#that's the only word i remember from the song. so it's that. or...well...back to my obsession

[munsonify]

Hello! Since u write for Joaquin could we get a fic based on the song Moonlight bc Kali Uchis please 🥹 thank you in advance 💘

a/n. hi! absolutely, thanks for sending this in! ❤️ i love joaquin and i love kali uchis this is my shit. i decided to do this based off of lyrics and the vibes i get from the song. also i perhaps went a little to heavy on the setup of the fic but shhh. i hope you can see the vision i had for this! (click link on title to see song on spotify)

moonlight - joaquin torres x fem!reader

summary. you’re always joaquin’s plus one at events, and tonight was no different. this time around, however, after joaquin attended to what he needed to, you two were desperate to get away from the crowd and enjoy each others company

content warnings. so much fluff, sexual tension, established relationships, r in a dress+heels, secluded make out sess, joaquin being insatiable and absolutely adorable, very little alcohol consumption, pet names (pretty girl, baby, baby girl), thunderbolts spoilers

word count. 3362

———

it was important that joaquin and sam made public appearances together to keep up a good image. with everything that’d happened within the past few years - the snap reversal, sam taking over the responsibility of being captain america, several mishaps that had to do with superhero’s, ones that usually didnt give them the best rep - they needed to make sure the public knew they were on their side. that they are here to help.

and, while joaquin didnt mind attending these events, it was always nice having you around. with you around, the tension in his jaw and his shoulders eased up. he’s personable, charming, kind, and you know that of him very well. that didn’t stop him from becoming a little stressed during these sort of relations and the formality of it all. when you’re by his side, delicate hand placed on his bicep, a sweet, reassuring smile shining over at him, he remembers that it’s all okay. he remembers to loosen up a little, to breathe, that you always have his back.

more importantly, you help joaquin remember why he began doing this in the first place. people need someone to step in and protect, someone who’s dedicated and passionate. he knows he can be that person, it’s who he strives to be every day. and, despite making one too many lighthearted jokes to the wrong person, or nearly knocking things over from walking aimlessly, he still manages to charm people over. you admire every last bit of that about the man.

tonight there was a fundraising event sam thought was best for them to attend. fundraisers were always a little easier for joaquin, a little less tense. while government hearings had a lot more on the line, a little more difficult to navigate, fundraisers first and foremost required his compassion and empathy. easy. regardless, he was able to bring a plus one, a spot he filled without hesitation.

that’s how you, joaquin, and sam ended up in the back of a limo, riding steady through new york city to the venue.

“you think bucks gonna be here?” joaquin asked, leaned back and casual in his seat. you couldn’t help but admire how good he looked in his suit with his hair combed back out of his eyes, strands that curled slightly at the ends through the gel.

“now that he’s working with valentina, there’s no way in hell he’s not,” sam scoffed, head shaking slightly. he was right. while bucky might not be the best at public relations, valentina was, both out of necessity and desperation. she knew how to work and redirect a crowd. besides, he was there during the incident - crumbling buildings, cars gone airborne, people turned to darkened shadows-, it was only right he made an appearance. it wouldn’t be a surprised if valentina dragged the rest of the newfound “team” along with them.

joaquin couldn’t help but chuckle, his mind clearly fumbling through a long line of remarks to spew out. “poor guy can’t even articulate senate cases properly, there’s no chance he’s making it through trying to justify what happened,” he joked, earning another scoff from the man. the small smirk the played on yours and sam’s face was enough to egg him on. joaquin straightened up his shoulders as he began to impersonate bucky the vest he could, voice deepening slightly, trying his best to be brooding.

“the incident was… very bad, very unfortunate, ya know. it was a very bad thing that happened. i just so happened to be there when the very unfortunate thing occurred.”

a small giggle slipped from your lips, smiling wide at joaquin as he spoke. sam was pushing back a small smile that tried to force its way onto his face. even if he didn’t want to admit it, joaquin was amusing. only sometimes. the three of you didn’t get much else in before you’d finally arrived at the venue, pulling up as close to the entrance as the driver could.

sam was the first out of the vehicle, stepping out and immediately being hit with camera flashes, a few of the photographers shouting to get his attention. joaquin was next, though he stalled only slightly so you could give him a gentle, reassuring kiss on the lips. he ignored the camera flashes and the voices as he stepped out, immediately turning to offer you a hand, one you accepted gratefully. he helped you out of the limo, letting go only when you found your footing, the heels you wore a little higher than you were used to.

joaquin was quick to offer his arm up to you in replacement of his hand. your hand slipped right below his bicep near the crook of his elbow, throwing a smile his way as he begins guiding you up towards the entrance. he gave the photographers a few polite waves as you two followed sam inside. you realized during the flashes of the cameras that you’d accidentally left traces of lipgloss on his lips.

“baby,” you cooed quietly as you stepped into the building, giving his arm a small squeeze to get his attention. joaquin hummed a pleasant ‘yeah’, head turning towards you. “you’ve got a little lipgloss on you.”

all he did was give you a small smile and a shrug of his shoulders before he leaned in to whisper. “i think i’ll live.”

joaquin continued to walk you proudly through the venue, eyes wandering around to figure out where he should be. sam stopped him to give him some direction, a few pointers to keep him afloat for the night. be respectful, show that you care, be optimistic about rebuilding what was lost. he could do that.

many business were destroyed during the attack, apartments in shambles and cars wedged into poles. with you by his side, hovering in the vicinity as he spoke, or simply seeing you in the corner of his eye entertaining a government official in his boring, long drawn out story, he was able to keep pushing. a journalist had a few pressing questions for joaquin to answer, ones he was more than happy to answer. in regards to what the world could expect from him and sam in efforts to make sure that was a contained incident, he gave the best answer he could muster on the spot.

while they may not have a proper plan, they had spoken on a few occasions about it. this was his time to keep it short and simple, dodge the question a little, maybe even throw in a small joke.

“as we move forward with the relief team, our biggest priority is making sure everyone gets back on their feet. we’re closely monitoring any activity that occurs in the area, and so far we’ve been in the clear. have you seen yet? the dust finally settled.”

that finalized the impromptu interview, joaquin bidding her a goodbye with a firm handshake, before the journalist walked off. he’d been speaking with people for what felt like nonstop, the two and a half hours starting to bear down on him. right when the exhaustion threatened to sink in, he caught eye of you. the prettiest, most respectful smile graced your face, lips still shiny with lipgloss. you held a champagne glass loosely in both hands as you nodded along with the woman in front of you.

joaquin slowly found his way towards you, tuning in immediately to the conversation you were having. he was sure the conversation was nice, he realized quickly she was speaking of a book she published. she only stopped for a few seconds to shake his hand and introduce herself, eyes lighting up when she recognized who he was. she was quick to stumble back into the conversation, detailing a little more on her research.

for once, joaquin didn’t feel like he needed to take the lead in the conversation, or have much of importance to say. he let you finish out what you had started, watching as you nod along and add quips and responses at the perfect moments. he nodded along, too, despite being thoroughly distracted.

he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. you had your hair made up nice to accompany long, delicate black dress you wore. the fabric hugged your curves perfectly, sitting just right on your body. there was a slit in the dress that dragged up one of your thighs just high enough for joaquin’s mind to slip away slightly. it wasn’t until he noticed the glass in your hands shift to only one, reaching your free hand to give the woman a firm shake. he mindlessly followed your direction, shaking her hand right afterwards.

“it was very nice talking to you, ma’am,” you spoke, your polite smile still gracing your lips. she offered the same sentiment before she excused herself, walking off to greet someone she seemed to know. your shoulders visibly relaxed when she was far enough away, body turning towards your boyfriend for the first time in around an hour. joaquin seemed just as relieved to be by your side again without all of the formality.

a hand of his slipped to your waist, tugging you slightly towards him in a gentle, unprovoked sort of possessiveness. he simply missed having your attention and having you near him, something he made that very clear to you. you knew his tell signs, you were always quick to pick up on them. the gleam in his eyes as he looked at you made your heart flutter, even more so now that he’s speaking to you in a whisper.

“missed you, pretty girl. think i can steal you away for a second?” your nose scrunched up slightly at his compliment, humming out slightly as you began to think, a fake sort of contemplation that joaquin could see right through. you let your free hand move to smooth up his chest, fingers sprawled out slightly, feeling his heartbeat quicken just barely under your touch.

“i think so, handsome,” you finally said, hand moving to smooth the white button up you’d wrinkled slightly. joaquin’s large hand found its way to your lower back, before gently guiding you through the busy room. he helped you weave through people until he found a staircase to ascend. that’s when his hand moved to yours, walking you up the stairs all the way to the second floor.

joaquin didn’t stop walking you guys through the building until he found a narrow, empty hallway that didn’t seem to be of use. there was a lengthy window at the end of the hallway, one that let a sliver of moonlight shine through. gently illuminating the ground. the warm light from inside of the venue helped you properly take in your boyfriend in his entirety. he truly did look handsome tonight, he always looked especially good in a tux.

you always tried to take a moment to take him in when he was done up like this, something about him in formal making your knees a little weak. joaquin noticed every time you started to zone in on it, too, you gave it away easily. he was careful with the way he corned you against the wall, his hand grasping your glass and setting it on the ground, far enough away that it wouldn’t get kicked. he noticed the way your eyes were dragging along his face, your bottom lip being tugged between your teeth. your hands smoothed against his shoulders, feeling his muscles even through his tux.

“busy night tonight,” you spoke, filling the silence as joaquin’s hands found their way to your waist, his hold firm as he keeps you against the wall. you decided to wrap your arms around his shoulders, trying to discreetly tug him near you a little more.

“i know, barely got to see you,” he spoke lowly, eyes trailing down to your lips. his tiredness was evident, though he seemed a little more lively now that he had you alone for the time being.

joaquin gave into you happily, moving to slot himself right against you, broad chest against yours. he tried not to think too hard about how your chest felt against his, soft and in view, something he thanked himself for. he’d bought this dress for you, and even though his intentions were for you to have another formal dress to add to your collection, the plunging neckline was a very nice bonus. joaquin’s lips found yours in a soft, needy kiss, slotting between yours with a little pout.

your lipgloss clung to his lips again, this time making an audible clicking sound when you pulled away. when his eyes opened up again, eyelashes fluttering, you were already looking at him. your eyelids were hooded slightly as you admired his gentle features, noticing the stubble that was beginning to grow in. you brought a hand over to to reach for his jawline, fingertips dragging across the subtle hair with care.

“let’s get outta here, baby,” joaquin whispered just before leaning in for another kiss, this time a little slower, more intentional. you kept your hand at his jaw to cradle it, kissing him back with a desire that’d been pilling up since the moment you’d gotten here. between how good he looked, the way he took the lead and guided you around, and the multiple lingering stares you gave each other all night, there was no reason you wouldn’t be feeling this way.

“and leave sam alone?” you questioned breathlessly, lips parted slightly after the kiss he’d given you. joaquin smiled a little, shaking his head at your words. his arms moved to wrap around your waist, moving you away from the wall just a little. he gave you another quick peck on the lips before he responded.

“bucky’s here,” he pointed out, maintaining an eye contact that kept you just as breathless as before. “besides, he’s a big boy. he can manage the last 40 minutes alone. we’ve done our part.”

“i’m sold,” you told him, giving him a smile to match his. this time, you pulled him in for a kiss, a lot more forward than his had been, a deeper kiss, yet still slow. your tongue swiped against his bottom lip teasingly, as if trying to get a rise out of him. it worked the moment you pulled away, joaquin’s eyebrows knitting together at the loss of contact.

a hand of his found the back of your neck, holding you firm, guiding you back to his lips. that’s what kickstarted a slow make out session, joaquin’s lips warm against yours, coaxing your mouth open just enough for his tongue to find its way in. the kiss was a little wet and laced with need, so much so that you’d hardly remembered where you were.

only a few minutes had gone by with his lips on yours in a perfect unison before the two of you heard footsteps nearby, pulling you away from the moment. a small string of spit attached to your lips and broke quicker than you could process it. you glance over to see three men walking past you, not even noticing your presence as they continue on and talk. joaquin’s eyes, however, never leave you. he leaned in to place a kiss to your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear.

your eyes finally made their way back to him, a loving, dopey expression on his face. you brought your other hand over to cradle his face in your hands, feeling his arms going back to wrapping around your waist again. you were both lovesick, giddy, tired. it was evident in his eyes, though filled with so much love, that he was worn.

“if we’re quick enough sam wont even notice we left,” you whispered to joaquin, watching his face light up. “you’re tired, i can see it in your face. it’s time to get us home.”

he nodded at your words in a silent agreement, letting you reach down to grab his hands, finally guiding him like he’d been doing for you. still, he helped you gently down the stairs, letting you steady yourself in your heels as you descended. you thought you were being stealthy, quiet, quick. clearly, it hadn’t been good enough, sam appearing behind you two just before you’d exited the building. you whipped around at the sound of his voice, stopping in your tracks like a deer caught in headlights.

“you couldn’t even bother to say bye to me?” sam asked, a little offended. his eyebrows were raised slightly as he stood there staring. joaquin stared at him for a split second before he raised a hand up, waving at him.

“bye, sam,” he said, a small smirk playing on his lips. all sam could do was fumble with his phone, moving to send a text.

“take the limo, i’ll find a way back,” he said as he alerted the driver, stuffing his phone away again.

“you sure?” joaquin asked, despite tugging you towards the exit. sam nodded, before shooing the two of you away. you both turned on your heels and scurried away before he could say anything else. your hand gripped his as you waddled your way to the sidewalk, stepping off to the side to wait on the driver to pull up.

joaquin took this opportunity to pull you into him again, arms wrapped protectively around you. this time, instead of kissing you, he simply kept you secured in his embrace. your arms wrapped back around his shoulders, tugging him closer to you. he hummed contently the moment you hugged him close to you. his cologne invaded your senses as you rest your head on his shoulder, his warmth engulfing as you wait.

“did i tell you how beautiful you look tonight?” joaquin asked against your hair, a soft kiss pressing against your head. you smiled against him, nodding gently as you thought back. even before you’d left the hotel room earlier in the day, he was showering you in compliments. even if he hadn’t, his actions spoke loud enough - his lingering eyes, heated kisses, slightly roaming hands -, he was a doting boyfriend.

“yeah honey, you did,” you told him, your voice slightly muffled against him.

“good,” joaquin replied contently, smiling as he continued to hold you close. and, as much as you loved being in his embrace, you were beyond happy when your ride pulled up. you realized quickly how feet were aching as you waddled some more towards the vehicle. joaquin held the door open for you, guiding your head down to help you into the limo, following close behind you, shutting the door. you watched with a small pout when he didn’t sit next to you, rather in front of you. it wasn’t until he motioned towards him, eyes trailing down to your feet that you caught on to his intentions.

you lifted a leg up to rest your foot on joaquin’s thigh, pointing slightly as he immediately starts to undo your heel. he was always so gentle with the way he grabbed ahold of you and treated you, you sometimes wondered what you’d done to deserve it all. the moment he slide your heel off, he ushered you to switch feet, undoing and sliding your other heel off just as gently.

“that’s gotta hurt your feet, baby girl,” joaquin said, concern itched in his expression, setting your heels in his lap as you rest your feet down against the floor. you grumbled out in agreement, playing up your pain just a little. you got what you were searching for, your boyfriend quick to coo out apologies and praises to you.

it was only right for him to play into it, even if he hadn’t quite realized you were over exaggerating a little. after everything you’ve done for him tonight, standing by his side and accompanying him, being his biggest supporter, tugging him out the moment he showed signs of exhaustion, it was the least he could do. joaquin appreciated you beyond words. it was only right to show his gratitude to you, his rock. he couldn’t have gotten luckier with you.

[eclairemaire]

Meeting the Missus pt. 5

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Wife! Reader

Category: Fluff

Summary: The Team finds out Bob is married and wants to meet the missus.

Warnings: Reader is described very similarly to Rhea Ripley, Reader and Bob are very much in love, No mention of Y/N used, Southern Reader (she's like all southern ladies sweet like iced tea, but can knock you on your ass if she has too), Express mentions of reader and Bob's Child, Lemme know if I missed any.

Word Count: 1.2K

Notes: This will be the final part of this series for now. I'm not sure how I want to continue the story. I hope everyone enjoys! If you have any requests, mine are open, and I will try to get to them. Enjoy!!

Everyone had started making their plates for lunch as you and Bob started to sort through what everyone brought. Nat brought hard seltzers and brownies. Payback brought a salad and a variety of dressings, and Sprite. Fanboy brought some homemade salsa and tres leches cake, along with some Mexican Cokes. Coyote brought oven-baked Mac ‘n cheese and fruit salad. Hangman brought ribs, banana pudding, and beer. Maverick, Penny, and Amelia brought a nice bottle of wine and sparkling grape juice for the girls so they wouldn’t feel left out later. Rooster brought sugar cookies from the grocery store and various snack foods.

After finishing sorting the rest of the food and drinks, Bob goes to help Riley make her plate, and you move to turn music on, the first song being Pink Floyd’s ‘Time’ from the Dark Side of the Moon album. Before moving back into the kitchen to make you a plate, grab some ribs, smoked sausage, mac and cheese, corn on the cob, chips, and ranch dip before heading out to the back patio.

Everyone had lots of food on their plates and had started eating before you had sat down. “This is some bomb food, Mrs. Floyd. I mean, I knew the food you made was good from how Bob’s always melting into his seat at lunch, but this is on a whole other level.” Fanboy said as he took a bite out of his burger.

“Thank you, Mickey,” you say as you start to eat food off your plate.

“So, I know everyone wants to know, how did you two meet?” Hangman asked as he looked between you and Bob.

“Well, it's kind of silly.” You say, making eye contact with Bob as you move to take a sip of your drink.

“It was back when I still rode broncos in rodeos. After I graduated from high school and before I enlisted in the Navy.” He said, picking at his food.

“Wait, you actually rode broncos?” Coyote asked, his face showing his disbelief.

“Hell yes he did, damn good at it too.” You exclaim as you scoop up some mac and cheese onto your fork. “That rodeo buckle I wore the first night at the hard deck was the one he got the night we met.” 

Hangman looked so surprised, “You won at a rodeo? I’ve been to many a rodeo; those broncos are brutal.” 

“I’d been riding my whole life, I was raised on a ranch, you know,” Bob said, turning to wipe some food off Riley’s face.

“Wait, what were you doing at the rodeo?” Maverick asked as he looked at you.

“I was there looking for work. I needed a job after high school, and I’d been going to and from ranches for as long as I could remember, so it was almost a no-brainer to try and get a job that dealt with livestock.” Turning to look at Bob, you continue to speak. “My grandparents had horses when my mama was growing up; she had always ridden, and even though we didn’t live in a rural area. I was taught when I was younger, and often spent time in the barns tending the animals.”

“I saw her when she was riding one of the mechanical bulls there -” “I’d never ridden a real bull, mind you.” You interjected as Bob mentioned the mechanical bull.

“Anyway, she was the only one who could stay on longer than anybody else. She was intimidating as shit back then.”

“Back then?” Nat asked incredulously, “She’s intimidating now.”

“NO, well, yes, you are still very intimidating,” Bob fumbled as he looked from Phoenix to you. He smiled at you before continuing with the story.

“I’d never seen anybody like her before. All the women in my life, while very strong in their own ways, were always soft in comparison to my wife. None of the girls I went to school with wanted to deal with hard labour, they would rather watcha movie, paint their nails, or do their hair and makeup.” He said, looking at you with adoration.

“Granted, I didn’t want to do that forever, example A, my life now,” You say, gesturing around you to your house and towards Riley.

“She was beautiful, and as she mentioned, looking for work. My dad hired her to help out on the ranch. We met her first day when I walked up on her changing into her work clothes behind our barn.” He huffed a laugh at the memory.

“We worked together for months before I worked up the nerve to ask her out. Then I enlisted in the Navy, and she went back to her hometown for college,” he said before shoveling some food into his mouth.

“We wrote letters to each other like total dorks and met up frequently while he was on leave. When we found out I was pregnant with Riley, we got married, and he took a few months off to help me with Riley after she was born, and then he got stationed at Lemoore, and we lived out there until we came here for the special detachment.” You say, looking around at everyone, and then your gaze landed on Riley. 

“Wait, so Bob, did you marry your first love?” Payback asked.

“No, I’d dated other people during high school,” Bob answered like that was obvious.

“What about you, Mrs. Floyd?” Penny asked as she spoke up.

