.

“Holdin’ up there, sweetheart?”

The second greeting of his presence came at the menacing outline of Lucille, remarkably propped along his broad shoulder as he idled a few steps from the foot of your bed. You drew a clumsy palm across your tired eyes, attempting to chase away the drowsiness that clung heavily to your lids.

“Did something get lost in translation?” You managed to say, your voice slightly abraded by grogginess.

“Not the warm greeting a man expects to hear from his wife after a long and shit-filled day,” Negan said with a sultry gruffness, moving to take up a seat beside your torso.

The mattress dipped beside you, prompting you to turn your head and glance at him. “I’m sure one of the other girls can pick up my slack,” you suggested bluntly.

Your disinterest only seemed to earn that all-knowing smirk from Negan. “Goddammit, woman, you’ve got balls,” he remarked though that wide grin, his head slightly cocked to properly glimpse your face. He lowered Lucille from his shoulder, his hands propping onto the hilt as he planted the bat against the ground and leaned his weight onto it. “And that’s exactly why you’re my favourite wife. Hell, you even got me to walk the extra mile just to come and see you.”

“Not on purpose,” you sighed dejectedly, your eyes wandering along the glinting folds of his leather jacket. He did look good in that jacket—not that you’d ever milk his ego by admitting it. “If Simon truly had the nerve to refer my answer, you’d know that coming here was a waste of time. You’re going to have to fill your blood quota elsewhere.”

“Ah, come on,” he drawled, his gaze unrelenting through those darn hypnotising eyes of his. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but ain’t a good poking of the colons a great way to relieve some of the pain?” He asked pointedly. “In other words, you ought to let me fuck those asshole cramps right outta you. What’s a little blood, anyways?”

At that statement, you couldn’t help the flit of your eyes toward Lucille, the object always so menacing even when benched on the sidelines. You dragged your attention back to Negan’s expectant expression with a beleaguered sigh. “I don’t care what you get off on, Negan,” you told him. “Have your bloody fill of it anywhere else, but not here. I said no, and I meant it.”

You half expected him to further knead at the angle he was currently working, eventually wearing you down to a state that could almost be called consent—what more could you expect from a sadistic, murderous fanatic? A sudden cramp displaced that particular trail of thought, causing you to discreetly tense your lower half, inside of your lip taken into bite as an instinctual coping mechanism.

Negan’s head tilted back slightly with a trace of a chuckle, his tongue then poking through to glide along his lower lip as he gazed at you through narrowly thoughtful eyes. “All right,” he relented—much to your surprise. Had somebody knocked Negan out cold on the way here and taken his place? “If you’re going to deny my very eager balls a pleasurable time, the least you can do is entertain me with a conversation.”

You challenged the weight of his stare—ever so flirtatious regardless of the circumstances. “You’ve literally enslaved an entire selection of women,” you pointed out crassly. “Go bother one of them instead.”

“Enslaved?” He repeated, his eyebrows perched on a look of incredulity. “I didn’t enslave any one of those women. I’m a fair man—I believe in free will and I always honour my word. I weigh the options, I offer a choice—” he lifted one hand to gesture to himself, “—and they made their choice.”

“After you coerced them,” you said around a thick yawn, blinking away the moisture along your eyes as you focused your growing alertness on him. You sat yourself up with a muffled grunt, ignoring the sharp pains that struck your stomach with the movements. “You’re not a democrat. You’re just a bully with an unhealthy attachment to a bat. It’s like Negan’s version of Bonnie and Clyde.”

Negan fixated you with a long look, his expression ever so unrelenting on what thoughts were passing through that tainted mind of his. “You’ve got an awful lotta spunk for somebody actin’ like she’s on her deathbed,” he deflected, a short moment of silence following shortly after. “What about you—girl who knows what she wants and doesn’t take shit from the next gapin’ asshole?”

“What about me?”

“Did I coerce you, too?” He inquired huskily, his eyes narrowing in an almost dare for you to answer honestly.

You hadn’t ever needed much convincing to speak your mind. “Absolutely,” you answered simply, then paused before adding, “have you honestly managed to convince yourself that either one of your wives want to be here?” Your head was slightly tilted out of sheer curiosity, amazed at how painfully naive he appeared to be—for once.

Negan’s lips were spread thin with a smirk, parting as he said, “I appreciate your honesty. Although I’d be lying if I said I ain’t a tad bit hurt.”

A severe cramp seized your stomach, causing you to throw your face into your pillow. “Oh, you don’t know hurt, Negan,” you groaned. “If you truly had the capacity to feel, please be so kind as to spare me your company so that I can rot away in peace.”