“Me? No, actually, when we first met,” you start pointing between yourself and Bob, “I was at that rodeo with my girlfriend. We broke up shortly after I started working at the Floyd family ranch.” You say with a deadpan expression on your face. A few members of the squad looked shocked at your mentioning of a girlfriend, namely Payback and Coyote.

Rooster just huffed out through his nose, “I knew you were fruity somehow.” He said, pointing at you.

“You don’t get to call anybody fruity while you and Hangman dance around each other the way you have been, for as long as I’ve heard about you.” You point your fork at him with an eyebrow raised. Rooster raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Whoa, what did I do? I haven’t said anything.” Hangman asked, giving a brief glare in Rooster's direction, for somehow bringing the attention to their situation. You just gave him a pointed look.

“Mama?” Riley came to stand in front of you. “Can I have some dessert? And can Amelia and I go play games in the living room after?” She asks, her eyes were big, and she was giving you that look that you cannot deny.

“Sure, Bug, what do you want?” You ask as you stand and pick her up as you walk into the house. Yours and hers conversation fades out as you go inside.

Amelia went inside briefly after you and Riley. She had a vague idea as to what the team was going to start pestering Bob about and didn’t feel inclined to listen.

“So you got her pregnant before you married her?” Fanboy wiggled his eyebrows at Bob as he asked what everyone was thinking.

“Okay, do not say it like that, we were planning on having a kid, and we were both prepared for everything that could happen, plus it’s not like we had her when we were teenagers. We just so happened to have her before we got married.” Bob explained after sighing like his friends were his kids instead of his child, who was with you getting dessert inside. 

tags: @7dreambaby

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 7

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 3.7k+

Note: LETS GOOOOO

xxx

The night starts with noise.

The roomies had planned a fun night in. Arthur’s brought out the nice whiskey—well, the nicer whiskey, the one that comes with a cork instead of a screw-top—and Chris has somehow hooked up his old karaoke mic to the living room TV. The four of us sit around half-lounging on the mismatched couches, George on the floor with a guitar he’s only half pretending to play. Chris is yelling out half-remembered lyrics to “Teenage Dirtbag,” Arthur keeps skipping songs to find “something with emotional depth,” and I’ve got a half-drunk gin and tonic sweating in my hand.

It’s dumb and fun and unstructured. We shout over each other. We argue about whether Billie Eilish is technically indie. Someone throws a cushion and knocks over a bowl of crisps. At one point Chris attempts to stand on the coffee table to re-enact a scene from Love Actually and George pulls him down by the ankle like he’s done this exact thing before.

I am laughing so hard I have to excuse myself to the bathroom.

By midnight, the energy softens. The Bluetooth speaker dies mid-song. Arthur’s phone buzzes and he vanishes upstairs claiming something about early studio time, and Chris throws a pillow over his own face and declares he’s socially exhausted. Which leaves just me and George, still camped out on the floor, sitting opposite each other with crossed legs and flushed cheeks.

The living room looks like a failed sleepover with the empty glasses, a tangle of cables, someone’s sock. The overhead light is off, just the warm glow from the lamp by the window casting long shadows.

I reach over and swap our glasses so I can try his whiskey. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, just watches as I take a sip and pull a face.

“This tastes like regret and petrol,” I say, handing it back.

“It’s aged regret,” George corrects. “Very exclusive.”

We fall into a quieter rhythm. No more music, just the low hum of London through the window and the occasional groan of the floorboards above us. It should feel awkward, maybe, being alone together like this. But it doesn’t. It just feels… calm.

He fiddles with the guitar strings, aimless. I pick at a corner of the cushion in my lap.

Then he says, “You’ve seemed... better lately.”

I blink at him. “Better?”

“Yeah. Happier, I guess. "Proof that taking my advice is the most helpful thing anyone can do, ever ”

It catches me off guard, but I manage to play it off, “shove off it.”

He laughs but than says, “you're more… relaxed. You've been singing in the shower again.”

I laugh, but it’s soft, self-conscious.

"How've you been otherwise?"

I don’t answer right away. I look around the room—the empty pizza box, the dying flowers in a jar on the windowsill, the scuff marks on the walls that no one’s bothered to paint over. The whole house is a bit of a mess, a strange blend of past and present lives piled on top of each other. It shouldn’t feel comforting. But it almost does.

“I don’t know if this feels like real life yet,” I say quietly. “Sometimes it feels like I blinked and ended up inside someone else’s story. Like I missed the bit where I decided who I’m supposed to be.”

George leans back against the couch, arms folded loosely over his chest. “Yeah,” he says. “I get that.”

“Do you?”

He nods. “When I visit my dad now… he barely remembers what I do for work. Sometimes he doesn’t remember what day it is. And I sit there thinking, is this it? Is this adulthood? Pretending you know what you’re doing while everything quietly falls apart?”

There’s a long silence. It’s not heavy, just full. Comfortable in the way that only comes after years of knowing someone and still not knowing everything.

He doesn’t like to talk about his dad.

I didn’t even know he was sick until George’s mum tagged him in a photo on Facebook during third year—one of those blurry, too-candid hospital shots where everyone’s trying to smile but no one really looks at the camera. You could just make out the oxygen tube, the pale-blue gown, the faint grimness behind the eyes. George never brought it up, not even after I messaged him something vague and awkward about hoping everything was okay. He’d just liked the message and changed the subject.

So now, I don’t push. But I feel the edges of it sitting between us—the things not said, the things too raw to say out loud. He talks around it, not through it. The slow unravelling of someone he once thought was invincible. The quiet grief of watching a parent become someone unfamiliar.

He still doesn’t say much now. Just stares down at his hands like there’s something in them he doesn’t want to let go of.

“I miss my old car,” I blurt. “That stupid Corolla that the key fob didn’t work and the Bluetooth transmitter that make songs sound like it was underwater. At least it felt like mine.”

George smiles again, tired and gentle. “I can't believe I never got to see it.”

“Yeah,” I say. I rest my head on his shoulder. I do it out of habit, out of tiredness, “You still need to come to Brisbane.”

He looks at me a long moment, like he wants to say something else. Like he’s right on the edge of it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just shifts slightly closer, our knees brushing.

“You belong here, you know,” he says.

I feel my heart stutter.

“I mean—” he fumbles, “—not here, like, here here. Just… you don’t have to figure it all out right away. You’re doing okay.”

The words land like something warm and heavy in my chest. Not quite an epiphany, not quite a declaration. But something true, and real.

And I let myself believe him.

Xxx

It’s a Tuesday night again, and I’m already elbow-deep in prep before Matt even walks through the door. Ive done this for over a month now, I know where the gloves are, how to portion servings without being told, and I’ve somehow become the unofficial designated pesto-stirrer. A badge of honour, I suppose.

Ruth is already there when I arrive, leaning against the counter with a cup of tea cradled in her hands like it’s something sacred. She grins when she sees me, like she’s been saving a story all day just to tell me. That’s sort of become our thing—collecting little moments from the week and spilling them over chopping boards and takeout coffee cups.

“Alright, Aussie,” she says, nudging my shoulder as I pull on an apron. “You’ll never guess what happened to me on the tube this morning.”

“I bet it’s something deeply cursed,” I reply, raising an eyebrow. “Or at least mildly deranged.”

“You’d be correct on both counts.”

She launches into a story involving a man in a business suit eating tuna straight from the can with his fingers while arguing with someone on speakerphone. I’m halfway through slicing peppers, laughing so hard I almost drop the knife. That’s how it’s been with Ruth lately—easy. Natural. Like we’ve known each other longer than we actually have.

We’ve started hanging out outside of The Van too. Not in any dramatic, “suddenly inseparable” way, but in those quiet, accidental moments that slowly start to mean something. One morning, I ran into Ruth at the coffee shop near the station. I was still half-asleep, standing in line, clutching my phone like it might keep me upright, when I heard someone behind me say, “Flat white, three sugars? Didn’t peg you for the reckless type.”

I turned around and there she was—hoodie, headphones around her neck, hair half-tucked into a beanie she probably found in a bargain bin. She looked like someone who belonged in London in a way I still didn’t. Turns out, she works in a building just one street over from mine. We laughed about how we’d probably crossed paths dozens of times without noticing.

Now, we’ve got this unofficial Friday lunch thing going. It started off casual, a “hey, want to grab something?” after a rough week. But now it’s edging into ritual. We never actually say, “Same time next week?”—we just show up. Sometimes it’s ramen. Sometimes it’s sad overpriced sandwiches we eat on a bench like we’re in a low-budget indie film. But whatever it is, I look forward to it. More than I probably should.

The others have noticed too. Matt teases us sometimes, calling us “the pesto twins” or saying things like, “You two come as a set now?” Ruth just rolls her eyes and tells him to stir his own damn pasta for once. But she’s smiling when she says it.

After service, Ruth and I are elbow-deep in suds, tackling what might be the single most stubborn pot in the history of cooking. Matt’s sticky date pudding—his self-declared “treat for the troops”—has fused itself to the bottom like it was made of industrial-grade glue instead of sugar and flour.

“I swear this pudding has achieved a new state of matter,” I mutter, scrubbing at the blackened edges with a sponge that’s probably considering retirement.

Ruth snorts, flicking a bit of foam at me. “Matt said it was ‘caramelised.’ This is carbonised. There's a difference.”

We’ve fallen into this easy rhythm during clean-up. Some weeks we talk. Some weeks we’re just quiet, the kind of silence that doesn’t press down on you. Tonight, there’s laughter, little sarcastic jabs softened by the warmth in our voices.

“Oh, I forgot to ask—how did your date go?” I ask Ruth, rinsing off the last of the soap suds and handing her the pot with a dramatic flourish, like it’s a trophy we’ve both earned.

She grins, drying it with a tea towel that smells vaguely of old coffee and garlic. “Oh, good actually. I’m seeing him again tomorrow night. He’s a bit strange, but... I suppose so am I.”

We both laugh, the kind of easy, knowing laugh you only share with someone who’s seen you drop a full tray of sandwiches.

Then she glances sideways at me, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Are you still in love with your roommate, or are you finally going to admit you’re obsessed with that northern bloke?”

I nearly choke on my breath. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she says, smirking. “Tall, broody, sounds like he’s permanently stuck in a BBC drama. Ring any bells? You’re the one who said, ‘I get why the internet’s in love with him’—and, my personal favourite—‘He’s just so witty, it’s infuriating. I love arguing with him.’”

I groan. “Okay, that’s some bold quotation work.”

“Direct quotes, Y/N. I could write your wedding vows at this point.”

I try to play it cool, but my ears burn traitorously. “I’m not obsessed.”

“You absolutely are,” Ruth says, gleeful now. “Every time he says anything vaguely nice, you light up like a Christmas tree.”

“That is a gross exaggeration.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I huff a laugh and toss a clean fork into the drying rack a little too forcefully. “Alright then, Miss I-did-one-semester-of-a-psychology-degree, what’s your diagnosis?”

She shrugs, folding the tea towel over her shoulder like she’s closing a file. “Hopeless crush. Prognosis: denial. Recommended treatment: awkward fighting-that-is-definitely-flirting followed by one extremely questionable decision at a party.”

“Sounds very clinical,” I deadpan.

“You said it yourself, I only did one semester.”

We both crack up again, the kitchen echoing with laughter that doesn’t feel forced or guarded. Just… open. Warm. Like we’re not just rinsing off stubborn caramelised pudding, but the static of the day too.

Then Ruth nudges me with her elbow, gentler this time. “But no, seriously. What about your roommate?”

I pause, drying my hands on my jeans, suddenly aware of how warm my face feels.

“We had this serious heart-to-heart yesterday,” I say, voice dropping a little. “And... I don’t know. At one point, he moved his knees to brush mine. Casually. Deliberately. It was nothing, but also…it wasn’t. The version of him I knew at uni would never have done that.”

“Ooh,” Ruth says, eyebrows arching. “Sounds serious.”

“I don’t know if it is, though. That’s the thing. We’ve been best friends for years. There’s this entire history. Every in-joke, every hangover, every disastrous date we debriefed over chips at 2 a.m. It’s all there. I know him inside out. But lately... it’s like there’s something new under all of that. And I can’t tell if I’m imagining it or if it’s real.”

Ruth leans back against the counter, her expression thoughtful. “Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s always been there, just under the surface. Waiting.”

“Don’t get my hopes up".

xxx

I think Ruth is right.

The next week hums with an energy I can’t quite name.

It’s nothing obvious. Nothing anyone else would notice. But something has shifted between George and me since that night—since the last bottle of red wine, the half-whispered stories, and the quiet that didn’t feel empty.

He lingers more now. In doorways, in the kitchen. When I’m making tea in the morning, he somehow always shows up just as the kettle clicks off, like he’s timed it. Like we’re syncing without trying.

He makes me laugh more, too. Or maybe I’m just noticing it more. His jokes feel warmer now, more specific. Inside references to things we barely remembered until one of us said them out loud. Like breadcrumbs from a version of us we haven’t been in years.

One night, he casually calls me “Miss Australia” in that mock-serious voice of his, and when I roll my eyes, he grins like he’s proud to have gotten under my skin.

And then there are the looks.

Quick, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it glances across the living room when we’re all hanging out. The way his gaze lingers just a second too long when I say something sharp, or ridiculous, or both. Like he’s trying to study a version of me he hasn’t fully figured out.

I catch him watching me once while I’m hunched over my laptop—legs tucked under me awkwardly, hair in a messy knot, wearing one of those sad, shapeless hoodies I should’ve thrown out years ago. Not my best angle. And yet, his expression is... softer than I expected. Not intense. Just curious. Familiar. A little like awe. He looks away fast when he sees me noticing.

It’s nothing. And also it’s everything.

The kind of shift that lives in the space between words. That only exists if we never speak it out loud.

Still, it hangs there. Charged. Waiting.

Then it happens. We’re cleaning up in the kitchen after dinner, and George’s tone is easy, almost distracted, but there’s an edge beneath it.

“So, Will’s been messaging you a lot lately?” he says, flicking a dishcloth with a smirk.

I pause, caught off guard. “Yeah, he’s been pretty chatty.”

George shrugs, but his eyes don’t quite meet mine. “Figures. Can’t blame him, I guess.”

Something tightens in my chest—annoyance, maybe? Or something sharper, like… jealousy?

I glance at him sideways, watching the way his jaw clenches just a little.

That’s when it clicks. Maybe I’ve been missing it all along, how much this is bothering him. And just like that, a spark lights up inside me. If he’s jealous, then maybe… maybe he cares more than he’s letting on.

I know I should say something. I know I need to. But the words feel too heavy tonight, like they might break the fragile calm between us. Like if I speak too soon, I might shatter whatever this is, whatever quiet promise is hanging in the space between us.

So instead, I tuck the feeling away, careful and deliberate, like hiding a fragile glass in a locked drawer. Not now. Not yet.

I decide right then: it’s time. Time to stop pretending. To stop waiting for the “right moment” that might never come. I’m going to make a move. Not now—not tonight—but soon.

Tomorrow, or maybe the day after. When I’m braver. When the moment feels right. Because it has to be right. Otherwise, what’s the point?

For now, I turn my focus back to the dishes, letting the warmth of that unspoken something settle like a soft ache in my chest. And wait.

xxx

Two days later, George suggested we watch a movie together, like old times sake. He had bought popcorn from the shops earlier and Chris had given him a bottle of wine.

The movie played on, a gentle hum in the background as the flickering light cast shadows across the room. Somehow, over the course of the film, we had moved closer without saying a word—our knees nearly touching now, breaths syncing in quiet rhythm. The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of us in this small, dimly lit space.

George’s hand brushed against mine once, briefly, like a question. I didn’t pull away.

As the credits began to roll, he turned slightly, eyes meeting mine in the soft glow of the screen. “I’m glad you moved back to me,” he said, voice low and full of something I couldn’t quite place—relief, maybe, or something more vulnerable.

The words settled between us like a spark, igniting the air. My heart skipped, and I felt the tension coil tighter inside me. I shifted closer, feeling the warmth of him so near, and for a moment, everything felt possible.

Oh my god now is the time.

We sat there, the quiet between us stretching longer than usual, the kind of silence that buzzes with everything left unsaid. I could feel his eyes on me, heavy and searching, like he was trying to unravel something deep inside.

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it. Slowly, I lifted my gaze to meet his. His eyes were darker than I remembered, shadows pooling in the corners like secrets waiting to spill out. There was something raw and vulnerable in his stare that made my breath hitch.

For a long moment, we just looked at each other, the world narrowing down to the space between us. His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but held himself back. My pulse fluttered with a nervous hope, that fragile, reckless hope that maybe this was real.

I moved closer—slowly, carefully—watching every flicker of emotion cross his face. The warmth in his eyes melted the last of my hesitation. My fingers twitched at my sides, needing to reach out but not wanting to scare him away.

Then I leaned in.

My lips hovered just above his, breath mingling with his in a shared rhythm—quick, shallow, almost desperate. The warmth radiating from him felt like a quiet promise, electric and tentative.

And then, finally, finally, our lips met.

It was soft, tentative—like the gentle brush of a secret we’d both been guarding for far too long. The kiss didn’t demand anything; it whispered instead. Whispered of possibilities, of risks, of fears laid bare in the quietest of touches.

His eyes fluttered closed, eyelashes resting against his cheeks like fragile wings. I felt the slightest tremble in his body, a vulnerability so rare it made my heart clench painfully. The world around us seemed to blur and fall away, leaving just the two of us suspended in that moment—delicate, fragile, and full of a promise neither of us dared voice aloud.

Time slowed, each second stretching endlessly, holding us captive in a quiet breath of hope.

But then, his hands froze at my waist. Not pulling me closer, but pulling away—slowly, deliberately.

His eyes opened, heavy and clouded with something raw and tangled. Pain? Regret? Fear? Something deeper, darker, something I couldn’t reach.

“What are you doing? This is madness,” he whispered, voice breaking, thick with a desperate ache.

Confusion slammed into me like a tidal wave, crashing through everything I thought I knew.

What had I been waiting for all this time? The last week played on repeat in my mind—how he’d linger just a little too long in doorways, the way his gaze flickered whenever Will’s name came up, those subtle moments that screamed jealousy but wore the mask of casual indifference.

Had I been reading too much into it? Or maybe not enough. Maybe this was the moment when all the pieces didn’t fit anymore.

But if he cared—even just a little—why had he pulled away now? Why had the warmth I thought I saw suddenly turned so cold?

My heart twisted, caught between hope and hurt, and the silence between us felt heavier than ever.

 “What do you mean? I thought—” I barely got the words out before he cut me off.

“No.” His voice snapped sharp, brittle, haunted. “I can’t. Not like this. Not with you.”

The world tilted. My chest clenched so tight it felt like shards of glass were tearing through me. “Why?” I whispered, voice cracking. “Why kiss me if you don’t want this? If you don’t want me?”

He didn’t meet my eyes. His jaw clenched so tight it looked like he was trying to hold himself together. Slowly, painfully, he stepped back, breaking the fragile moment between us.

The sting of rejection was worse than I imagined—the heat of that kiss, the flicker of hope—it all twisted into a cruel betrayal. A promise made only to be shattered.

I sank back, breath trembling, eyes burning with tears I refused to let fall. Silence stretched between us—thick, suffocating, filled with everything we’d just lost.

He didn’t say another word. The silence that settled between us was heavier than any conversation could have been—thick with everything left unsaid. In that quiet, I felt it unravel: the fragile thread that had been holding us together, fraying at the edges, slipping through my fingers.

It was like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to break, and I knew, deep down, that I’d pulled too hard, too fast. The delicate tension that had been our unspoken promise was gone, scattered like dust in a sudden gust of wind, leaving me standing there with nothing but the echo of what could have been.

Fuck.

[kkusuka]

pt. 2

your roommate was a strange man.

can you even really call him a roommate if he's only home for one week every few months? but when he is home, simon riley is a pretty good roommate.

he fixes the heater that's been broken for two months, he replaces the faucet after it drenches you for turning it on too quick, he even takes a look at your car when you mention how your breaks have been squeaking. but other than his penchant for whiskey and the color black, you really don't know much about the man you've been living with for more than a year.

he's in the military, you know that for sure. he works with a team because he tells you that you have a striking resemblance to a man names "soap"? you take that as a compliment even if he didn't really mean it to be one. he wears combat boots even when he's off, you buy him a pair for his birthday that he doesn't take off until soles wear out. but all of these are merely observations, you don't actually know anything about him.

and it's not like you don't try to find out more things about him. you search his name on google- nothing. you ask him about his social media- 'don't got any'. you never ask about family because he never brings them up. all you have is a phone number and the license plate on his beat up dodge charger.

so, getting a call in the middle of the night, three months after you'd last seen simon, about a mission taking a bad turn and simon taking a bullet for an american private. all you really manage to catch after that was the hospital's address and a room number to ask for.

you feel like you're in a trance as you pack yourself an overnight bag, then move to simon's room and just start grabbing the softest clothes you can find and a bunch of snacks from his side of the pantry, then you're off.

you didn't want to see desperate or overly worried about a man whose favorite song you don't know but you're pushing into the high 90s on your way down. and your mind isn't clear until you're standing in front of a tired looking nurse in sanrio scrubs.

"um, i need to get into room 1206?" you barely choke the words out before she's getting up to lead you, "oh! mrs. riley, they told me you were on your way."

"oh-i'm, well" and if you hadn't watch so many hospital shows where they don't let anyone but family into the room you would have just told her the truth, but you just shut your mouth, give her a tight smile, and follow her down the hallway.

the room doesn’t take long to get to, but the door is shut and you can hear the people inside talking. but the nurse doesn't even hesitate to swing the door wide open, "mr. riley, your wife is here."

and then there are four sets of eyes trained on you, but all you can look at is the hulking figure of your roommate sat up in his comically small hospital bed. and all you can muster up is a slight smile and a small wave in his direction before the bags you're holding fly straight onto the floor.

"oh, shoot- i'm sorry. i didn't know if you needed anything so i just grabbed some things from your dresser- and some of those granola bars you like, and there should be a gatorade somewhere in there. and, oh my god, i'm sorry, how are you? i came as soon as they called, and they said you got shot, and-"

"calm down, sweetheart, or yer gonna be the one that needs a hospital bed." ok, simon could still speak that was good, and he was conscious and remembered you.

"i'm sorry. i just got worried, and-" simon knew you well enough to know that you'll worry yourself to death if he lets you keep going, "nothin' to worry about, sweetheart, pull up a chair, you've 'ad stressful few hours."

you practically fell back into the chair that the man with the kindest brown eyes you've ever seen pushed towards you. and for the first time since you arrived, you took a deep, long breath. hand clasped in your lap as you take simon in.

"feeling any better, mrs. riley?"

"she's fine, garrick." 

'garrick' seems utterly unphased by your roommate's- husband's? you can address that later- tone and just continues to smile at you.

"c'mon simon, we just wannae ken 'bout the bonnie lass yer hidin' from yer pals. ye 'aven't even introduced us." you're glad the scot waited until you'd calmed down to start speaking because it took you at least 30 seconds to realize he was even talking about you.

"sweetheart these are the boys, boys this is sweetheart, now fuck off before you scare 'er away"

they didn’t seem like they were going to leave until the older man practically dragged them out saying something about the heaping loads of paperwork they had to do. so will a little wave and a cheeky smile, they were gone.

"so, um, ho-how are you feeling? they, uh, said that you got shot?"

" 'm fine, sweetheart, better knowing i've got a bird at home who'll come runnin' cause she thinks 'm hurt, yeah wife?"

yeah, maybe you'll let the mrs. riley thing go on for a little bit longer.

idk i just really like the idea of simon just picking someone random and being like 'yeah this is it, you're mine now' and they have literally no idea

[wainawtmai]

thinking of satoru dating mean!reader who absolutely despises any sort of pda. All of his students wonder how he’d even managed to woo you when you dodged his kisses, cringed at his excessive compliments, and shooed him away every time he tried to hug you like the touch-obsessed bug he was. It was a wonder that you guys were even together.

…well, it was kind of hard to brush him off when he was balls deep inside you.

“fuuuck, you’re taking me so well, baby.” satoru moans, that stupidly pretty grin on his lips as he watches your pussy absolutely gobble up the length of his cock. You tremble from the feeling, struggling to bite back your moans as his thick dick thrusts up into you. You hate the way the sound of his voice makes your body buzz with heat, a mix of embarrassment and lust that you both hate and love.

“so wet and ready for me all the time, aren’t you?” you know part of him does it to get a rise out of you, the sadistic little shit liked watching you squirm and sputter, all flustered at the sound of his voice.

and as per usual, you told yourself you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, “S-Shut up.” you mean for it to come off as a warning but it sounds more like a pitiful whine. You can’t help it with the way he thrusts up into you, mouthing sloppy kisses into your skin in between his sinful words.

“you know you love me,” he sings into your ear, “You loveee the way my cock fills you up, don’t deny it, baby.” as if to further emphasize his point he brings his hands to the meat of your ass, prying you further open and drilling into you, fucking into that spot that drove you insane. You couldn’t even try to hide your disgusting moans and whimpers, nails digging into the skin of his arms as you tried and failed to fight the pleasure.

“what did I say,” he sing-songs, bringing a hand to your clit and rubbing at it with quick circles, “I’ve turned you into such a pretty mess.” of course he still has that Cheshire-sized grin on his face, his crystal eyes mesmerized by the sight of your grinding hips and the slickness you leave along his cock with each thrust he makes into your trembling pussy. Listening to the desperate little sounds you swore you didn’t make when he pressed a finger to your clit. Rendered absolutely useless.

He loved seeing you like this. “so pretty.” satoru moans, his voice slightly slurring with pleasure, “so—fuck—g-gorgeous all fucked out for me.”

you mustered up what was left of your strength to slap a hand over his lips, silencing him as you shuddered from your orgasm. “shut up, s-satoru.”

But you could see that look in his eyes: framed by those annoyingly pretty white lashes, blue and mischievous—or at least more so than usual. He brought his own hand to your weakening one, pulling your fingers into his mouth and sucking on them with a loud whorish moan, all the while still pounding into you.

“Mngh—fuck you, satoru.” You garble, whimpering with overstimulation despite still grinding down against his cock in time with his thrusts, you hated how much he knew you loved being overstimulated, the freaky little fuck.

He only hummed in response, too occupied with your fingers to respond, practically deep-throating them. You could feel his chest rumble with amused laughter as he watched you fall apart once again, your skin tingling with the shock of your second orgasm. He followed you soon after, aquamarine eyes lidding as he practically gagged on your fingers, emptying himself into you with a long, drawn out moan.

You tiredly pull your fingers out of his mouth, slightly missing the warmth, and practically fell on top of him. But before your eyes could flutter closed, you felt Satoru throb, your cheeks heating as you remember the nasty fucker also had a thing for overstimulation.

You swear as his thrusts continue, fucking his milky cum dripping between your thighs back into you. And despite how much you tell yourself his words were annoying, his murmurs of imagining your fingers as your clit as he sucked at them, drove you to the edge all over again.

Maybe you didn’t hate it.

[seonghwaddict]

save a horse, ride your best friend — song mingi

in which your best friend can’t believe you’ve never ridden a dick before, so he takes it upon himself to teach you.

best friend!song mingi x fem!reader. requested by anon. genre. slight fluff. smut. best friends to friends with benefits. warnings. explicit sexual content mdni, inexperienced!reader, thigh riding, fingering, use of a dildo, big dick!mingi, multiple orgasms, unprotected, creampie, swearing, nicknames (baby, angel, pretty). wc. 4k. rating. mature.

lilo’s notes. this was requested a while ago but i’ve been putting it off because… i’ve never written anything about toys being used so uh, i was worried about the pacing and stuff. i wasn’t sure if you meant for them to be in an established relationship, so i went for the fwb route. IMPORTANT!!!! i lost access to my google account bc of a stupid mistake, if you sent in a request through my google form and would still like me to see it, please send it as an ask <33 i remember a few of them, but do send yours in just in case!!

listening to. need to know, doja cat // if u think i’m pretty, artemas // moonlight, kali uchis

masterlist.

it was a regular saturday evening. you were on a video call with your best friend, mingi, talking about anything that came to mind as you each ate a bowl of ramen as if you were really in the same room. he really only lived a couple buildings away, a two minute walk at most, but actually joining you in your apartment didn’t cross his mind until something interesting was brought up.

you weren’t sure what led to the conversation, but somehow it steered into the direction of something less innocent as you found yourself talking about an embarrassing date you’d gone on a while ago. recounting the story, laughing together, soon turned into a conversation about what each of you like in bed.

“oh, it’s just amazing,” mingi laughed as he gulped down a mouthful of water, momentarily pausing his rambling about how much he loves it when someone rides his dick. he ran a his hand through his short, washed-out pink hair, “honestly, my favourite thing ever since it probably feels just as good for whoever is, y’know, riding.”

based on everything he’s said so far, you came to the conclusion that he was more into giving than receiving, that he got off on seeing all the pleasure he can give his partner. so, it made sense he’d choose to mention the fact that riding him would feel good. not that you would know.

“can i admit something?”

he looked up from his bowl, sharp eyes looking almost hopeful as he nodded.

you looked around your kitchen jokingly, pretending to make sure no one sense was listened as you leaned closer a whispered, your hand cupping the side of your mouth.

“i’ve never done that before.”

his jaw dropped at that, letting out a small laugh. “you’re kidding.”

“no, really,” you insisted, going back to eating casually as if you were having the most normal conversation in the world with your best friend, “i really haven’t done… much, so i can’t confirm or deny your theory.”

“huh.” he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he thought for a moment. his head tilted and it was then that you felt how warm your cheeks felt, how your thighs were pressed together under the counter. of course, he was well aware of the fact that you had much less experience than him, only knowing about two people you had slept with. but damn. he clicked his tongue and shook his head ever so slightly. “that won’t do.”

furrowing your eyebrows, you opened your mouth to ask him what he had meant by that. he beat you to it before you could get a word out.

“i can… teach you, if you want?”

you blinked at your screen, resting your wrist on your countertop and gripping your chopsticks a little too hard. a silence followed his offer, though it wasn’t awkward. in fact, he could see you genuinely considering it as you thought it over. eventually, you gave him a tiny nod.

“i mean,” you shrugged, shifting your eyes away shyly, “sure, i guess. why not?”

he grinned, trying to hide it as he shoved a mouthful of noodles into his mouth and shoved his bowl aside. he chewed, swallowed then got up and made sure to bring his phone with him. you recognised his hallways then bedroom as he walked through his apartment. “i’ll be there in like 15, i need to buy something on the way. just wait there, and where something comfortable and… um, accessible.”

you nodded, despite your confusion, and he hung up. accessible? you looked down at your clothing—or rather, lack thereof. since you were home and not expecting anyone, you’d settled on wearing just a shirt you stole from mingi that was too large for him and much larger for you, and panties. you lifted the hem of the worn shirt, assessing how much of your dignity you’d lose if he saw your pink hello kitty undergarments that you only wore if you were doing laundry.

you could already hear him giggling at the sight.

groaning and cursing under your breath, you dropped the shirt and sped to your bedroom to dig through your closet in hopes of finding something a little more appealing. after making a mess of one of your closet’s drawers, you finally pulled out a pair of less offensive panties. they were made of soft cotton; a muted light blue with thin white lace trim, the cut shaped more like a bikini than what you call your grandma underwear.

deciding they were flattering enough, you slipped off your hello kitty pair—ignoring the embarrassing amount of wetness creating a wet patch right where it was pressed against your core—and replaced it with the new pair. as you untwisted the waistband and adjusted it to fit properly, your doorbell rang and you froze on the spot before pulling yourself together and heading to open the door.

the walk to the door felt abnormally long as you stumbled over on wobbly knees. admittedly, you were a little nervous. sure, there have been times where you wanted to do some more than friendly activities with mingi, but you never actually thought it was happen. yet here you were, opening the door for him so he could come in and show you what being a cowgirl feels like.

“hey,” he greeted you softly, stepping into your home and closing the door behind him. you noticed a small plastic bag in his hand, eying it curiously as you watched him kick off his shoes and hang up his coat. once that was of the way, he took one of your hands in your free one and pulled you to where he knew your bedroom was.

once there, he set the bag down on your bedside table and dragged you to stand between his knees as he took a seat on the edge of your bed. he looked you over, lingering on the familiar t-shirt.

“so you’re the one that took this shirt, huh?” he quirked an eyebrow, glancing up at you as he released your hand and brought both of his to your hips. his thumbs caressed the curve of your waist over the shirt. “it was my favourite.”

you laughed softly, “clearly you didn’t care enough if i was able to keep it for three years without you noticing.”

“you little thief.” his nose scrunched as he glared at you jokingly, giving you a gentle squeeze.

“if you really want it back, you can always take it.”

“nah, it’s fine, keep it. it looks cuter on you anyway.” he took a breath and gave you another once over, humming appreciatively when he moved his hands up higher, dragging the shirt with it until he caught a glimpse of your panties. you tensed, caught off guard by how close he felt. “i need you to relax a little, how about i help you loosen up, yeah?”

you nodded, averting your gaze but returning it to him when you felt him pull you onto his lap. he slotted one of his legs between yours, easing you down to straddle his thigh. his hands ran up and down your sides and few times before resting on your bare thighs, your breath stuttered and he held back a smile.

“are you still okay with this?” he asked quietly, absentmindedly playing with the hem of his your shirt. “if i do anything that makes you uncomfortable, just tell me and i’ll stop immediately and we can just watch a movie or something, okay?” when you only nodded, he continued, “i need you to say it, please.”

“i’m okay with this,” you muttered in return, resting you hands on his biceps, “and i’ll let you know if i need you to stop.”

“good, now…” without waiting any longer, he leaned forward to attach his lips to your neck, his hands slowly beginning to rock you back and forth on his lap.

you sucked in a sharp breath and clung into his arms a little tighter, your stomach fluttering at the feeling of your clothed cunt on his firm thigh, your panties dragging against your clit with ease thanks to how wet you already were. he lifted you slightly as he pulled you towards him, pushing you down as he pushed, the varying pressure making your lips part in a soft whimper. he nearly groaned at the sound, moving his lips right below your ear.

“you know,” he rasped between the licks and kisses, “i can’t deny that i’ve wanted to fuck you for a long, long time now.”

“r-really?”

mingi chuckled as he pulled back to look at your face, half surprised and half needy. he noticed that if he relaxed his hands, you’d continue grinding against his thigh.

“yeah, really. i mean, look at you,” he glanced down, one of his hands lifting the hem of your shirt to watch you ride his thigh slowly, a dark wet patch forming right where your leaking pussy sat. he bit his lip, “you look so perfect… and i bet you’d feel perfect, too.”

you nearly whined at that, fucking yourself on his thigh just a little faster as he sucked a dark mark right above your collarbone before returning to mutter dirty words into your ear.

“i know practically everything about you and your cute little body, you know. better than anyone else,” one of his hands inched it’s way up your thighs, brushing against the edge of your panties, “i’ll make you feel so good, angel, i promise.”

“mingi?” you whimpered, prompting him to lean back a little to look at you with a curious tilt of his head and a raised brow. “if you don’t shut up and kiss me right now, i might lose my mind so… please.”

his beautifully plump lips stretched into a smile as he wasted no time in practically pouncing forward and smashing his lips against yours. it started a little slow as you got acquainted with each other, despite the fact you could feel a nearing orgasm as a knot in your stomach drew tighter with each roll of your hips, but soon the kiss turned hungry.

he groaned into your mouth as you let his tongue explore, making you let out a quiet moan. mingi knew he wouldn’t be able to kiss anyone ever again. you, his best friend of all people, had the most inviting lips he’s ever felt. so inviting, so perfect and so soft. he thought everything about was soft. his hand slipped just under the edge of your panties as his other one made your grinds slow down.

you didn’t mind the slow pace, knowing just a few more rocks of your hips would have you tipping over the edge. but he evidently had other plans as he finally made your hips still completely. you pulled away from his lips with a pout. if you were trying to make him feel bad, it backfired terribly.

all he could think of as he looks at your swollen, red, wet, pouty lips is how much prettier they’d look wrapped around his cock. but he could save that for another time.

“there’s no need to rush, baby,” he chuckled, wiping some saliva away from your bottom lip.

eventually, when he was sure you had calmed down enough, he lifted you off his lap a little and turned to lay you down on your back, pressed against the comfortable mattress as he kneeled on the edge. he gripped your knees and bent them, pushing them closer to your chest with his eyes zeroed in on where your slick was leaking through your panties.

with one hand keeping your knees together and elevated, he ran his other over the fabric, pressing down on where he knew your clot would be and elicit a sweet little moan as you squirmed beneath him. he thought you were so cute like this, you looked so flustered as he gave you nothing but featherlight touches where you needed him most. for now.

“don’t get all shy on me now,” he cooed as he glanced up and noticed you covering your face with your hands, “let me see you, pretty.”

he didn’t continue his touches until you finally removed your hands, giving him a nice view of your abused lips and round eyes, pupils blown wide with lust in a way that had something stirring in his abdomen. and his pants.

he let down your knees for a moment so both of his hands could slip under the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down your legs. he actually moaned when he saw the strings of arousal clutching onto the fabric as he dragged it away, snapping when he got too far.

“you’re so pretty, baby,” he murmured, watching your entrance squeeze around nothing, making more slick drip out.

after tossing it aside, he wasted no time in getting your knees back to the previous position and running his fingers through your folds.

“oh, fuck,” he groaned, eyes squeezing shut for a moment as you let out a moan when he tapped against your clit, “you’re soaked.”

he glanced up at you, wanting to see your face as he slowly pushed in too fingers and catching a glimpse of your hard nipples poking through your shirt. your face contorted for s fraction of s second before relaxing, your head tipping back against the mattress as you let out a whine.

he choked back a moan at the tight walls around his middle and ring fingers, the fingers of his other hand digging into your thighs. “sh-shit… you’re so tight. i’m gonna have to stretch you out first, okay?”

you nodded mindlessly, too distracted by his fingers prodding at your sweet spot to care about any words he may have said. but you furrowed your eyebrows and lifted your head when you felt both his hands leave you, finding him reaching for the bag. your curiosity outweighed your disappointment as he pulled something out.

it was a dildo. about as thick and long as the biggest person you had before, and made of what looked to be transparent silicon. your insides tightened at the sight, somehow the thought of him seemingly buying this just for you turning you on even more.

he returned to kneeling at the edge of your bed, leaning down to loop his arm around your waist and lift you up to place a pillow under your hips before letting lay back down.

“couldn’t find one my size, but this should be fine,” he held the dildo and ran the tip through your pussy, collecting wetness as you shuddered, “my cock will just have to stretch you the rest of the way.”

you breath hitched at the implication of his words. so he was bigger than that? your thighs pressed together at the thought of being completely stuffed by him. he chuckled, separating your knees enough for him to have a clear view of your pussy, pulsing and dripping and begging for his attention.

he began slipping the toy into you, filling you up inch by inch and watching your needy hole stretch around it and swallow it up. the sight had him choking back a moan, biting down on his bottom lip.

the stretch had your back arching and pushing yourself against it desperately, feeling like that alone could get you to finish. it only took a few deep strokes for your pussy to get used to the size, squeezing and writhing around it until you couldn’t handle it anymore. your arousal coated it quickly and seeped out with each stroke, squelching sounds filling the room that shot straight to his dick.

when you finally came, your toes curled and your body twitched as you let out a string of and whines and moans, little curses slipping between. he watched with fascination as you came undone right beneath him, not wanting to wait any longer to be inside you. he shoved the toy deep inside you, leaving it there as he leaned back for a moment to discard his clothes, slipping his hoodie and sweatpants off.

when you were brought back to your senses, you found yourself on his lap again, straddling his hips this time as he sat with his back against your headboard. you felt his erectile straining against his boxers and pressing against your core. you couldn’t help but rock your hips against his slowly.

“do you ever ride your pillow?” he asked suddenly, voice dropped what felt like two octaves lower than his regular tone. your eyes widened at the question but you nodded. he nodded too, his hands finding your ass and helping you grind against his clothes length. “this is a lot like that, except you have something in you… and it’s more of an up and down movement… and i’m obviously not a pillow… still, there’s really no right way to do it, just go slow and you’ll figure out what works and what doesn’t. plus, i’m here to guide you.”

he gave your ass a squeeze as if to punctuate his sentence, massaging the soft flesh in his palms. when you felt ready, you dropped your hands from his shoulders to his boxers, palming his length a few times before hooking your fingers into the fabric and dragging it down until his cock sprung out.

he definitely wasn’t lying when he said it would stretch you more than the already-big dildo. he was definitely a lot bigger than anyone else you’ve been with, well over average. you nearly dropped at the sight, wrapping your hand around him and jerking him off, eyes fixated on the angry red tip leaking precum as you passed your thumb over it.

the muscles of his abs rippled and squeezed as your worked your hands on his cock, his head thrown back against the headboard and letting out stuttering moans. all the sounds he made encourage you to sit up on your knees, guiding him through your folds and whimpering as you finally sank down on him carefully.

the two of you moaned at the same time, him at how well you squeezed around him and you at how well he stretched you. you stopped when you reached just halfway, unsure whether or not you’d be able to fit more. his hips jerked slightly as his hands squeezed your hips.