He straightened up from the Lucille’s prop, his expression becoming inquisitive. “All right, I’ll leave,” he eased off, attention dropping to his lap, where he carefully rested the bat and stroked suggestively at her barbwire-infused wooden length. “And I guess I’ll be takin’ these with me,” he added, one hand dipping into his leather jacket to pull out a small, plastic cylinder labelled ibuprofen.

Your eyes practically bulged at the offering. Pain medication was strictly reserved for post-surgical cases and the physically wounded—those marred by gunshot wounds, blades, or even brute fists—you name it. That was Negan’s self-imposed rule. In this dying world, pain medication certainly wasn’t a medical luxury extended to lesser problems like a woman’s period pains—despite the entire gender technically being a victim of the repeated assault of severe period cramps. For at least a week of every month. For at least five decades of their lives.

“The fuck?” You murmured, hand reaching for the medication as though needing to feel it’s physical form to believe it’s existence.

Negan plucked it out of reach with a shit-eating grin. “You want it?” He taunted, propping his elbow onto his knee as he rattled the container between his fingers.

Your hand hesitated mid-air, expression becoming bleary as you hesitantly asked, “what’s it gonna cost me?”

“Question of the century,” he answered vaguely, intense stare beating down on you. He looked almost scheming, and that wasn’t a strange mask to wear—not for Negan Smith. But for once, his actions surprised you in a way that wasn’t coupled by repulsion. “Y’know, you’re a pain in my ass, ‘cause I can’t help but have a soft spot for girls like you—all feisty and opinionated and sure as hell ready to give my big balls a real good talking to.” The hand which clutched the medication gravitated toward you, offering it up without the tether of debt. “On the house, since I’m the boss man around here callin’ all the big, bloody shots.”

Your eyes narrowed cautiously, your hand slowly reaching to acquire your personal saving grace. You half expected Negan to yank it away as a feat of ridicule, but his hand remained steadfast, his expression eerily intense as he overlooked your internal war with a light undertone of amusement quirking the corner of his lips.

“Ya want it, or not?”

You took it from his grasp, bringing it closer to examine the legitimacy of the label. “I’m the only thorn in your foot because everybody else is scared of you,” you said distractedly, eyes then flickering from the medication to meet his idling stare.

Negan adjusted his torso to appear taller, Lucille slipping between his thighs to prod the floor under his guiding grip. “But not you,” he reaffirmed.

“I used to be.”

“Yeah?” He husked, eyes narrowed interestedly, tongue momentarily poking through his grin—as it so often did. “The hell’s changed? Real world toughen you up? Ya got a pair o’ steel down there now?”

You brushed aside his snark. “Nothing’s changed, really,” you admitted, attention drifting as you popped open the lid of the container. “But I’ve got nothing left to lose, and the worst you could do is make jam out of my brains.” You dispensed a tablet into your palm, then clicked the lid closed. “But you won’t,” you stated, meeting his gaze boldly.

Negan’s head tilted with a far too entertained air. “Why’s that?”

“Same reason you’re here. I’m your favourite wife, apparently—and what’s a man like you to do without his wife? You might just implode without a place to stick it,” you jabbed. “I’m always the one you come running to with all your shit—god knows why.”

“I gotta say, that’s mighty cocky of you,” he drawled through a grin, hand moving to whisk across his bearded jaw. “And that’s comin’ from me.”

You offered him the ibuprofen, a ghost of a cheeky-lipped grin setting in. “Force of habit when I’m obliged to be at your side every other hour of the day. Honestly, you only have yourself to blame.”

His grin widened, eyes leering you over before dipping to the container you re-offered him. “Nah,” he murmured. “Keep it. And not a word ‘bout it—I ain’t got time for ants up my ass when the other gals get wind of the shit I ain’t doin’ for them.”

“That supposed to make me feel special?” You jested. “Or just a threat?”

Negan’s lip hitched with a smirk—silent ambiguity, and reached a hand into his pocket to procure a fresh orange, bottled water and a packet of chips—your favourite chips. “That shit’ll put ya in a grave on an empty stomach,” he averted, chin jutting to the pill in your palm. He leaned over to place the snacks on the bedside table, offering you a sidelong glance. “I know your panties get all hot for this stale sack of shit,” he said, beckoning to your chips, then added, “and the orange will keep up that energy of yours—y’know, boost the spirit and fuel that friskiness o’ yours.”

You scowled indignantly as he took a swipe at your taste in chips. “Those aren’t my favourite chips,” you lied defensively, moving to place the pill beside your newly acquired snacks. “It’s practically the only brand that’s left in the midst of this dying world—so none of us can afford to be picky, can we?”