“come on, baby,” he moaned softly, looking up at you with encouraging eyes, “just a little more… we can make it fit, right? just breathe.”

you nodded and as you took a deep breath, he used his hold on your to sink you further down until he finally bottomed out. he cursed silently, the back of his head finding the headboard again as you whined and dropped yours onto his shoulder.

you felt his tip pushing against your cervix, the new feeling making a lump form in your throat as you blinked back tears. this time it took a while to get used to the stretch before you tried grinding back and forth. it was slow, almost painfully so. he was amazed that despite stretching you with two different things, you were still so unbelievably tight, hugging him in a death grip as your raised your hips an inch before dropping down again.

your soft noises were muffled by his shoulder as your hands rested on his biceps, panting and squeezing gently as every inch of him dragged against the sensitive spongy patch in your walls every time you grinded on him. soon enough you were able to lift yourself to his tip and drop all the way down, your wetness letting him slip in and out with ease.

still, you kept the pace torturously slow, savouring each bounce and grind. his hands had left your hips at some point, exploring your body under your shirt, massaging your breasts and tweaking your nipples. he lifted the fabric but kept it on your as he watched your tits bounce temptingly, your puffy pink nipples making his mouth water as he pushed himself forward to take one into his mouth.

your hips stuttered as he sucked and nibbled at your nipples, throwing your head back and arching into his touch as your grinds grew sloppy. he felt your decreasing pace, using the hand that wasn’t teasing your other breast to guide your hips once more. he angled you slightly differently in a way that made your clit press against his pelvis each time he bottomed out, the speed of your grinds picking up quickly as his hips bucked up to meet yours.

his lips detached from your bruised breasts with a popping sound as he leaned up to capture your lips in his once again. it wasn’t much of a kiss, more teeth and tongue and moans and groans than anything else as you swallowed each other’s sounds.

you finished first, pushing yourself down hard and stilling, filling yourself with his throbbing cock and pressing your clit against him. he held you tightly, burying his face in your neck to suck at all the spot he knew would get your to writhe. many tickling fights contributed to his knowledge on all your sensitive spots.

your body twitched as you returned to bouncing on his length, your juices looking at his base. the overstimulation burned a little, making your thighs and knees quiver, but you were determined to get him to finish too. and by the looks of it, it shouldn’t take much longer.

“shit, baby,” he said, halfway between a whimper and a moan, fingertips digging into your hips as he threw his head back in bliss, “‘m so close— fuck, you feel s-so good.”

his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, bottom lip caught between his teeth. his cheeks and the tip of his ears flushed a deep red, his plush lips a few shades darker and coated in your mixed saliva from your kisses. as you adjusted the angle of your hips, something in him snapped, grabbing your hips tighter and taking over. he took over your movements, thrusting his hips up desperately as you fell forward onto his chest with the sudden change in intensity. his tip pushed itself against your g-spot continually, another knot tightening in your stomach.

the wet sounds of your cunt and your skin slapping against his egged him on until finally he felt like he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“baby, p-please— fuck— please, can i cum i-inside you?” he begged through a groan, “i— please, angel, i-i can’t wait any longer.”

you nodded against his chest with a whine, you were on the pill anyway. not a second later, he released into you, filling you up with stuttering hips. he pulled you down, flush against him and keeping you there as he emptied himself with softly muttered curses, his head dropping to press open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder.

it felt new to you, the warmth making you squirm until you came again without warning. it was much weaker this time but still enough to make you shake in his arms, panting softly after letting out a strangled moan against his skin.

after a few long moments of trying to recover from the shared orgasm, he lifted his head, one of his hands cupping your chin to tilt your head to look at him.

“so,” he started, lips stretched into a smile, “how’d that feel?”

“fucking amazing.” you rolled your eyes at how smug he looked after your confession, not protesting as he leaned forward to kiss you.

this one was much softer than the previous kisses you shared, much more tender. it was a lot shorter too, he pulled away first to rest his forehead against yours.

“yeah?” he whispered, kissing the corner of your lips, “just wait until i hit it from the back.”

networks. @cromernet @wonderlandnet @cultofdionysusnet @pirateeznet

permanent taglist. @ad0rechuu @sankatchu @mlink64 @yeosangsbb @seonghwasbbgirl @likexaxdaydream @dreamingofyeo @yalyallic @yunhoswrldddd @coffee-addict-kitten @thunderous-wolf @chngbnwf

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, exes to lovers, mutual masturbation , penetrative sex, creampie, crying during sex, pet anxiety, mentions of pregnancy, artist!hyunjin, mdni

notes: in which your situationship ex hyunjin from college asks you to watch his dog for the week--and things spiral from there.

You almost don’t answer.

Your phone buzzes across the table, skittering like a beetle over the wood, and you glance at the screen with the reflex of someone who doesn’t expect surprises anymore.

Hyunjin. The name glows up at you, unfamiliar only in the way it makes your stomach twist—like a song you haven’t heard in years but still remember every lyric to.

It’s been months since you last spoke. Maybe a year since you last saw him. A coffee meetup that turned into wandering aimlessly through the park, talking like nothing had ever gone wrong between you, except it had. That night ended with a long hug and a promise to keep in touch that neither of you kept.

And now he’s calling.

You stare at the screen for another ring. Then another.

Then you answer.

“...Hello?”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to make you wonder if he hung up, and then:

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he’d been holding it. “Sorry—sorry to call out of nowhere. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

His voice hasn’t changed. Still soft in a way that wraps around your ribs. Still threaded with that low, careful tension like he’s always thinking five things at once and only saying one.

You shift in your seat, heart suddenly too loud in your chest.

“Okay,” you say slowly, warily. “What’s going on?”

A soft rustle comes through the line—maybe the jingle of keys, maybe his bracelets sliding against his wrist. You picture him pacing his apartment, the same way he used to during finals week, lip caught between his teeth, hair tucked behind one ear.

“I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important,” he says. “And I get that it’s weird. Us not talking, and then—me dropping this on you.”

You glance toward the window, try not to let your voice shake. “What is this, exactly?”

He hesitates. “I have to leave the city. It’s an art residency. Last-minute. It’s… big.”

Your stomach twists again, but this time it’s sharper. Of course it’s big. Hyunjin was always meant for something more.

You lean back in your chair, eyes tracing the rain sliding down the windowpane like it’s trying to draw an answer for you. A part of you wants to ask where he's going, what the project is, if he’s excited—because of course he is, he always was, always buzzing with vision and color and a kind of hunger you never could name. But that part of you lives behind a glass wall now. You’re not sure you’re allowed to tap on it.

So you don’t ask. You swallow the words like coins dropped into a well—silent, swallowed, never coming back up.

“I’m happy for you,” you say instead, and it’s almost true. “You deserve it.”

Hyunjin exhales, and for a second you wonder if he’s smiling. “Thanks. That means more than you probably think.”

It shouldn't. But you don’t say that either.

“I wouldn’t call if I didn’t really need the help,” he adds, voice dipping a little lower now, like he’s bracing for the ask to land wrong. “It’s Kkami. My sitter canceled last minute, and everyone else is either busy or allergic. You were the only person I thought of who could handle him.”

You laugh softly, mostly out of disbelief. “Handle him? Hyun, your dog hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Hyunjin says, though there’s something too quick in his defense, too breathless—like maybe he’s trying to convince himself. “He’s just... territorial.”

You huff a dry laugh. “Yeah, I remember. He tried to piss on my jeans.”

“That was one time.”

“Twice.”

“Okay, but in his defense, they smelled like me.”

You pause. The silence that follows is sharp and sudden, the kind that cuts deep and clean. It’s the kind of silence that remembers.

Because those jeans had smelled like him—after that night. The last one. The one where he’d backed you against the wall of your own bedroom with his fingers still wet from your mouth, where he’d said things he probably didn’t mean and kissed you like he hated how much he did.

The night you both decided—without saying it—that it was over. That whatever “thing” had been pulsing between you wasn’t something either of you could hold without bleeding.

And yet. Here you are. Picking at it like a scab that never healed right.

Your throat works around the memory before your voice does. You don’t say anything at first—just sit there, hand wrapped too tightly around your phone, eyes fixed on some vague point on the wall like if you don’t move, it won’t reach you. Like you can’t still feel him, breath hot against your neck, hands fisting in your sheets, mouth tracing every soft part of you like he was trying to memorize the map of a place he had no business returning to.

He clears his throat on the other end, and it sounds like guilt. Or maybe longing. You’ve always had trouble telling the difference when it came to him.

“Look,” Hyunjin says, quieter now. “I wouldn’t be asking if I had another option. Kkami doesn’t do well with new spaces, and I can’t board him. He’s too anxious, and if he’s not with someone he knows, he’ll make himself sick.”

You finally speak, though your voice is thin. “So you want me to stay at yours.”

A beat. Then—“Yeah.”

Just like that. No sugarcoating. No backpedaling. Just Hyunjin, honest and bare in the way he always was once he stopped pretending not to feel everything at once.

You run a hand down your face. “Hyun, we haven’t talked in almost a year.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t even seen me since—”

“I know.”

He’s not angry, not defensive. Just… raw. Like the words are scraping him on the way out. You can hear the scrape.

“I didn’t think I’d ever call you again,” he admits. “I thought that was the deal. But when they offered me this residency, and I realized I had to leave tonight—you’re the only person I could trust. With him. With my home.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste the coppery edge of restraint.

His home.

It’s stupid, really. How easy it is to fall back into this rhythm. How even now, after all the months, all the distance, he can still lace your name with history. You’d been friends once. Kind of. You’d laughed a lot, touched a lot, fucked even more—on couches, against doors, in the low hush of early morning when everything was tender and wrong. It was always supposed to be temporary. Temporary, but all-consuming.

But the feelings crept in like rot through the walls. And neither of you were brave enough to call it love, so you called it off instead. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, but even you don’t sound convinced.

“I’ll wash the sheets,” he jokes weakly.

You laugh, soft and involuntary, the sound catching somewhere in your throat. It’s not really about the sheets.

It never was.

And the silence that follows—god, it aches. Not sharp like the aftermath of a fight, but dull and lingering, like a bruise you don’t remember getting. Like a conversation left open on a table, gathering dust.

You clear your throat. “What time’s your flight?”

“Late,” he says. “But I still have to pack a few pieces and drop off the canvases. It’ll be tight.”

“Do you need help?” The words are out before you can catch them. You curse yourself immediately for the softness in your voice.

He hesitates. “No. It’s fine. Just—just the dog. That’s all I need help with.”

Right. The dog.

You glance at your calendar. Clear. Of course it’s clear.

Of course the universe decided to leave space for this.

“Alright,” you murmur. “Just send me the code. I’ll stay at yours. It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to bring anything,” he rushes to say, and it’s like he’s trying to compensate for the ask with over-kindness. “I washed the old blanket. The one you used to crash under on the couch. It’s still there.”

Your fingers tighten around your phone.

He doesn’t mention that the last time you slept under that blanket, you were still tangled in him. Half-dressed. Half-drunk on him. That he pulled it over your hips after, when you were too spent to move, and he kissed your shoulder like he wanted to stay but didn’t know how.

You don’t bring it up either.

Instead, you breathe out slow. “Cool. I’ll head over in an hour or two.”

“Okay.”

Neither of you say I missed you.

Neither of you say This is weird.

Neither of you say Is this going to break us again?

Instead, Hyunjin adds quietly, “I’ll leave a note.”

“For the dog?”

“For you.”

You close your eyes.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t say goodbye. Just… hangs up.

And you let the dial tone ring for a few seconds longer than you should, like maybe he’ll change his mind. Like maybe you will.

But the silence stays.

And when you finally move, dragging out your overnight bag and stuffing it half-heartedly with essentials, you can’t stop thinking about the smell of his apartment. The way the floor creaks by the hallway. The coffee mugs he used to leave near the sink, rimmed with paint. The pictures he never hung. The sketchbook that held a drawing of you in fading graphite—one he never knew you found.

You wonder if it’s still there.

You wonder what else of you is.

The building hasn’t changed.

You hate that you notice. Hate that your fingers still know the keycode before you even read the text. Hate that the elevator creaks on the same floor. That the hallway smells like turmeric and old wood and the trace of him—Hyunjin, in incense and paint and something vaguely sweet.

His apartment door is unlocked, just like he promised. A sticky note is taped to the front, scrawled in the quick, crooked handwriting you used to recognize across lecture halls and grocery lists alike.

“Come in. He’s dramatic, not dangerous. Don’t let him guilt trip you.” —H.

You roll your eyes and open the door.

It looks the same. Lived-in, messy in a way that’s curated. An art book cracked open on the coffee table. Two mugs in the sink. One of his hoodies flung across the back of the couch like he wore it last night. And maybe he did.

You hear the growl before you see him.

Kkami stands in the middle of the living room, ears pinned back, hackles raised, tail stiff like an accusation. He looks you dead in the eye and lets out a snarl so pointed you actually step back.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder. “We’ve been over this.”

He growls again. Louder.

You raise your hands. “I come in peace.”

He barks.

You take a careful step inside, nudging the door shut behind you. Kkami follows your every move like you’re an intruder in a palace he was knighted to protect. 

“I’m not stealing your shit,” you tell the dog. “I’m just crashing here. Ask your absentee father.”

Kkami doesn’t find it funny.

You inch toward the kitchen, where Hyunjin’s written schedule sits neatly beside two bowls—one for food, one for water. Both full. Fresh.

You glance at the clock. He’s probably already at the airport. Maybe already boarding. Maybe looking down at the city through a plane window, tapping his fingers against the glass like he always did when he was anxious. You wonder if he thought about calling you again. You wonder if he’s relieved you didn’t call him first.

Kkami lets out a soft, pitiful whine behind you. When you turn, he’s sitting but tense, eyes never leaving you. Suspicious. Wounded. Territorial, like Hyunjin said.

“Jesus, you’re worse than him,” you sigh.

A folded slip of paper catches your eye. It’s tucked under the magnet shaped like a paintbrush on the fridge. Your name is written across the front.

Your throat tightens.

You don’t open it. Not yet.

You drop your bag by the couch and finally take a seat, letting the quiet settle around you. The apartment hums with memory. You used to sit here wrapped in his hoodie, eating leftover tteokbokki at midnight, legs draped across his lap while he rubbed lazy circles into your shin. You used to kiss in this corner. Fuck in this corner. Sleep in the bed down the hall like it meant nothing, even when it meant too much.

Kkami barks once—sharp and offended—then hops up onto the other end of the couch and curls into a tight, annoyed little donut.

“Truce?” you offer.

He sneezes. Well then.

You sigh and reach for your phone. Maybe you can FaceTime Hyunjin later. Let the dog see him. Hear him. Maybe that’ll help.

Or maybe it’ll make everything worse.

You glance over at the folded blanket. The place where you used to lay your head.

And wonder how long it’ll take for this place to feel empty without him in it.

You don’t sleep well that first night.

Kkami stays curled at the farthest edge of the bed like he’s punishing you, his little back turned, ears twitching at every shift you make beneath the sheets. He doesn’t bark, but he lets out these occasional, theatrical sighs—deep, betrayed, bone-deep things—like you’ve committed the ultimate offense by existing where Hyunjin should be.

You get it.

You feel it too.

In the morning, you wake before the sun finishes rising. The air in the apartment is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your joints, your thoughts, the hollow behind your ribs. You drag Hyunjin’s blanket from the couch and wrap yourself in it, settle on the floor near the window with a mug of instant coffee that tastes like cardboard and nostalgia.

Kkami watches you from the kitchen doorway, still suspicious.

“Do you have a schedule, or are we just winging it?” you ask him.

He sneezes and turns his head. No comment.

The hours pass slow. You walk him—twice. He barks at a bus, growls at a stroller, and refuses to let you tie his leash to the bench while you grab a coffee from the corner place Hyunjin used to love. You wind up going without.

At noon, you wander the apartment, not touching anything but looking at everything. A half-finished canvas still rests on the easel in the corner. It’s abstract—something celestial, maybe. Blue and smoke and gold bleeding together like bruises in motion. You don’t know if it’s new. You don’t ask.

You think about texting him. Just something simple. He misses you already. Or He hasn’t peed on anything today. But the words feel too light. Too personal. You settle for:

12:31 PM — [You]: he ate most of his food. drank a lot of water too. no accidents.

The read receipt comes instantly. His reply is a few minutes later:

12:36 PM — [Hyunjin]: thank you <3

The heart curls in your chest. You close the app.

You make pasta for dinner and Kkami doesn’t touch his kibble until you sit beside him on the floor and pretend to eat a piece. Then he snarfs it all down like he’s proving a point.

That night, he won’t sleep again. He whines. He paces. He jumps down from the bed and runs to the door, then back again. Tail twitching. Eyes darting.

When you try to pet him, he flinches like he’s expecting a trick. You sit on the floor again, cross-legged in Hyunjin’s oversized hoodie (you told yourself you brought it by accident), and say softly, “He’s not here. It’s just me.”

He whines again. Low and pitiful.

“Me too,” you whisper.

You glance toward the kitchen. Toward the fridge. That little slip of paper still waits, untouched beneath the magnet shaped like a paintbrush. Your name in his handwriting. Like a bruise. Like a dare.

You haven’t opened it. Not yet.

You slept on the couch.

Not because the bed wasn’t made—Hyunjin had even tucked in the corners, left a glass of water on the nightstand like he thought about what you’d need—but because you couldn’t bring yourself to crawl into the same sheets you used to wake up tangled in. Not when the scent of him still lived in the pillowcases. Not when the memory of his hands on your bare back still lingered in the seams of the duvet.

So you curled up under the old blanket instead, the one you used to steal during lazy afternoons and Netflix half-watched kisses and accepted the fact that your neck was going to ache in the morning. Kkami refused to join you. He spent most of the night pacing between the door and the hallway, growling at shadows.

The second night is worse.

Kkami is inconsolable. He won’t eat. Won’t lie down. Won’t stop pacing between the front door and the window like he’s waiting for Hyunjin to materialize from thin air. At one point, he noses Hyunjin’s shoes—left by the entryway—and lets out a sound so hollow and pitiful it actually makes your eyes sting.

You try everything. Treats. Music. White noise. The blanket that still smells like Hyunjin’s shampoo. But nothing works. It’s like something inside him is unraveling, the cord pulled too tight and fraying with every hour he doesn’t see the one person he’s built his little world around.

Same, you think bitterly, and feel stupid for it.

You end up sitting on the kitchen floor around midnight, your legs numb, your patience thinner than it’s been in weeks. Kkami’s resting his chin on his paws but still letting out this tiny, high-pitched whine every few seconds, like he’s trying not to cry but can’t help it.

And that sound—god, that sound shatters something in you.

You sigh, rub your face with both hands, and reach for your phone.

12:04 AM — [You]: he won’t sleep. he’s been crying for an hour. won’t eat either.

You don’t expect him to reply. Not at this hour, not while he’s halfway across the country doing Important Artist Things.

But your screen lights up with an incoming FaceTime call within seconds.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then answer.

And for the first time in nearly a year, you see him.

Hyunjin’s face fills the screen—soft-lit and sleepy, hoodie bunched around his neck like he’d just been getting ready for bed. But it’s not just the setting that throws you. It’s him.

The long hair you used to run your fingers through—gone. All of it. In its place: a buzzcut. Clean, close, severe in a way that shouldn’t suit him but somehow does. It makes his features sharper, more present. Like there’s nothing to hide behind anymore.

You blink. You don’t mean to stare, but the shock is immediate, visceral.

“Hi,” he says, quiet.

You swallow. “Hi.”

He sits up straighter. “Is he okay?”

You shift the camera toward Kkami, who immediately perks up. His ears shoot up like radar, and he lets out a small, startled bark before beelining to your lap—bumping his snout into the phone like he’s trying to crawl through it.

Hyunjin laughs. It’s breathless. Disbelieving.

“God, he’s dramatic.”

“He gets it from you,” you mutter.

Kkami presses against your chest like he’s trying to bury himself in your heart, finally calm now, finally still. You stroke a hand down his back and try not to think about the fact that it took Hyunjin’s voice to soothe him.

You glance at the screen again. Hyunjin’s watching you, not Kkami.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The only sound is Kkami’s soft breathing and the low hum of the city outside the window.