Honestly, you’d have to admit it to yourself that the chips being spared even in the midst of the apocalypse didn’t bode well for your case, but why go down without a meaningless fight?

Negan chuckled all-knowingly, settling Lucille onto the ground before he leaned his elbow onto the mattress beside you and brought his lips into the proximity of your face. “Tasteless or not, I’m willin’ to bet my dick that you’ll be back asking for more,” he murmured, hazel eyes glazed with that bedroom sex-haze as he delicately searched between your eyes.

Your attention flickered between him and the flashy, grit teeth poking through the lips you’d tasted countless times, his words so open-ended for interpretation—because Negan Smith loved playing games. “Are we still talking about the chips?” You asked softly, eyebrow hitched expectantly.

“We can talk about whatever you goddamn want,” he grumbled huskily, lips making an advance for yours, but you brought your hand up to press an index finger into the divot of his chin.

“I told you,” you began, “not happening—not today. So, off you scamper to the next wife for a good tickle.”

“Cut that crap,” Negan chided levelly, then reached for your hand and pried it from his chin. “The others can wait, let’s just get you up and runnin’ because it’s been a goddamn buzzkill on my dick.”

“Oh, how terrible for you,” you sniped, brows furrowing at his nerve.

He seized your hand in a tight grip to place a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes narrowed around an intense gaze as he maintained eye contact throughout the gesture. You fought the urge to yank your hand free out of spite. Once his lips retracted from your skin, he tucked your hand between your bodies as he leant down to place a kiss on your forehead instead. It was a rather gentle touch—the most intimate one he’s ever bestowed on you, but it didn’t linger long before he pulled back and released your hand.

“Jesus, burnin’ up all for me?” He remarked, pressing the backside of his fingers to your forehead before they caressed the expanse and moved to push back the loose strands of hair that cascaded around your view. “You’re hot as shit.”

“I am, thank you,” you said suggestively, adding more earnestly, “it happens sometimes—I think my body is literally trying to kill me.”

He pulled back his hand from your hair, finger trailing down the angle of your jaw before he withdrew his touch entirely. “Yeah, well, you’re tough as nails, so tell the biological bitch to dial it down a notch.”

“Duly noted,” you murmured, reaching for the orange atop the bedside stand, your attention deliberately downturned to the fruit in clutch as you began to peel it while simultaneously reflecting on the situation presented before you.

You were thankful for the medication, but it felt odd to hold a sense of gratitude for a man like Negan, and you had not the slightest idea on how to handle the foreign phenomenon. Even a month ago, when he’d quite literally plucked you from death’s claws, there was no gratitude to behold—his motives in sparing you had always been selfish. But this instance? This was an action you thought beyond his emotional capacity.

You’d thought his better conscious had been so far lost to a history of bad and reckless decisions that there was not a slither of DNA left still capable of holding regard for others—but this act of his prompted you to reconsider that notion. After all, he owed you nothing, and you owed him everything, yet it was him that had come to settle.

A manipulative tactic? Possibly. You weren’t all that naive to allow this instance alone to so easily sway your opinion on him. He was still of questionable character—and that moral debate could ricochet for an endless amount of hours.

You spared yourself the turmoil and brought yourself to it, lifting your head to meet his stare once more. He’d been watching you enigmatically, without his usual running commentary to fill the void—it felt uncomfortable to have a silence so long settle between the two of you.

You decided to settle for a simple, “thanks, by the way,” as you set aside the discarded orange peels and began to thumb at the centre to separate the slices. “For the medication,” you clarified, popping a slice into your mouth. The first bite was an explosion of sultry sweetness, a true pleasure to behold.

Negan gave somewhat of an accomplished smirk. “I got ya,” he answered, his gaze lingering incoherently on you before he blinked away the haze and straightened himself from the bed with a grunt. “Take a hot bath—” he suggested, hoisting up Lucille from her position on the ground, “—hopefully that Lady Uterus o’ yours will let loose for a bit.”

He strung the bat across his shoulder—the rightful queen atop her throne, and turned to begin his amble toward the door.

“Are you going to draw it for me?” You asked him hopefully, which made him halt and partially turn his torso to face you.

He gave a half-hearted chuckle. “What’re you, ten?” He jested.

“If only,” you retorted wistfully. “The only stomach ache ten year old me ever got was because of one too many bags of chips.” You caught yourself at the mention of chips, then felt the need to clarify, “the good kind, not these ones.”

Negan lips spread with amusement. “What a goddamn time to be alive,” he stated.