Then, gently:

“I left you something,” he says.

You swallow. “I know.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d find it.”

“I did.”

“You gonna open it?”

You glance toward the fridge. The note still waits, tucked under the paintbrush magnet like a secret too fragile to touch.

“Not yet,” you say.

And he doesn’t push. Just nods. “Okay.”

Kkami shifts closer to your thigh and exhales, finally resting his chin on your knee. You pet him with one hand, still holding the phone in the other.

“He’s sleeping now,” you whisper.

“So are you.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your eyes,” he says. “They do that thing. The little flutter when you’re about to crash.”

You’re too tired to argue. Too tired to ask why he remembers that.

“I’ll hang up,” he offers.

You don’t say no.

You just murmur, “Goodnight, Hyun.”

And you hear the softness in his voice as he says it back:

“Goodnight.”

You don’t sleep much better that night.

But Kkami doesn’t cry again.

The next few days fall into a strange kind of rhythm—quiet, off-kilter, but somehow soothing in the way old routines can be, even when they’re made of things that weren’t meant to last.

Kkami still hates you by daylight.

He growls when you walk into the room. Barks when you open the fridge. Refuses to eat unless you pretend not to look. He doesn’t let you pet him unless he’s half-asleep or tricked by a treat, and he definitely doesn’t let you forget that this is his house, his couch, his missing person.

But at night, when Hyunjin calls, it’s like a switch flips.

Kkami leaps into your lap the moment the ringtone echoes through the apartment. He curls there, fast and warm and trembling just slightly, like he’s spent all day building tension he doesn’t know how to unspool without Hyunjin’s voice in the room.

You always answer on the couch, blanket pulled tight around your shoulders, phone propped up against a half-full glass of water. Hyunjin always looks a little tired, a little flushed from wherever he’s just come back from—a gallery tour, a studio session, a walk through some city that doesn’t have your footprints on its sidewalks.

He tells you about the art residency. The gallery director who makes coffee that tastes like battery acid. The studio space—wide and cold and full of light. He tells you about a piece he’s working on: abstract, rough, loud in a way he hasn’t painted in years.

“You’d hate it,” he laughs, voice crackling faintly through the call. “It’s all jagged lines. Chaos. I think it’s about… hunger. Or maybe grief. I don’t know.”

“I never hated your work,” you say.

Hyunjin quiets. Then, low:

“You hated what it did to me.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s right.

You did.

You hated the way he disappeared into it—into himself—those long stretches of silence when he wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t touch you unless it was desperate and fleeting, like he was chasing the ghost of something he could never quite hold. You hated the way he used his own pain like paint thinner, diluted himself until all that was left was color on canvas and a shell of the boy you used to fall asleep beside.

But you don’t say that.

You just sit there, curled on his couch in his hoodie you’ve stolen from his drawer, your phone glowing in the soft hush of midnight.

“I hated how much it hurt you,” you say instead. “That’s not the same thing.”

Hyunjin nods slowly, his lips pressed into a line. “No. It’s not.”

Kkami shifts in your lap, stretching a little, his snout nudging your elbow before he sighs and drifts deeper into sleep. You stroke his fur absently, eyes still locked on the screen, on Hyunjin’s face—the new angles of it, the way the buzzcut makes him look older, sharper, like a wound that finally scabbed over.

He watches you for a while. Then murmurs, “I was scared to call you.”

You smile, tired and small. “I figured.”

“I thought you’d say no. That you wouldn’t even answer.”

“I almost didn’t.”

His throat bobs. “Why’d you say yes?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s not just about the dog. Not just about the key he left under the stairs or the food already stocked or the note still waiting on the fridge like a breath you’re not ready to exhale.

You look at him. Really look.

And when you speak, it’s quiet. Honest.

“Because I missed you. Even when I hated missing you.”

The silence after is different this time.

He blinks. His mouth parts like he’s going to say something, but all that comes out is a whisper.

“Fuck.”

You let out a laugh—dry, breathless. “Yeah.”

He shifts on the screen, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “You still sleep on the couch?”

“Every night.”

“Why?”

“Because the bed remembers more than I’m ready to.”

His eyes flicker. He nods once. Like he understands. Like he hasn’t been sleeping either.

Another pause. Then—

“I dream about you,” he says.

And it’s not a confession. It’s a bruise. Something he’s been pressing on in the dark just to see if it still hurts.

You blink. “Hyun—”

“Not just the sex,” he adds, voice hoarse. “Though… yeah. That too. A lot, actually.”

You glance away, heat creeping up your neck. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to,” he says. “I want you to know I still—”

He cuts himself off. Breathes out hard. Shakes his head.

Kkami stirs in your lap, shifting slightly. The air feels too tight suddenly, the silence too loud.

You focus on Kkami. On the slow rise and fall of his small body, the way his paws twitch in sleep like he’s chasing something warm. It grounds you—barely.

Hyunjin exhales on the other end of the line. You can hear it, soft and ragged, the kind of breath that holds everything he didn’t say. Everything he still might.

You don’t speak. Not yet. Because what could you say? I still touch myself to the thought of you? I still wear your hoodie like armor when I can’t sleep? I still think about that night on the floor when we couldn’t stop, even though we knew it was already over?

None of it would come out right.

So instead, you keep your voice even when you ask, “Do you paint me?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You don't even know why you asked it. Maybe its because you're so sleepy you can't filter you're thoughts. Maybe because he mentioned it once, over soggy cereal over the golden morning light that filtered through the blinds, over the laughter you've never quite had again.

Hyunjin stills.

On the screen, he doesn’t look shocked. He looks… worn. Like someone who’s been carrying the answer around for a while and doesn’t know where to put it.

“I try not to,” he says eventually. Quiet. Careful. “But you always end up there.”

Your breath falters. You nod slowly, like that’s an answer you expected—because it is. Because you knew. Somehow, you always knew.

You shift the phone slightly, angle it so he can see the window behind you. The dark skyline. The reflection of the room, soft and gold and full of ghosts. Your voice is steadier than you feel when you say, “I haven’t opened it.”

“I know,” he replies, just as soft.

“I want to. But…”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I think I need more time.”

“Take it,” he murmurs. “I left it because I had to, not because I needed anything back.”

You nod. Not that he can see it—not really. But somehow, you think he feels it anyway.

“Okay,” you say. It's the only thing you can manage that doesn’t crack under its own weight.

A pause stretches between you. Soft. Not cold. Just full. Like the breath before a confession. Like the second before a kiss.

Kkami snores lightly, curled deeper into your lap now, his whole body lax with trust. You glance down at him, stroke a thumb between his ears, then look back at the screen.

Hyunjin’s still watching you. Not the dog. Not the view.

Just you.

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he murmurs, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You shrug, suddenly shy. “Didn’t pack enough layers.”

“I knew you’d steal something,” he says, teasing, but low—like he's remembering the way you used to steal everything from him. His clothes. His time. His breath.

“You left the drawer cracked open on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

His smile softens into something quieter. More real.

“I used to love seeing you in my stuff,” he adds. “Used to come home and hope you’d be there. Curled up in it. Pretending to wait for me.”

You swallow. It’s harder than it should be. “I wasn’t pretending.”

Hyunjin blinks slowly. Like that hit him somewhere unexpected. Somewhere tender.

And then, quietly, almost afraid to hope: “Are you still?”

You could lie. You could deflect. But instead, you meet his eyes through the screen.

“I haven’t been with anyone else.”

His jaw works. “Neither have I.”

The words land between you like a marker—drawing a line not to separate, but to measure distance. And maybe the distance isn’t as wide as you thought.

Your fingers curl a little tighter in Kkami’s fur.

“I should go to bed,” you say. Your voice is quiet. A little raw.

“Okay,” Hyunjin whispers. “Me too.”

But neither of you move. The seconds tick by. You don’t even blink.

Eventually, he says, “Tomorrow night. Can I call again?”

You let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “Hyun… you’ve been calling every night.”

His smile doesn’t fade, but it shifts—tilts into something deeper. Less playful. More certain.

“I know,” he says. “But that was for Kkami.”

You blink. “And tomorrow?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. Not once.

“That’s for you.”

It knocks the wind out of you a little, the way he says it. Not romantic. Not dramatic. Just simple. True. Like he’s only just letting himself say it out loud, but he’s known it all along.

Your throat tightens. “Oh.”

Hyunjin watches you carefully. “Is that okay?”

You nod once. “Yeah. It’s… more than okay.”

Something in his posture loosens then, like he’s been holding a breath he can finally let go of. His shoulders drop. His mouth twitches again, a smile fighting its way to the surface but not quite forming—like he’s still afraid to want too much, to hope too fast.

You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Not really.

But you know you’ll answer.

And maybe this time you’ll stop pretending it’s for the dog.

“You’re on the bed.”

Hyunjin says it the moment the screen connects. No hello. No lead-up. Just those four words, soft and low and unmistakably aware.

You blink at him from where you’re sitting, back pressed to the headboard, knees pulled up beneath the comforter. His comforter.

You almost lie. Almost say you were just passing through. That the light was better in here. That Kkami stole the couch.

But Hyunjin’s already smiling—slow and knowing, like he’s been waiting for this.

You exhale through your nose. “Kkami’s on the couch.”

“Mm,” he hums, a little amused. “So it’s just you in my bed.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone, feeling a little flustered. “Is that going to be a problem?”

His eyes darken a shade, but the smile stays. “Not even a little.”

You roll onto your side, careful not to let the phone slip. The sheets are warm beneath you, still smelling faintly like cedar and fabric softener and something only he ever carried. His presence is everywhere in this room. On the walls. In the folded clothes. Under your skin.

Hyunjin shifts on his end of the call—he’s propped up on pillows, a fitted black tank clinging to his chest, the cut of it leaving little to the imagination. His toned arms are on full display, lean muscle catching the dim light, subtle and sculpted like something sketched in charcoal. His expression is unreadable, caught somewhere between reverence and restraint.

“I thought about you today,” he says after a beat.

You tuck your face into the pillow, just a little. “Like you usually do?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “But this time I didn’t fight it.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs, slow and heavy. “What were you thinking?”

His gaze dips, like he’s shy all of a sudden. “That I miss you. That I used to wake up to you in that bed.”

You swallow, voice thinner now. “It’s a little colder without you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The silence that follows is different from all the others before it. It’s thick. Electric. It hums with all the things neither of you have said but haven’t stopped feeling. The kind of silence that shifts when the air gets warmer, when the breath starts catching, when the ache finally starts to slip through.

Hyunjin wets his lips. His voice is barely a whisper. “You look good there.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I feel... restless.”

He shifts again, almost imperceptibly. “Tell me.”

Your gaze flickers. “Tell you what?”

“What you’re thinking. Right now.”

You hesitate.

But then, softly, deliberately: “I was thinking about your hands.”

Hyunjin’s mouth parts slightly.

“I was thinking about how you used to touch me here,” you say, dragging your fingers over the blanket, slow, just below your collarbone. “And here.” Down, lower now, to the place between your ribs.

His breath stutters through the speaker.

“And I was wondering…” you murmur, voice barely above a hum, “if you miss the way I used to say your name when you touched me like that.”

Hyunjin closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, they’re dark, focused, hungry.

“I think about it all the time,” he says. “Every fucking night.”

Your thighs press together under the blanket. You feel your pulse everywhere—behind your knees, in your fingertips, between your legs. It’s not even about the sex. Not yet. It’s about the weight of being wanted by someone who remembers you—who still remembers.

“I haven’t touched anyone else,” you say.

He swallows hard. “Don’t.”

“I don’t want to.”

Hyunjin nods slowly. “Me either.”

Then, quiet: “Can I stay on the call?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says, voice rough now, “if I asked you to touch yourself… would you let me watch?”

Your breath catches. Not from nerves. From need.

You don’t say yes. You just let the phone settle against the pillow beside you, angled toward your face, the way he used to tilt your chin when he wanted a better look at how undone you were.

The sheets shift as your hand moves lower.

Hyunjin watches. And when he speaks, it’s barely a whisper, like he’s already somewhere far beneath the surface with you.

“Fuck. You always looked so pretty like this.”

You inhale shakily, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and careful, testing the heat already gathered there.

Hyunjin’s eyes drag down your body. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. His voice is rough with memory.

“Remember that time on the floor? After your exam? You were so out of it—barely undressed. I just shoved your panties to the side and made you come in, what, two minutes?”

You let out a quiet, choked sound at the back of your throat.

He smiles—crooked, dark. “Yeah. You clenched so hard around my fingers I thought I’d lose them.”

You whimper softly. Your hand moves slow, wet, dragging through the mess of your own need, slick pooling beneath your fingertips like your body remembers him even better than your mind does.

“God, that sound,” Hyunjin breathes. “That little gasp when you’re just starting to touch yourself. Same one you made when I used to run my fingers down your stomach—real slow, just to watch you twitch.”

You press harder against your clit, circles tightening, mouth falling open as your back arches into the memory. He’s not even touching you, and still—your body bends like it’s learned him by muscle memory.

Hyunjin notices. Of course he does.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice gone low and ragged, the kind that scrapes the inside of your throat just hearing it. “All spread out in my bed. Fucking yourself open with your hand like you want me to see everything. Like you know I used to make you feel better than anyone else ever could.”

You moan, breath catching, and Hyunjin’s smile sharpens.

“Touch your tits,” he says, not as a command—but a conjuring. Like he already knows you’re aching for it. “Lift your shirt for me.”

You obey without a sound, pushing the hem up slowly, just enough to expose the curve of one breast, the soft point of your nipple hard and aching from the friction of your shirt.

He groans. “You remember how obsessed I was with your tits? Couldn’t stop sucking on them. Couldn’t stop biting.” His jaw clenches. “You used to beg me to be gentle. And then beg me not to stop.”

Your fingers slide down again—slippery, desperate. Your thighs shake under the weight of it. The rhythm is messier now, your hips chasing pressure. Hyunjin watches all of it, his hand dragging down his torso, disappearing beneath his waistband.

“Touching yourself in my bed,” he growls. “Wearing my shirt. Letting me watch while you make yourself come for me.”

He’s panting now, hand working slow, deliberate strokes beneath the screen. His tank top clings to his chest, sweat beading along his collarbones. His buzzed hair is messy, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his mouth—his fucking mouth—is red and parted, like he’s still tasting you.

“You remember the way I used to fuck you from behind?” he says. “Pushed your face into the mattress, held your hips like you’d run from me if I let go?”

You whimper—your fingers falter, then speed up.

“Could barely breathe, baby. You’d just sob into the sheets. You loved it. Took every inch, crying like you couldn’t handle it—and still begged for more.”

Your body goes taut, heels digging into the mattress, orgasm hovering just out of reach.

Hyunjin's voice drops to a growl, breath quick and filthy. “Bet your pussy’s fucking tight right now. Clenching like it forgot what it’s supposed to take—like it’s trying to remember the shape of my cock.”

He groans, low and wrecked. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll teach it again. I’ll stretch you open so slow you feel it for days. Won’t stop ‘til you’re dripping all over my sheets, crying into the pillow, begging for more.”

You whimper his name—helpless. Shattered.

“You want me to say it?” Hyunjin pants, fist working now, muscles flexing. “Want me to tell you how I’d do it?”

You nod, frantic. Desperate.

His voice turns molten. Thick with lust, arrogance, something cruel and beautiful.

“I’d start slow. Tease you with just the tip. Let you feel the stretch, let you beg for the rest of it. Then I’d give you all of it at once—deep, hard. Just to see you fucking cry.”

You do cry out. The tension in your body snaps tighter, hips lifting off the bed, toes curling. So close.

“I’d fuck you into the mattress,” he growls. “Grip your hips and slam into you so hard you’d lose your voice. You remember how I’d do that? Say, ‘You’re not done yet, baby. You can take it.’ And you always fucking would.”

You’re whimpering now, moaning into your own shoulder to muffle the sound, fingers moving in slippery, filthy rhythm. The orgasm’s close—so close—spooling at the base of your spine, hot and tight and relentless.

“Oh, fuck, there it is,” he gasps, fucking into his fist now, stroking faster. “You’re close. I can see it—hear it. Just like that, baby. Let go for me. Come for the boy who still dreams about the way you taste. Come for the fucking lunatic who’d trade his last painting just to feel your pussy clench around his fingers one more time.”

That breaks you.

You moan his name—soft, ruined, high-pitched—and you come with your hand buried between your thighs, eyes fluttering, back arching. The pleasure pulses through you in waves, soaked and frantic and unstoppable.

“God, you’re still so fucking perfect,” he grits out. “I could’ve painted this. You—like that. That’s my favorite version of you.”

You whimper, still trembling.

He grins. Dark. Gleaming. “Wanna see what you do to me?”

You nod, dizzy.

He shifts the phone—just enough for you to see the slick length of him in his hand. Red at the tip, dripping, veins thick under taut skin. His pace is ruthless now.

“I used to fuck your thighs just to tease you,” he pants. “Not even your pussy. Just that pretty space between them. Used to slide my cock right there and come all over your stomach.”

You let out a breathy sound of disbelief, hips twitching in aftershock. Your cunt flutters around nothing, empty and aching.

“Fucking ruined me,” he snarls. “You ruined me. No one else has even come close. No one sounds like you. No one feels like you.”

And then, through gritted teeth:

“I’m gonna come thinking about your mouth. That filthy little tongue. That sweet fucking smile you gave me while I fucked your throat.”

Your legs tremble again.

“Fuck, baby—fuckfuckfuck—”

He comes with your name on his tongue, head thrown back, muscles tensed, body shuddering through it as his hips stutter beneath the blanket. His jaw slackens, hand squeezing out the last twitch of pleasure.

The silence after is sharp. Breathless.

Your own body still buzzes, skin flushed, sheets damp with sweat and want and memory.

Neither of you speak at first. Just breathing. Just staring.

Eventually, Hyunjin looks up again. His voice is hoarse, trembling at the edges.

“Tell me this isn’t just sex.”

You don’t.

You just stare back.

And then you hang up.

You hang up, and your hand is still trembling. Your whole body is still trembling, wrecked in ways that have nothing to do with the orgasm.

It takes less than a minute for him to call back.

Then again.

And again.

You watch the screen light up with his name—Hyun—and each time, it makes your stomach twist so violently it feels like punishment. Like grief.

You don’t answer.

The fifth time, he stops calling. Thirty seconds later, your phone dings with a text.

[Hyunjin]: i’m sorry. please just tell me if that was too much. [Hyunjin]: i didn’t mean to push you. i didn’t mean to fuck everything up. [Hyunjin]: we don’t have to talk about it. we can pretend it didn’t happen if you want. i’ll follow your lead. just… please say something.

You don’t respond to those either.

You just turn off read receipts and shove the phone under the pillow.

The next few days go by in a strange, slow blur.

You and Kkami settle into a rhythm. He doesn’t bark anymore when you walk past. Doesn’t flinch when you reach for his leash. He even curls up at your feet when you’re on the couch, sometimes nuzzling his nose into your ankle like he’s already decided you belong here.

It should feel comforting.

It doesn’t.

You stop sitting in Hyunjin’s bed. You stop wearing the hoodie. You wash it, fold it, and put it back exactly where you found it, like none of this ever happened.

You send him brief texts. Clipped. Neutral.

[You]: he ate all his dinner. no accidents. slept fine.

[You]: took him for a walk. he peed on someone’s shoe.

[You]: when’s your flight again? 

You don’t tell him how it feels like the walls have closed in.

How you’ve stopped sleeping in his bed again—even if the couch hurts your back. Even if the couch doesn’t smell quite like him. 

How Kkami curls up beside you now without growling, without guilt. You take him for long walks. Let him tug you through the park. Let him bark at pigeons and lick your knuckles and rest his chin on your thigh when you scroll through old texts you don’t send anymore.

You don’t cry. But your chest aches in a way that feels dangerously close.

You were never going to be able to leave without feeling like this.

But now it’s worse. Because you let yourself want again.

And it’s giving you vertigo.

[Hyunjin]: should be back around 5:30. just leave the key in the box. thank you again. for everything.

You stare at the message for a long time.

Not because of what it says.

But because of what it doesn’t.

And what you don’t know is this:

Hyunjin’s lying.

His flight lands at 3:10.

He’s already halfway through the city when you’re zipping up your bag.

He’s already in the elevator by the time you’re taking out the trash.

And he’s standing at the front door—key in hand, chest tight, hands shaking—when you reach for the handle to leave.

You open the door and nearly collide with him.

You freeze.

The air catches.

Time does something strange.

Hyunjin’s just… there.

Sweatshirt slung over his shoulder, suitcase by his side, curls of damp air clinging to the collar of his shirt from the humid sprint through the city. And his eyes—sharp, dark, wide with something between relief and devastation—lock onto yours like he’s forgotten how to blink.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then—

“Hyun—?”

Kkami barrels into view like a missile. He lets out a shrill bark of excitement and practically throws himself into Hyunjin’s legs, circling and jumping and whining like he’s just won the fucking lottery.

But Hyunjin doesn’t look down. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

He just stares at you.

And says, low, quiet, steady:

“You were really gonna leave.”

You clutch your bag a little tighter. “You said you’d be back at five.”

“I lied.”

You swallow. “I figured that part out.”

His jaw clenches. His hands twitch by his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or shove them into his pockets or bury them in your skin just to make sure you’re real.

Kkami lets out another bark, trying to wedge his head between you two like he’s the center of gravity—but Hyunjin doesn’t even glance down. Not once.

All of him is focused on you.

“You weren’t going to say goodbye.”

It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. A plea. A wound.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“Bullshit.”

That makes you flinch. Just a little. He sees it. His expression softens, but only barely.

Hyunjin steps forward. Not fast—but purposeful. Like if he stops now, you’ll disappear all over again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice taut with something sharp. “I’m sorry I came on too strong. I’m sorry I didn’t give you time. I’m sorry I didn’t say what I should’ve said months ago, years ago—fuck, the morning after. But don’t stand here and tell me I didn’t want you.”

You inhale—tight, shallow. Like there’s no room in your lungs for this.

For him.

“Hyun—”

“No,” he cuts in, but it’s not cruel. Just cracked. “You don’t get to walk out and let me find the ghost of you in my bed again. Not after you let me see you like that. Not after I—”

His voice breaks.

He swallows it down.

Kkami sits at his feet now, finally quiet, as if even he knows this part isn’t his.

“I meant it,” Hyunjin says, softer now. “That night. Everything I said. Everything I remembered. It wasn’t just to get you off.”

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag.

“You said you missed me,” he goes on. “But then you shut the door in my face. And I was willing to pretend I didn’t care. I was willing to take scraps just to be near you. But if you’re still standing in front of me—if you haven’t walked away yet—then just fucking tell me.”

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

You look at him. Really look. And you know—he’s not going to let you run.

Not this time.

“Go get the note.”

His voice is soft, but firm. Like a command spoken through a kiss. Like an ache wrapped in velvet.

You blink. “What?”

“The letter,” he repeats. “The one I left you. On the fridge.”

You freeze.

“I know you haven’t opened it.”

You swallow. “I wasn’t ready.”

“I don’t care,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something dark in his voice—something possessive, guttural. “I want you to read it. Now.”

You hesitate.

“Please,” he adds, and that’s what breaks you.

You nod—barely—and turn without a word. Each step toward the kitchen feels thick, underwater.

You open it, and—

It’s not a letter.

Not really.

It’s a patchwork of thoughts, of half-confessions. Scribbled lines, crossed-out phrases, uneven spacing. The ink changes color midway—black, then blue, then black again. Some words are written in cursive. Some in a rush. Some like they cost him something to write.

You glance up. He nods again.

“Read it,” he says. “Out loud.”

You hesitate. Then you read.

“You once laughed in your sleep, and I didn’t sleep at all that night. I just watched you and hoped that whoever you were dreaming about looked like me.”

You swallow hard. Keep going.

The ink shifts color. From deep black to something fainter. Navy. A pen running dry, maybe.

Your voice wavers.

“There’s a sweater you left. It doesn’t smell like you anymore. I hold it anyway.”

Hyunjin’s throat works. He doesn’t interrupt.

“I never painted your face. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t get your eyes right. But I painted your hands. A hundred times. Because they always knew how to hold me better than I knew how to ask.”

Your chest twists. You can’t speak the words out loud anymore, but you read. You read and read and read until there is nothing left, until the space between you feels alive–electric. 

He steps forward. Just one step. But it’s enough to close the distance.

“I lied,” Hyunjin says, voice low, rough. “The sitter didn’t cancel.”

You blink. “What?”

“I had people,” he continues. “So many people I could’ve called. People I trust. People who would’ve said yes.”

His eyes are burning now—dark, wet, glittering with something fragile and ferocious.

“But I didn’t want them. I wanted you.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. Your hands are trembling.

“I told myself it was about Kkami. About the timing. About convenience.” He huffs out a broken laugh. “But it wasn’t. It was you. It was always you.”

Your breath falters.

“I missed you,” he says. “So much it made me sick. I thought I could bury it. Paint over it. Work through it. But I couldn’t. I never did. You’ve always been underneath it all—under the hunger, the silence, the mess I made of myself.”

He steps closer. You’re breathing the same air now.

“I loved you then,” he says. “When we were tangled up in bedsheets and half-truths and pretending it didn’t mean anything. I loved you when you wore my hoodie and called me yours with your eyes. I loved you the second I saw you, and I—”

His voice cracks.

“And I love you now.”

You don't remember moving. Don’t remember closing the gap, dropping your bag, reaching for him with hands that should’ve known better.

All you know is this: one second, you're blinking back tears, and the next, you're kissing him like you're drowning.

Hyunjin catches you with both hands—one at your jaw, the other curling around your waist, steadying. The kiss is messy, open-mouthed, frantic. His lips part on a gasp when you press your body to his, and then he's devouring you like something starved.

Your back hits the wall. His teeth scrape your bottom lip. Fingers thread into his hair—short now, prickling at the scalp—and he groans like it’s breaking him.

You drop your bag. You don’t even hear it hit the floor.

You don’t care.

His hands are everywhere. On your waist, your hips, the curve of your spine. He pulls you in so tight you feel the tremor in his arms, the sheer desperation coiled in his chest like a spring pulled too far.

“Fuck,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—”

His voice breaks again, and then he’s back on you, lips trailing across your jaw, down the line of your neck. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting on a moan as he bites softly into your throat—just enough to mark. Just enough to remember.

Your hands scrabble at the hem of his shirt, yanking it up, palms hungry on bare skin. He hisses as your nails drag over his stomach, muscles twitching beneath the heat of your touch.

“Take it off,” you breathe.

He does. In one motion, the tank top is gone—flung to the floor like it offended him. And you stare. You can’t help it.

He’s still art. Still all sharp lines and soft skin and lean, desperate hunger. His chest heaves with every breath, sweat glinting in the hollow of his throat, and you think: I could die like this. I could burn for him and never want to be saved.

Hyunjin kisses you again—harder this time, hungrier. Like he heard it. Like he wants to go up in flames with you.

His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you without warning, and you gasp as your back hits the wall again, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The air shifts. Your breath catches. His cock presses against you through his jeans—thick, hot, twitching with every grind of his hips.

“I can’t wait,” he pants against your mouth. “I need to be inside you. Right now.”

“Then do it,” you breathe, dragging your nails down his back. “Hyune—please—”

Hyunjin breathes something that sounds like a curse, or maybe a prayer, and then he’s walking—stumbling, really—half-guided by the desperate way you’re clinging to him, the press of your mouths, the sharp hitch of your breath when he grabs at your ass to hold you higher. You barely register the shift from wall to bedroom until your back hits the mattress, until the world becomes sheets and skin and the low rasp of his voice murmuring your name like it’s sacred.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, springs groaning under the tangle of limbs and heat and history. Hyunjin follows you down like gravity itself — hands sliding, mouth chasing, body already slotting between your thighs as if it never forgot where it belonged.

His shirt is gone. Yours joins it. He kisses you through every inch of skin he unveils, frantic and starved and reverent, like he’s not sure whether to worship you or ruin you.

You arch beneath him when his tongue traces the curve of your breast, the bite of his teeth following fast after — a soft sting that makes your breath catch, your fingers dig into his shoulders. He groans when your nails drag down his back, when your thighs fall open wider.

And then he’s there — rutting against your center, clothed still but so hard it aches through the friction, the weight of him pressing perfect and punishing between your legs.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only move — hips grinding up to meet every desperate push of his, your cunt soaked and aching with the need to be filled.

Hyunjin’s hand slips down, hooking your thigh over his hip. He grinds into you through the last barrier, jeans rough against your soaked underwear, and it’s filthy the way your body answers—already arching, already clenching around nothing. You chase the friction shamelessly, trying to wring every ounce of pressure you can from the maddening drag of his cock pressed to your core.

He hisses against your throat, breath hot, teeth scraping the fragile skin there. You’re drenched. There’s no mistaking it—the way your panties cling, the way your slick seeps through them and stains his jeans, how he shudders just from the heat of you pulsing against the fabric.

The zipper’s down before you can even register the motion. He pushes his jeans low enough to free himself—hard and heavy and flushed dark with want. Your mouth waters at the sight of it. He tears your panties off with a quiet growl, not cruel, just crazed with the need to feel skin on skin, no more layers, no more time.

When he lines up and pushes in, it’s one long, devastating stroke—his cock thick and perfect and stretching you open like you were made for it.

You gasp—sharp, strangled. Your nails sink into his back.

Hyunjin goes still.

Buried to the hilt inside you, his entire body trembling with restraint, every muscle locked tight like he’s trying to keep himself from coming right then and there.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You—oh my god—”

His forehead drops to your shoulder. He’s shaking. You feel it. In his arms, in his breath, in the way his cock pulses deep inside you without moving. The kind of overwhelmed that turns to worship. The kind of ruin that feels like coming home.

You tighten around him instinctively—hungry, pulsing—and he lets out a strangled moan against your skin.

“I swear to god,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours. “If I move, I’m gonna come like a fucking teenager.”

Your nails dig deeper into his back, anchoring him there, as if you could stop time with the press of your fingertips. His cock twitches inside you, thick and throbbing, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

Hyunjin groans—low, raw, like the sound is being dragged out of him by force.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants. “You feel… I forgot—fuck, I forgot how perfect you are.”

You whimper, breath caught in your throat. You’re stretched so full it feels like splitting—blissfully unbearable. Like he’s carved to fit you, or maybe you were carved for him.

He doesn’t move. Can’t. His whole body is locked in place, every muscle drawn taut with the kind of restraint that hurts.

“I’m gonna embarrass myself,” he rasps. “You’re so warm, I—I need a second.”

You nod, gasping. “Okay.”

But your body doesn’t care. It’s greedy. Slick clings to your inner thighs, to the base of his cock. You pulse around him again—tight, hot, involuntary—and he shudders, a curse breaking on his lips.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he whispers, biting your shoulder.

“I’m not,” you breathe, but your hips roll anyway, a tiny grind up into his stillness.

Hyunjin moans—loud, broken. “Baby, I’m serious. You do that again and I’ll fucking—”

You clench again, on purpose this time.

He snaps.

In one hard thrust, he pulls out halfway and slams back in. You cry out—sharp, wanton—as your body folds around his. The stretch. The impact. The sound of skin on skin.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, your head tipping back, throat exposed.

Hyunjin watches the way your mouth parts, how your breasts bounce with every desperate snap of his hips. He groans then drops his mouth to your chest, sucking a bruise over your heart.

“This mine?” he pants, dragging his cock out slow before plunging back in. “Still mine?”

You can’t speak. Can only nod, breath caught in your throat. He fucks you through the motion, slow and deep now, the grind of his cock so obscene you swear you can feel him everywhere—behind your knees, in your throat, echoing in every part of you that remembers how he used to love you.

“No, baby,” he murmurs, voice fraying, fingers sliding under your knee to push your thigh back, opening you wider. “Say it. Let me hear you say it.”

“It’s—” Your voice breaks on a moan when he thrusts deep again, dragging against that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. “It’s yours, Hyunjin. Always.”

He groans into your chest like the words punched the air out of him. Then he’s fucking you harder, deeper, like he’s trying to anchor himself in the way you take him. The bed creaks, the headboard thuds against the wall, but you don’tHe moans into your chest like the words physically hit him, his thrusts growing messier, more frantic. His hand finds yours and pins it above your head, fingers lacing together tight, grounding him even as he loses himself in the slick, pulsing heat of you.

You’re soaked, ruined, trembling under every thick slide of his cock. He hits so deep it borders on pain, and yet you arch into it—into him—dragging him closer, clawing at his back like if you could just get closer, it might be enough.

“I missed this pussy,” he growls, the words slurred and broken against your throat. “I fucking dreamed about it. Thought about it every night with my cock in my hand—nothing felt as good, nothing—fuck—”

You keen, high-pitched, overwhelmed. Your body pulses around him again, tight as a vice, and it makes him stutter—a half-thrust cut short by the shudder that runs through him.

He kisses you then—desperate, biting, tongue dragging into your mouth like he wants to consume you from the inside out.

You’re moan is swallowed by his mouth when he hits that spot—deep and relentless—and your whole body jolts. Your back arches, your legs tighten around his waist, dragging him deeper.

“Right there?” he growls. “That the spot, baby?”

You nod, frantic, mouth open but no words coming—just breath, just heat, just the sound of him splitting you open again and again.

Hyunjin grins. It's crooked. Crooked and cocky and dizzy with something feral. Like he’s gone. Like you’ve pulled him under with you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, thrusting deeper, slower now, grinding his hips in a filthy circle that makes your eyes roll back. “I remember. Right there. Got you clenching like you’re about to cry.”

His voice breaks on a moan, guttural and reverent. “Fuck, that’s so pretty—so fucking pretty, baby—your face when I fuck you like this.”

He’s unraveling, you can feel it—his rhythm fraying, pace faltering, every thrust a prayer half-remembered. He buries himself deep and stays there, hips pressed flush, cock pulsing inside you like a heartbeat. His forehead falls to yours again, and he’s breathing so hard it shakes both your bodies.

“You gonna cry for me?” he whispers, voice all fray and silk. “Wanna see it, wanna feel you fall apart. I’ll take care of it—I’ll hold you through it, I promise.”

You don’t mean to. But it’s been too much—his mouth, his voice, the stretch of him splitting you open in perfect, deliberate ruin. Your eyes blur, your breath hitches, and before you can stop it—

A tear slips down your cheek.

Hyunjin sees it. And something inside him shatters.

“Oh my god,” he chokes, fingers trembling where they hold your thigh. “That’s it, that’s—fuck—”

He fucks you through it, slow and deep, every stroke angled to keep you on the edge. His free hand cradles your face, thumb brushing the wetness from your cheek. And he’s murmuring now, wrecked and ragged and sweet:

“You’re so good for me. So perfect. I don’t deserve you—I don’t—”

You cry out again, back arching as your orgasm hits—wave after wave of unbearable heat crashing through you. You seize around him, walls fluttering, hips stuttering beneath his weight.

Hyunjin groans like it’s killing him. Like the feel of you falling apart around his cock is undoing him thread by thread.

“Can I—fuck, baby, where do you want it?” he gasps, teeth gritted, body coiled so tight you think he might break apart if you say no.

“Inside,” you breathe, wrecked and shameless. “Want it inside—please.”

That last word shreds him.

He thrusts once—deep, sharp—then again, slower this time, drawn-out like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel. His eyes flutter shut. His mouth falls open. And then he’s coming—hard.

A low, desperate sound tears out of him as his cock jerks inside you, spilling warmth in thick, molten pulses. He buries himself as deep as he can go, arms trembling around you, breath stuttering in your ear. His whole body shakes with it, every muscle straining to stay rooted in you as pleasure rips through him like lightning.

He stays like that—deep inside you, trembling, breathless—until the shudders fade to something softer. Something quieter.

The kind of silence that feels like safety.

His forehead rests against yours, damp hair brushing your temple, and you can feel the weight of him everywhere—his chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapped around your waist, the steady thrum of his heart syncing with your own.

Neither of you speaks.

There’s nothing left to say.

Just breath. Just warmth. Just the slow, wet drag of him slipping out of you when his body finally yields, when your bodies finally remember they’re separate things again. You wince a little, overstimulated, but he’s careful—gentle hands guiding your hips as he settles beside you.

The bed is a mess. You’re a mess. But in his arms, none of it matters.

He pulls you close, one hand curling behind your neck, the other splayed low across your spine. You fit against him like you were made to—legs tangled, faces barely apart. His eyes find yours, dark and soft and unreadable. And then—

He kisses you.

Slow. Tender. Unhurried. Like he’s not trying to restart anything—just thank you, silently, for letting him fall apart in your arms.

Your fingers slip into his hair. His thumb draws circles at the base of your spine.

And in that quiet, breathless space—there is no ache, no past, no noise.

The gallery hums with low conversation and champagne glasses clinking. Golden evening light filters through tall windows, casting Hyunjin’s paintings in soft amber and dust. He stands near one of his larger pieces—stark, aching, all deep reds and pale ivory brushstrokes layered like wounds healed over—speaking to a small crowd of critics and curators, hands moving with slow confidence as he explains his process.

It’s been years since he’s spoken like this—without apology. Years since he let the world see him this raw and unguarded. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, long hair tied back loosely, wedding band glinting when he gestures. He looks settled now, anchored. And you know what it took to get him there.

You weren’t supposed to come.

He’d kissed your forehead this morning, hand warm and reverent on your swollen belly, and told you to rest. “You’ll just get exhausted,” he’d said, brushing your hair back, “and I’ll be distracted the whole time wondering if your ankles are swollen or if the baby’s doing backflips again.”

But now you’re here.

Standing just inside the gallery, framed by the door like something sacred. You wore the dress he loves—the one that drapes gently over the curve of your belly, soft and simple, glowing in the dusk light. One hand rests instinctively at your side, the other slipping under the swell of you. There’s a quiet smile on your lips, half proud, half bashful, and your eyes are locked on him.

Hyunjin doesn’t see you at first. He’s mid-sentence, talking about brush technique and layered memory, about how grief isn't linear, how art can be a body trying to heal. His voice is steady. His hands are sure.

Then he glances up.

And freezes.

You watch it happen in real time—the shift. His mouth stutters around a word, vowels cut short, fingers faltering mid-gesture. And then—god. That smile. Unrehearsed, boyish, wide in a way that crinkles his eyes and ruins all pretense. A pure, delighted thing that belongs only to you.

A few people glance over their shoulders, curious. But Hyunjin barely notices.

He catches himself, coughs once, and somehow fumbles through the last few lines of his explanation. His voice is softer now. Almost sheepish. He wraps up quickly, answering a question with a vague nod, thanking the crowd with a half-bow.

And then he’s moving.

Straight through the gallery, long strides purposeful, eyes never leaving yours.

You open your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe just to greet him—but he’s already cupping your face in his hands before you can speak. His fingers are cool from holding a champagne flute, but his palms are warm. Familiar. His touch gentle despite how frantically he reaches for you.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, kissing your forehead. “I told you not to come.” A kiss to your nose. “I specifically said—” another to your cheek, “—that I’d worry—” your chin “—that you’d get tired,” he murmurs against your skin, peppering kisses like punctuation. “That your feet would swell. That you’d—fuck, baby, I said stay home.”

You smile, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze—warm and full of something playful. “I know, but—”

He kisses you.

Soft and certain, his mouth presses to yours before the words can even leave your lips. It’s instinctive, almost impatient, like he couldn’t bear to hear the excuse when you’re standing right here, glowing and breathless and his. His hand curls at the back of your neck, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. You feel him smile into it, lips warm and reverent, like maybe he’s trying to convince himself he’s not dreaming.

You giggle against his mouth.

It bubbles out before you can stop it—light, easy, surprised by your own happiness.

“Hyunjin,” you laugh, gently pushing at his chest. “Let me speak.”

He leans back only a little, just enough to see you again. There’s a smudge of your lip gloss at the corner of his mouth, and you wipe it with your thumb, grinning.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur.

Hyunjin pulls back just enough to look at you—really look. His eyes trace every inch of your face like he’s memorizing you all over again. His thumb sweeps over your cheekbone. “You take my breath away,” he murmurs, like a confession. “Every damn time.”

You want to say something—something light, something teasing—but the way he’s looking at you leaves no room for irony. Just warmth. Just wonder.

And love. So much of it, it floods the space between you.

His hand slips down, resting over the swell of your stomach, and he sighs when he feels the smallest kick beneath his palm. “Little traitor,” he whispers to your bump, grinning. “You two planned this, didn’t you?”

You feign innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm.” He leans in and kisses you again—soft, slow, not quite chaste. Like there’s no one else in the room, no critics still lingering, no gallery full of people pretending not to watch the artist come undone in the arms of his muse.

Eventually, he pulls back—just a little. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Stay?” he asks, almost shy. “I want to show you something. After everyone leaves.”