“I’ll say,” you murmured, then turned your attention back to your diminishing orange. “Anyway, if you’re done bothering me now, I’ll draw that bath.”

“Damn, I stick my neck out for you and I don’t even get to stay for the show?”

“You’re always getting a show,” you retorted. “Let a girl have some alone time, for once. Besides, there’s no such thing as you sticking your neck out, seeing as you’re the one usually holding the guillotine.”

Negan chuckled, his eyes holding a mischievous glint. “Touché,” was all he offered. “I’ll draw you that bath.”

You perked with surprise, the last orange slice popped between your lips. “Only enough water for one,” you mumbled around the sweet, stringy flesh, brows lifted with implication. “Just in case you were getting any ideas.”

“Oh, I got ideas,” he hummed, scheming grin on his lips. “The meds I got ya? On the house. This? This’ll cost ya a little something. And once you’re feeling right as rain, I’ll come and collect.”

You gave a slight flicker of your eyes. “Okay, tax man,” you said, reaching for the bottled water and pill. “Whatever Negan wants.”

“Atta girl,” he praised, hand raised to point an index finger in your direction. “Now you’re startin’ to sound like a commendable wife—almost enough to make good ol’ Lucille here jealous.”

“Leave your weird bat out of this,” you said before splitting open the seam of the sealed bottle and taking an eager swig at the liquid. You popped the pill into your mouth shortly after and gave a hard swallow, your expression furrowing in disgust when it momentarily lodged itself against your tongue with the kiss of a bitter tang. After another gulp of water, it slid down uninterrupted.

“Somebody’s parched,” Negan remarked. “Never seen you take my seed that eagerly.”

You gave him a hearty middle finger, to which he scoffed amusedly and disappeared a short distance into your offside en-suite. “How hot?” He called back to you. “Three quarters to the hottest?”

“Sounds right,” you called back to him. “And add the bath oils, too!”

“Useless shit.”

“Let a girl indulge, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, settling against the mattress while you listened to the sound of the drawing bath. You noted the calm of the weather beyond the window, where a barely perceptible drizzle thrummed down gently.

It wasn’t long before Negan reappeared at your side, Lucille carefully discarded onto the foot of the bed before he inched his way onto the mattress and you felt his frame curl around your backside. Heat radiated from his body and flushed your back with a sense of comfort, his lips then finding the nape of your neck. He pressed a kiss there, his hand gently curling around your abdomen, as though he knew to take precaution around your sensitive area.

You shifted your neck away from his teasing lips, casting him a glance over your shoulder. “Why are you doing this?” You felt compelled to ask—this tender facade of his was disconcerting.

Negan’s held your stare levelly. “You’re my wife,” he stated simply. “A real man takes care of his wife.”

“Yeah, but that’s not real,” you said. “None of this is real—it’s all a made up, a twisted way for you to pass time. Us wives? We’re nothing but entertainment to you—so why all this effort?”

There was a brief pause from his side before he answered you with a sense of solemnity that you’d never truly seen him possess. “I said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?” He asked. “Hell, I know what desperation feels like. She’s a stone cold bitch, and you were nothin’ more than a husk of a person when we picked you up in those woods. You’re a fighter—death ain’t got a fuckin’ lead on you. I mean, shit, that deserves some respect—and I give that only where it’s due. So, call it respect, call it whatever you’d like, but just take the goddamn win, won’t ya?”

You listened intently, an emotion of something other than annoyance settling within your chest at his somewhat glorified image of you. For the first time ever, you didn’t know how to respond. It was easy to strike back when most of the conversation shared between the two of you was shallow, bitter banter, but as of this moment, this situation-ship was starting to feel as though the foundation was being built on something other than debt, and that thought was daunting.

“Bath should be drawn by now,” you said eventually, settling your head back into the pillow, glad to displace the view of Negan’s face.

The hand at your abdomen slid away as he lifted himself up with a grunt of effort. “Then you best go and dip your toes,” he said.

You took a moment to heave a breath before rolling over and sitting yourself up from the bed, to which Negan stepped a pace back to allow you the room to stand up. You straightened from the mattress that had held you captive for the entirety of the morning, offering Negan a long stare, who returned it with a grin that felt as though your thoughts were transparent to him.

You shouldn’t, but you wanted to. Fuck it, you would—you’d said it yourself, nothing left to lose, right? You brushed past him and hoisted a beckoning hand over your shoulder, followed by a sparse, cheeky glance.

“Come with me,” you told him.

“I like the sound of that,” Negan chuckled, trailing after you with a confident charisma. “Looks like I’m gettin’ that show after all.”

“Shut up about it.”

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