You nod.

You nod, and his smile deepens—boyish, brilliant, the kind that still makes your knees weak even now. He kisses you one last time, quick and giddy, before reluctantly pulling away with a soft groan, dragging his hand down your arm like he’s tethering himself to you.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, squeezing your fingers before turning back toward the crowd. “Don’t go into labor while I’m gone.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “No promises.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder—mock-scandalized, lips twitching with laughter—and then he’s swept back into the flow of guests, nodding politely, shaking hands, answering a few last questions as people begin to drift toward the exit.

You watch from the side, sipping sparkling water from a plastic flute someone handed you, perched on the edge of a velvet bench like you belong in one of his paintings. A few guests glance your way—some with recognition, some with curiosity—but none of them matter.

You only watch him.

And he watches you too—between conversations, between thank-yous and signatures, his gaze keeps sliding back—like a tether, like gravity, like a vow that’s already been made a hundred times in silence.

You smile around the rim of your glass and press a hand to your belly, where the smallest flicker answers back. A quiet reminder of everything the two of you have built in the quiet spaces between the chaos. In the brushstrokes. In the breathing.

The gallery empties slowly, like a tide pulling away from shore. But you stay, bathed in golden light, watching the man you love exist in a room full of people who will never know him like you do. Who will never see the version of him that wakes up sleep-tousled and soft, who talks to your stomach like it already understands him, who paints love into everything he touches because he’s learned how to survive by making beauty out of ache.

[kamaluhkhan]

ONCE BITTEN, TWICE SHY

pairing: vi x fem!reader word count: 10.5k summary: after years away, vi returns home for the holidays and reunites with you, her ex-girlfriend. the universe (*cough cough* and your meddling families) push you together again, and neither of you can ignore the feelings that linger. (or: you, vi, and the ghosts of christmas past, present and future.) warnings: reader is ekko's older sister but not necessarily biological so appearance isn't specified; childhood friends to lovers + second chance romance; reader gets hit on by a creepy guy + gets into a fight (injury + blood mention), smut [strap mention (reader receiving), oral (both receiving), fingering (both receiving), biting, spitting, tribbing, sub!vi makes an appearance...kinda rough + possessive sex but there's aftercare too <33] (18+) ! a/n: HAPPY NEW YEAR GIRLS AND GAYS <33 tbh i debated whether to post this now bc xmas was like....3 weeks ago but figured i might as well. so pls enjoy what is essentially an x-rated sapphic hallmark holiday movie.

♪: ‘tis the damn season by taylor swift (sun); winterbreak by MUNA (moon); last christmas by wham! (rising)

track 1: thank god it’s christmas by queen

(winter — age 17)

“okay, just relax your fingers — no, but keep some tension, apply a bit of pressure on the string….yep, that’s better. now, straighten your back….”

it’s dark and snowing outside, and the cold’s seeping in through the window of her attic bedroom, but vi still almost melts into the floor when you follow her advice and press against her chest. she worries that you can feel how fast her heart is beating — faster than it maybe should for someone she’d been calling friend ever since she could remember. 

you shift in her lap, her arms still wrapped around yours from when she offered to guide you through an instrumental version of wham’s “last christmas.” you tilt your head towards her, nose almost brushing against hers. 

“vi?”

“....yes?”

“maybe we should finish our lesson another time. we better hurry up, anyways. i bet ekko and powder are already arguing over whether we should watch home alone or home alone two.”

vi snorts. it’s practically a tradition at this point, along with the annual post-christmas-dinner pyjama movie night.

you try to hand her the bright pink guitar pick, but vi shakes her head.

“it’s yours. you’re gonna need it if you want more lessons.” 

“hm, or maybe i could sell it for a billion dollars once you’re a big rockstar,” you tease. “i can picture thousands of fangirls painting your portrait and writing mrs. violet lanes in their notebooks.” 

you get up, shoot her a wink, and leave vi on the bed, clutching her guitar and trying to get her pulse under control. 

neither of you say anything as you both get changed. the stereo plays the mixtape you’d made for her — you got her for secret santa this year.

“my mom loved this song,” vi hums, a warm ache growing in her chest when the next song plays. this is the second christmas without her, but vi is still not used to using past tense. “she thought freddie mercury was the best rockstar of all time.”

“i remember. you…you must miss her.” 

of course she does, and she could run through a million reasons why.

“vander says you’ll be spending new year’s at your dad’s,” is what she says instead.

you let out something between a scoff and a laugh. “yeah.”

“your mom going, too?”

“just me and ekko. i swear, it’s like he’s trying to be this perfect dad to his new stepkids, meanwhile he’s the one who left us here to deal with his mess, the one who just ran away, and….whatever.” this time, you do scoff. “hey – do you have a shirt i could borrow?”

vi looks over to find that you’ve switched from the velvet dress you wore during dinner into a pair of flannel plaid pants; her cheeks flush when she sees that you’re only wearing a black lacy bralette on top. 

she clears her throat and pulls a clean jersey from her dresser, tosses it over to you. 

“that’s a shame. i was looking forward to spending new year’s eve together.”

you hum and slip the shirt over your shoulders. the only sources of light are the moon and the stars and the multicoloured christmas lights strung along vi’s walls, but she swore that your eyes flick down to her lips. 

“why’s that?” you ask. 

there’s something absolutely dizzying about being this close to you, the way your sparkly eyes wait patiently for her to respond. joni mitchell sings about skating away on a river, and vi wishes she could skate away from this conversation, but there’s nowhere to go. 

vi blinks away from your gaze and fixates on one of the many things she’s pinned up on her bedroom walls throughout the years. it’s a page torn from an old notebook of yours, something from seventh grade math class, but vi always loved your little drawings in the margins. 

vi?” you prompt, never one to let go easily.

“i want to kiss you at midnight,” she confesses.

“yeah?” 

vi nods. she’s tempted to walk out of her room, down the stairs and out into the winter night, until you weave your fingers through hers and squeeze her hand. she looks up — and you’re beaming, a smile that brightens vi’s entire being. 

“i want that too.”

vi finally, finally crashes her mouth onto yours, lips sticky with marshmallow fluff.

you taste like vanilla and gingerbread and hot chocolate that is definitely not spiked with irish cream that vi slipped into your mugs while you distracted the adults. 

you taste like home.

….

so, slight change of plans….i’m gonna stay here in london with the rest of the band. apparently the kirammans throw a super fancy holiday party with super fancy people every year, and cait convinced her parents to let us perform. fingers crossed someone important discovers us.

merry christmas, baby. and, if i don’t get the chance to say it: happy new year.

….

track 2: winter wonderland by darlene love

(winter — age 12)

you’re supposed to be looking after ekko while your parents are at work, but all that really means is making a big bowl of kraft dinner and stove-top s’mores for lunch and watching old christmas specials on the worn-out living room couch while you draw in your sketchbook and your brother, only 7 years old, programs the doorbell to play ‘jingle bells.’ 

when someone rings the doorbell, the tune floats through the house and wakes up your dog who starts barking like it’s the end of the world. 

“easy, ziggy.” you click a marker closed and run a hand through the husky’s fur, attempting to calm him down. “let’s go see who it is.”

you open the door, and there’s vi: snowflakes sparkling on her eyelashes, pink hair hidden under a knitted hat, and a toothy grin that brings out the dimple in her flushed cheeks. she’s also got a split lip and crooked nose from her last hockey game.

“we’re building a fort,” she tells you. she shuffles to the side so that you can see powder, who’s making a snow angel. “well, we’re going to. wanna join?”

you nod, smiling. “ekko!” 

your brother’s already behind you, slipping on his chunky boots and oversized coat that used to be yours before running outside and collapsing onto the fluffy snow next to powder. ziggy bolts outside, too, running circles around them. 

you stumble to get your winter gear on as fast as possible, the cold air rushing inside your front hallway as vi waits for you, kicking her snowy boot against the concrete entryway step. not even a heartbeat after shutting the door behind you, vi takes your gloved hand in hers and pulls you forward, the two of you a flurry of laughter.

…..

hey, pretty girl. i was at this party and one of your songs came on! every time i hear it, i’m in awe of how amazing it is….how amazing you are. i’m basically walking home in a snowstorm, so i’m gonna go before my fingers freeze off, but i just wanted to say that i’m so proud of my rockstar girlfriend.

i was also wondering: are you coming home any time soon? the holidays are coming up, and i really miss you. we all do.  

…..

track 3: last christmas by wham!

(winter — now)

vi should have learned from sonic youth and fleetwood mac: 

no sex or romance between bandmates. it never ends well.

it was bad enough giving into the rumors and fooling around with cait, but it’s another layer of messiness now that cait and maddie dating. meanwhile, cait is very much still bitter towards vi, vi is very much pining after someone whom she’s pretty sure never wants to see her again, and steb and lorris are very much caught in the middle. it’s no wonder the band’s manager suggested everyone take some time apart to ease the tension. frankly, while others protested, vi was almost relieved at the suggestion.

so cait’s off to london, maddie’s off to glasgow, the boys are going god knows where, and vi —

vi’s heading back home, back to you.

she wakes up in the bed of her childhood for the first time in a long time. her dad put on fresh sheets, but they’re still the same ones from back then — worn flannel with cartoon penguins. it takes a lot of willpower to untangle herself from the warmth and cloud-like softness, but eventually she heads downstairs to the kitchen.

powder still has exams so she’s not home from college until tomorrow, and vander’s gone to work. it’s just vi in her too-small christmas pyjamas (she has yet to unpack), eating a box of stale cinnamon pop-tarts for breakfast even though it’s well past noon. curiosity gets the best of her, so she peers through the window to see if anyone is next door.

your mom’s car is in the driveway, completely snowed in. there had only been a dusting of snow while vi was devouring the first pastry, but four pop-tarts in and it’s about doubled. she waits until the snow stops falling; with nothing better to do and a sugar rush to burn off, vi pulls on her old winter coat and snow boots she hasn’t worn since she was 18, grabs a shovel from the garage, and gets to work. 

it doesn’t take her long to clear the driveway, and she has some adrenaline to spare, so she decides to be a good neighbor. 

vi’s heaving one last shovelful of snow over her shoulder when she hears:

“violet? is that you?” 

she turns around. and, okay the first thing she registers is ziggy running towards her, the husky toppling her over into the snow.

“i missed you too, zig,” vi laughs. 

she gets up as ziggy’s still bounding around in the snow, and sees your mom standing in the doorway, looking a little more tired and a little more gray. but the smile on her face when she sees that it is, in fact, vi — it’s so bright that the snow might not exactly melt away, but the years sure do. 

vi remembers making snow angels with you while your moms gossiped over tea, how the two of you would stomp inside with a mess of slush and snow while laughter echoed from the living room. vi remembers your mom keeping a comforting arm around her shoulder through her mom’s funeral while you held her hand. she remembers your mom helping her pick out the perfect corsage to match your suit at prom, making a joke about how next time it might be an engagement ring, and telling vi how proud her mother would have been of her at your high school graduation party. 

with the golden glow of nostalgia comes a crashing wave of guilt at what vi said to you last time you spoke. 

“come inside, sweetheart. i’ll make you some hot cocoa as a thank you.”

vi is tempted to reject the offer, but your mom looks so hopeful and vi’s fingers are about to freeze off, anyways. 

so your mom makes hot cocoa as vi defrosts, the two of them chatting in the familiar yellow kitchen that you and vi once almost burnt down while trying to bake a cake for powder’s birthday. even the magnets and paper memories decorating the fridge are the same, with the addition of an article about vi’s band that was featured in the rolling stone, pinned up by a ceramic cow. 

“she’s an art teacher now,” your mom tells vi after giving an update on ekko. she glances at the oven clock. “speaking of which — i know you just finished shoveling our driveway, but do you mind helping me with another favor?”

“after the world’s best hot chocolate? anything.”

“i told my daughter that i’d pick her up from work, and i’m wondering if you would be able to take care of that.” your mom smiles. “i’m sensing a bad migraine coming on.”

the last sip of hot chocolate trickles down vi’s throat like cement. she knew she’d be seeing you, but didn’t quite plan for how that….reunion might go.

“of course,” vi says. 

vi puts both of their mugs in the dishwasher, about to grab the car keys from the hook by the door when your mom calls out: 

“oh, and violet?” vi turns around. “i’m so glad you’re home.”

you’re talking to a student when vi enters the art room of your old high school. nothing else in the building had changed — same boring concrete, same scratched up lockers, same graffiti immortalizing whom hooked up with whom. this room is the exception, vibrant with how students’ art is displayed all around, paintings and drawings and collages, and you’ve strung up multicolored christmas lights that give the whole space a cozy ambiance. you look the part of a cool, young art teacher: wearing a simple dark purple turtleneck tucked into black jeans and the same combat boots you’ve had since tenth grade, paint stains on your skin that is exposed by rolled up sleeves, and a marker behind your ear. you’re standing in front of an easel, talking to the student who happens to notice vi before you do.

“holy shit. is that violet lanes?”

vi watches as your face scrunches up in confusion, and then falls into shock when you see her standing there.

“it seems that it is violet lanes,” you state coolly while the student squeals. “what are you doing here?”

“oh, i, uh,” vi clears her throat, her palms sweaty. why is her body reacting like she’s a teenager about to ask out her crush for the first time? “your mom wasn’t feeling great, asked if i could pick you up from work.”

“you guys are friends?” the student asks, eyes wide as they flick between you and vi. 

“we used to date, actually,” vi clarifies. wrong move, she realizes, because you can’t help but glare at her.

“oh my god.” the student squeals again and reaches in their pocket to whip out their phone. “i need to tell alyssa that ms. l/n was in a relationship with the violet lanes. are you guys gonna get back together? oh my god, have you come to win her back —”

“layla,” you clip, and by the furrow of layla’s brow, it seems like you’re not usually so stern. you smile at layla, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “you’ve done some great work today, but you’ll have to finish this when we’re back from winter break. do you mind giving ms. lanes and i a minute?”

layla nods once, gathers her things. when she walks past vi, she can’t help but ask for an autograph. vi complies, of course, even lets her take a selfie. a fan is a fan, after all.

and, quite frankly this is the only part of being in the band that she still enjoys: hearing how excited young girls are at the music she writes, the music that vi wished she had growing up, about girls liking girls, about girls falling in and out of love with each other. everything else is just an occupational hazard that vi’s getting more and more fed up with. 

when vi turns her attention back to you, you’re finished putting all the material away, wiping your hands with an already paint-stained towel.

“i meant what you’re doing back in town,” you explain, not quite meeting vi’s eyes. you pack away some books and your laptop into a supple leather briefcase, and slip on your coat. vi’s cheeks flush when you catch her watching you. 

“it…it doesn’t matter. i’m here for a while, though.” 

you sigh. “okay.” and you don’t say anything more. vi keeps up with you as you switch off the lights, lock the door, and stride to the parking lot in silence. when you get to the car, you extend your hand.

“i’m driving,” you say, gesturing at her to give you the keys. “we both know that you’re a terrible driver.”

“i’m not a terrible driver,” vi guffaws. 

“says the lesbian who gives the rest of us a bad name,” you quip, a hint of a smile dancing across your lips, like the first bout of sun after a winter storm. “c’mon, pretty girl. i’m not giving up, so unless you wanna freeze to death….” 

the nickname slips effortlessly from your tongue, so much so that you don’t even seem to realize it, but vi’s breath hitches and she’s more than happy to fold to your every whim if it means hearing you call her pretty one more time. 

“so….” vi glances over at you from the passenger seat. a snowy landscape passes outside the window, and you tap on the steering wheel to a generic christmas song that plays through the stereo. “you’re teaching high school now?” 

she wonders if you remember the last fight you had, almost two years ago to the day.

you keep your eyes on the road. “yeah. guess i graduated from finger-painting with kindergarteners.”

vi feels her cheeks heat up all over again. 

so, you do remember. 

she wonders if you’ve replayed it over and over again and hoped for a different ending like she did. she should have thought more about what to actually say to you —

“you know, i never understood why you liked this song so much,” you suddenly say when the radio starts playing dolly parton’s cover of ‘i’ll be home for christmas.’ 

vi can read between the lines, but she’s waiting for you to point out the irony in her preference for a song that’s about someone wanting to go home for christmas, something vi has deliberately avoided at all costs these past few years. 

“it just seems kinda sad,” you continue. 

“you love ‘last christmas,’ and that one’s pretty sad,” vi points out.

“sure, but it ends hopefully.”

“oh?” vi tilts her head towards you. “how’d you figure? 

“sure, it’s someone singing about heartbreak and how much it sucks during christmastime, but then there’s this hope that they still find true love down the line. it’s a maybe that isn’t hopeless.” you shrug. “meanwhile, your song ends with the lyric ‘if only in my dreams,’ which just seems too accepting of the fact that going home for christmas, being with the person they love — it might just be a dream.”

“i don’t know. some dreams do come true,” vi muses. 

by now, you’ve made it home. you put the car in park but keep the engine going, presumably to avoid becoming icicles. neither of you make a move to leave. 

you glance over at vi. “your dreams sure came true, ms. violet lanes,” you joke, but there’s an air of sadness to it.

“not all of them.”

“yeah? which ones haven’t?”

vi swallows the lump in her throat and hopes that you understand the look in her eyes. “let’s just say i’m working on them.”

you blink away and cut the engine.

….

you’re still dealing with the shock of seeing vi back in town when your brother, freshly home from college, suggests going skating. 

he can be fairly convincing, especially when he mentions that it’s a christmas season tradition, so, you prepare for what is essentially a double date with your brother, his girlfriend/your ex-girlfriend’s sister, and your ex-girlfriend, with isha as a fifth wheel.

should be fun. 

it turns out, despite all her past hockey experience, vi really cannot skate. in fact, skating seems to be the complete opposite of riding a bike: she’s terrible at it after years off the ice, essentially reenacting that scene from bambi. it’s easier to ignore vi’s presence when she’s sitting next to the snack bar, by herself, but then powder skates up next to you and asks if you’d be kind enough to please help her sister have a good time. you roll your eyes at her shit-eating grin, but it is a bit sad, watching vi on the sidelines. she’s wearing a beanie and a pair of sunglasses to hide her identity, and now she kinda looks like a divorced dad watching his grown kids pass him by while he’s stuck in a midlife crisis.

you convince vi to give skating another shot — it’s tradition after all — and pull her out onto the rink. you start by holding her from behind, keeping her hips steady until she gets the hang of it. you try to let go, but vi stumbles and reaches out for your gloved hand, and you melt into the familiarity of her fingers curled around yours. the two of you fall into a comfortable rhythm, first with you pulling vi along, then with her taking the lead, until vi almost knocks into a small child.

“see what i mean by you being a bad driver?” you jest, successfully maneuvering to avoid collision. 

then, you follow where vi’s eyes have settled — on powder and isha laughing and chasing each other around the rink. vi had asked earlier when isha had dyed her hair blue; you still have some residue under your nails from last weekend, when powder came for a study break and the three of you ended up helping isha achieve a new look she’d apparently been itching to try. 

“you know powder’s graduating this year?” 

“she overloaded her credits so she could get out of there as soon as possible,” you explain, having had many conversations with powder leading up to the decision. 

vi nods, her jaw clenched. you already know what she’s thinking, and frankly, you agree: that vi hasn’t been here, literally and figuratively. you also feel the warmth of vi’s skin radiating through her glove to yours, notice the slight flush to her freckled cheeks, how chapped her lips are from the cold, so much so that you’re tempted to share the vanilla chapstick you’ve got on your own lips, to kiss her deeply like you did last time you were here, together.

it’s only been three days since vi’s been back home. this is only the second time you’ve seen her, and you’re already falling back into old patterns, tempted to ask her to stay, to try again, even though you already know the answer.

except….not staying isn’t the deal breaker it used to be, so maybe trying again isn’t as hopeless as you think it is.

vi squeezes your hand, and you realize that you��ve stopped skating entirely. 

“hey. you still with me?”

you nod, decide to enjoy this moment for as long as you can, and the two of you glide across the ice.

…..

when you suggest making stove-top s’mores, it’s another item on the list of things she’d missed. 

a list that’s been growing a lot these past few days.

vi offers to make more once you’ve all run out, and ekko follows her into their kitchen while you, powder, and isha keep watching christmas specials in the living room. she turns on the gas stove, stabs a marshmallow through a wooden skewer and waits for it to roast — and, for ekko to say something.

“i don’t know what happened between you and my sister, but i need you to promise me that the tabloids aren’t true. that you and that kiramman chick didn’t hook up…at least until after y’all broke up.” 

“or, what, you’re gonna challenge me to an arm wrestle? think you can finally beat me?”

“oh, i know it.”

a pause. the marshmallow catches on fire and vi blows on it to quell the damage.

“i didn’t cheat on her.” she throws out the burnt marshmallow and gives it another shot. “i would never. does….does she think i did?”

ekko shrugs. “not sure. some of those articles are pretty convincing. but, since you’re promising me that you didn’t…”

“i didn’t.”

“then that saves me from kicking your ass.” ekko nods once and uncrosses his arms, handing vi some graham crackers and chocolate. “actually, i could use your help with something.”

“sure.”

“she applied to this great art residency in new york, like, on whim. the only people she’s told are me, powder, and vander….i think she’s nervous to tell mom, at least until she knows for sure she’s gotten in, but this is the most excited i’ve seen her be about something in a while, and she worked really hard on her application…” 

“i’m sure she did,” vi states. “what do you need my help with?”

“convincing her to go.” 

“i’d love to help, but i’m not sure i’m someone she’d wanna hear from, especially about this. she was never a fan of me leaving to pursue my dreams.”

“she was never a fan of you leaving,” ekko corrects. “she’s still a fan of you pursuing your dreams.” he juts his chin out at the article stuck to the fridge. 

vi had just assumed that your mom had pinned that up.

“okay.” vi says. “i’ll talk to her.” 

a plateful of semi-burnt s’mores later, and vi and ekko return to the living room with the rest of you. 

vi forgot how nice this felt, all of you cuddled on the couch, ziggy included, watching how the grinch stole christmas. she half expects her mom to walk in through the door without even knocking, shake the snow off her hair, and hold up a batch of pre-baked gingerbread people she’d gotten for the kids to decorate.

but that’s not happening. other than isha, none of you are kids anymore and things can never be the same.

and yet — you glance over at vi and give her a sticky marshmallow smile, and she feels her heart grow three sizes.

….

baby, i swear it’s not what it looks like. the record label thought it would be good promo to get a picture of me kissing under the mistletoe…’tis the season and all that…..cait and i were both really drunk and things got a bit out of hand….but it looks worse than it is. i swear on my mother’s grave that nothing happened.

please call me back, baby…..i’m so fucking sorry….please. 

it’s not christmas without at least hearing your voice. 

….

track 4: river by joni mitchell

(winter — age 23)

it’s hard to believe that hours ago, you were kissing vi backstage and showering her with praise after the concert. she was happy to indulge in your excitement, even though she was all sweaty and her ears were still ringing from the crowd. 

more than happy, in fact. phone sex can only go so far, and it’d been too long since vi had seen you writhe and heard you whimper for her firsthand. 

“i missed you so fucking much,” you groan, tightening your grip on vi’s hair. it’s now an inky black instead of fuschia — the band’s starting to lean more punk rock. 

a particularly hard thrust is her way of telling you that she missed you too. so fucking much. she throws your legs over her shoulders, pushing the strap deeper inside you and digging her knees into the mattress as she coaxes you through another orgasm. you pull her down for one last searing kiss, your tongue searching each crevice of her mouth. 

“i can’t believe you’re here,” vi continues a few moments later, after you’re both cleaned up and getting dressed. she wants to add something along the lines of i love you, but she bites back the sentiment. she’ll save that sappy shit for later tonight, when she finally gets down on one knee for you. 

you glance back at her from where you’re pulling out a sparkly silver dress from your side of the closet (and isn’t that such a slip of the mind? your side, as if it’s a shared closet and a shared bedroom and a shared home; if she thought about it more, though, she would realize that, though she has no problem asking you to marry her, she’s still terrified at the thought of staying in one place for more than a few months).

“me neither,” you smile. 

vi walks over to you, presses her half-dressed body against your lingerie-clad form (vi’s sure you wore this fuschia set just to drive her insane; it’s working). she lodges her hand behind your ear and pulls you in closer, kisses you deeply because you’re here and she missed you so fucking much and she’s so ready to make you her wife.

she could write a whole record just about the taste of your lips: the sweetness of vanilla chapstick, the saltiness of sweat and the headiness lingering from the wetness you lapped up from between her legs.

you pull away first. vi tries not to stare at how your chest heaves, your breasts straining against intricate lace. 

“we, um.” you clear your throat. you slip your hand underneath vi’s blazer, and she groans when you make contact with the exposed, burning skin of her abdomen. vi thinks you’re about to suggest another round, or two, or ten, but instead you untangle yourself from her and say: “we should probably get ready.”

the after party is going well. the club’s busy, the music’s good, and the drinks are flowing.

you seem to be having a great time until someone (probably cait or maddie, on cait’s behalf) lets it slip that the band’s heading to london later in the month to start recording their new album before the end of the year….something vi decidedly did not want to tell you until later tonight, after the high of the proposal, after she’s promised you that she’s dedicated to this relationship, that she’s always been dedicated to you. 

instead, vi’s trailing behind you as you angrily stomp towards the bathroom, her mind scrambling to come up with a way out of this argument.

there’s a line, but you cut in front and slip inside as soon as someone walks out. 

“wait, what the fu —”

you slam the door and lock it behind you once you’re both inside, ignoring the subsequent banging and jiggling of the handle.

“please, baby, let me explain —”

“i can’t fucking believe you,” your voice is steady, measured, and for some reason that makes vi even more nervous. “you give empty promise after empty promise that you’ll be more present, but something always gets in the way, is always more important than —”

“don’t you dare say that you’re not important to me. i offer to fly you out anywhere to be with me, but you’ve only taken me up on the offer once. twice, now.”

“it’s been five years, vi. five years of us staying together because….god, at this point i don’t even know why — ”

“do you not understand how much i love you?” vi raises her voice over the sound of the club music outside. “i was gonna propose tonight.”

you stare at her, then start to laugh.

“please tell me you’re joking.”

“i’m not.”

“if you think marriage will save us, then you’re delusional. what was your plan — call me your wife while we’re thousands of miles apart, but not even have the time to answer my calls? we’re barely in a relationship now, vi. all that’s left between us are missed calls and voicemails —” 

“oh that’s really all that’s left between us?” 

“i love you, violet. i have since we were kids. but, now, there’s also all this — the parties, the crowds, the fame….you’ve gone all over the world, and you can’t even be bothered to visit your family during the holidays.”

“well i’m sorry that my ambitions are bigger than that nothing town we grew up in,” vi snaps. “i can’t believe you’re throwing a tantrum because i’m not making it home for christmas. for what? so we can all reminisce by the fireplace, pretend that we can be kids again, even though things can —” vi chokes back a sob, soothes it with a healthy dose of anger. “things can never be the same. you need to grow the fuck up.”

“maybe you should be the one to grow up!” you finally yell. “convincing yourself that this relationship is working, meanwhile you’re running away from everything and everyone you grew up with because it reminds you of your —”

“at least i’m not afraid to actually go after my dreams,” vi cuts you off before you can finish that sentence, uses the broken shards of your words against you. “don’t you want more for your life than finger-painting with a bunch of kindergarteners? you’re gonna end up just like your deadbeat mom, going nowhere, drinking yourself to sleep, all alone, with nothing to show for the life you’ve lived.”

as soon as the words leave her mouth, vi wishes she could take them back. you don’t bother swallowing your tears, letting them rush down your cheeks. vi digs her nails into her palms to prevent herself from reaching out and wiping them. it wouldn’t make sense, anyways. she’s the reason you’re crying. 

you take a deep, shaky breath.

“yeah, well, i’m glad that your mom isn’t alive to see what a selfish asshole you’ve become.” there’s a pause, and vi feels her stomach turn at your casual cruelty, your quiet anger. “i’m gonna pack up my stuff and catch the first flight out of here. merry fucking christmas and happy fucking new year. have a nice life.”

vi screams and throws the velvet box against the door you’ve slammed shut behind you. the hot tears that were building in her throat finally boil over. the engagement ring clatters onto the floor.

…..

vi? it’s me. not sure if you’ve blocked my number. i wouldn’t blame you. i know it’s been, like, a year, but it feels weird not hearing your voice for this long, especially around the holidays. well, i guess i could just turn on the radio….it’s not the same, though. anyways, merry christmas. happy new year, too. and….and i’m sorry. 

please come home.

…..

track 5: i’ll be home for christmas by dolly parton 

(winter — now)

karaoke at the last drop used to be one of vi’s favorite christmas traditions, so you decidedly avoided it at all cost since the breakup. vander always tried to convince you to join, but he understood and even made sure to not give you a shift during that time after you started working there at 21. 

you kept the job because, evidently, high school art teachers don’t make a ton of money, and you would one day like to move out of your mother’s house. 

which, as it turns out, might happen sooner rather than later. you applied for this artist residency in new york, and, yeah, you put time and effort and heart into your application, but you were sure that you’d be rejected. while you got your acceptance email this morning, and you were so fucking overjoyed at first, the thought of leaving still terrifies you, so you’ll postpone worrying about that until after the holidays. that’s what they’re for, anyways: a break from reality, a peek into a cozy snow-covered world where everyone is festive and joyous and worry-free.   

right now though, you’re feeling neither festive nor joyous. gert called in sick, and no one else is able to cover for them, so you’re stuck at the last drop on christmas eve, listening to one of your old high school classmates drunkenly fumble the lyrics of darlene love’s ‘christmas (baby, please come home).’

about three verses in, vi walks into the bar with mylo and claggor, flakes of fluffy snow melting into her grayish pink hair. you’re already pouring their drinks before they reach the counter. mylo and claggor offer their sincere appreciation, chattering away as they leave to snag a booth in the corner. vi stares at her drink before grabbing the beer glass. 

“you remember.” 

“are you surprised?”

vi smiles. “no. it’s just nice. cait keeps insisting i order gin martinis instead. says it’s classier.” 

something sour curdles in your stomach. “yeah, well. i’ve always liked you the way you are.”

that probably ended up sounding like you’re still pining after vi (which you’re….not) rather than the bitter comment you intended it to be. 

vi’s soft blue eyes search yours. 

“i better get back to the boys,” she finally says. “maybe sign up for a song or two.”

you’re busy clearing a table when you hear her voice again. actually — a silence fills the bar, and it’s replaced by the lush rumble of vi singing ‘last christmas.’

you watch her as she performs, eyes locked on yours, and it’s over before you know it. you feel like you should go say something to her, but then there are a bunch of excited fans that she has to attend to, signing autographs, taking photos.

as you swallow your disappointment, the normal chatter of the bar resumes. you’re walking back to the kitchen when you feel someone pinch the back of your thigh, right under your ass. you whip around to find that old classmate who butchered a christmas classic an hour or so before (james, you think his name is, from ninth grade science), with the most arrogant smirk.

“hey, gorgeous. my friends and i were just arguing over who should take you home tonight.” he gestures towards a table of guys who look like equally preppy assholes. “i won the chugging contest.”

“good for you,” you say, balancing a tray of empty glasses. “grope someone in here again, and you’ll be sorry you did.” you turn around to get back to work, but james grabs your wrist and stands up abruptly so you’re chest-to-chest.

“i don’t think you understand what i’m offering, baby.” you gag at the nickname and the stench of beer on his breath. you’re a bartender, you’re used to getting hit on, but creeps like this are the worst.

you rip away from his grasp. 

“i’m not interested,” you snap. “and i’m not your baby.”

“listen.” james puts his hands on your shoulders, and if both of your hands were free, you would promptly push him away. everyone’s having a good time and you don’t wanna cause a scene, so you try to think of ways to get this asshole out of the bar and into the snow without much of a fight. “you know, santa might come down your chimney on christmas eve, but if you’ve been a good girl this year i’ll come down your —” 

“there you are!” powder’s voice is loud over the sound of someone singing another generic christmas carol. she knocks into your side, breathless. “sorry we’re late. had some car trouble.”

“well, hello.” he removes his hands from your shoulders, shifts his predatory gaze from you to powder. 

oh, fuck no.

“powder,” you keep your voice steady even if your heart is racing. “go back to the table. i’ll be there in a sec.”

james reaches out for powder, but you punch him square in the jaw before he can so much as touch her, the tray of glasses crashing on the floor. 

james’ flirtatious smile is long gone, replaced with the kind of anger only egotistical, self-important jerks have when they don’t get what they want and they’ve taken a blow to their ego. 

in fact, he’s angry enough to deliver a punch right back to your face.

you hear a crack upon impact, and pain radiates from your nose. you stumble, but powder manages to catch you before you tumble into the broken glass. she holds you as people start yelling. you think that vander rushes over, too, shouting at james to get the fuck out of his bar and never step foot in it again. 

you lick your lips, tasting blood. your ears are ringing, and everything is all a bit fuzzy. powder tries her best, but you slump your body weight into hers and she almost topples over.

“i’ve got her.” vi’s surprisingly calm voice cuts through the chaos. you feel a strong, familiar arm wrap around your waist to steady you. 

somehow, you find yourself in the bathroom, sitting on the counter as vi stands between your legs. she carefully examines your injury, but you notice how she avoids making eye contact. 

you feel your head spinning all over again. maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the fact that the two of you haven’t been this close in a while.

“remember teaching me how to throw a punch?” the question slips past your lips before you can stop it.

vi looks slightly amused, and she finally meets your gaze. “‘course i do,” she hums. “you tried to convince me to help you start an all-female fight club at school.”

a smile creeps onto your face, despite the pain from your nose.

she remembers. 

somewhere within her, vi holds on to fragments of you.

“thank god the principal vetoed it. would’ve been a disaster,” she continues.

vi wipes the blood off your face, the sleeve of her silk red button-down now stained a darker crimson. “how’s your hand?” she asks. 

you flex your fingers. “it’s been better,” you answer, your knuckles slightly aching. “totally worth it.”

vi smiles sadly. “i guess you’ve been the one protecting my sister while i’ve been away.”

while i’ve been away. 

the reminder feels like a stab to the heart. 

vi’s back home, sure, but only for a limited time. 

her fingers graze your cheek, and the breath hitches in your throat.

“you know, i only wanted to start that fight club as an elaborate plan to spend more time together,” you confess, opting to preserve the delicate bubble of nostalgia you’d stumbled into together. “we were each so busy….i had studio, and you were always away at hockey games. it wasn’t realistic in the end, though.”

“i would’ve stayed if you asked,” she tells you, and you wonder exactly what she might be referring to. 

you swallow the lump in your throat. “it’s what you loved, though.”

“but i - i loved you, more. you had to have known that.”

“yeah, well. i loved you, too,” you explain, and it’s clear that neither of you are talking about a lesbian fight club. “whether it was hockey, or music….as long your heart was in it, it was more worth it to let you go, to not stand in the way of your dreams.” 

“you were my dream.”

you scoff, cheeks heating up, and look away. “you probably say that to all the girls.”

“no.” vi guides your chin towards her. “just the one.”

it’s hard to determine who leans in first, but soon enough your lips are on vi’s— messy, urgent. noses bumping together, teeth clacking against each other. she cradles your face in her hands, and you wrap your legs around her waist to bring her closer. you taste beer on her tongue, and maybe a hint of lime, but it’s overwhelmed by the salty, metallic taste of blood stained on your lips. when you run out of air, you pull away. it’s clearer now: you’re not dizzy from the adrenaline, but dizzy from her. vi’s gaze is heavy on yours as she traces your top lip with her thumb.

“vi,” you whimper, itching to kiss her again. 

“you’re still bleeding.”

vi wipes away the blood with the sleeve of her shirt. before either of you can do or say anything more, there’s a knock on the door. vander, wondering if you’re okay and if maybe you could hurry up and get back to work. 

you can’t sleep that night. before, staying up on christmas eve was an elaborate operation to catch santa. now, it’s overthinking a very hot kiss and all the unresolved tension between you and your ex-girlfriend next door. 

logically, you knew that you missed vi, everything about her and who she is, the way you would laugh and argue and make love. but the rush of feeling her tongue licking into your mouth, her body melding into yours after being apart for so long….

you’re scared that she won’t feel the same, but you’re even more terrified of letting the moment slip through both your fingers without at least trying. 

so, you grab your phone, deciding to finally reach out to her, when by some christmas miracle you get a text from her.

she climbs through your window not long after, wearing plaid boxer shorts and a zaun university sweatshirt you’ve been looking for, for about five years. you didn’t bother to change, either, only wearing an oversized shirt. you sit cross-legged on your bed as she waits by the window. vi stares at your chest for a good few seconds, and you remember that you’re wearing one of her band’s concert tees, faded from years of wear. 

“so, um,” vi starts, her voice as soft as the well-worn cotton of your shirt. “we have so much shit to talk about and figure out, but, i, uh, can’t stop thinking about early tonight —”

“vi.” the swarm of butterflies in your stomach is replaced by something more delicate, more urgent. “do you wanna come sit?”

vi swallows thickly, looking between you and the still open window. a winter breeze rushes through. you shiver, thinking she might just turn around and disappear into the cold night. instead, she shuts the window, removes her snow-covered boots, and settles onto the bed next to you.

you place a tentative hand on her cheek, still cold and slightly flushed. she shudders when you run your thumb over the tattoo under her eye.

“i know there’s a lot we have to work through.” you take a deep breath as she shifts closer, suddenly dizzy from the familiar scent of her winter pine old-spice body wash. “right now….right now, i just want you.”

“yeah?” vi smirks, her shyness melting away. she settles a warm hand on your bare thigh. “how do you want me?”

you exhale sharply when her hand travels higher, dull nails scraping at the fabric of your underwear. 

“it’s cute that you’re flustered,” she quips, leaning in even closer. her breath is warm and heavy against your lips. “because i’ve spent so many night replaying all the dirty, nasty things we used to —”

you tug her sweatshirt and pull her back onto the bed, feeling her body solid against yours. the vibration of her groan shudders through your body when you crash your lips onto hers with such hunger, you’d think you had been starving without her. 

“how’s about an encore, superstar?” you drawl. 

you bite your lip hard at how vi nods at you desperately, eyes all dark and lustful.

“you read my mind,” she breathes. by now, her hand has reached the hem of your shirt, and she pushes up the cotton to reveal the supple skin of your stomach. you give her permission to remove it, leaving your top half exposed.

her lips nip and suck down your body until she reaches the waistband of your panties. she pulls it up with her teeth, the elastic snapping back when she lets go. you whine her name, and she looks up at you with dark eyes. 

“can i?” her breath fans over your navel, her nails digging into your hips as she waits for your answer.  

“yes. please.”

you hadn’t meant to sound so desperate, but you could feel vi smirk against your inner thigh before sinking her teeth into it. you whimper, and vi salves her tongue over the area to ease the sting before removing your underwear. she positions your legs over her shoulders for better access to where you need her most.

vi moves her tongue and fingers in all the ways she remembers makes you shake, curl your toes, and grind down on her face. in return, you grip her pink hair, tightly, and utter praise in all the ways you remember makes her shake. 

“just like that, pretty girl,” you encourage, practically melting into the mattress. it feels so good — dangerously good, intoxicating, even — to be devoured by vi.  “keep doing a good job and i’ll return the favor later.”

vi’s moan vibrates throughout your body and she becomes faster, reaches her tongue deeper, bringing you over the edge. she leaves a few more bites on your body on her way up to meet you and when she does, vi’s lips and chin are shining with your release.

you lean forward slightly to lick it up. you ghost your mouth over hers.

“your turn,” you taunt and run your thumb over her tattooed cheek. 

you twist your calf around vi’s leg and flip your positions. she lets out a yelp when her back hits the mattress. once you’re hovering over her, legs and arms on either side of her body, you do what you’re sure you’d never get tired of doing: you kiss her, passionately, deeply. you bite her lip as you pull away. 

there was always a bit of jealousy that gnawed at you, became your very-own shoulder devil that you just couldn’t shake when you were together, no matter how hard you tried. it was no secret that vi was admired by many, that girls around the world were crushing on her, hoping they’d catch her eye, get their chance with her. you never felt like she was yours, and yours alone. 

but you do get a deep satisfaction knowing that right here, right now, you’re the only person who gets to see her like this — pink hair splayed across the pillows like her very own halo, but the rest of her telling a much less-angelic, much more sinister story: her lips swollen and kiss-bitten, her cheeks a devilish shade of red, her eyes dark and lustful and waiting for you to make the next move. 

"you want me to have my way with you?" you whisper, voice honeyed with desire.

vi whimpers, a sound that fuels the fire in your abdomen. "yes."

you practically rip off her sweatshirt, kiss down her jaw, her neck, her exposed chest and sternum down to her stomach. vi lifts her hips from the bed so that you can remove her boxers, and you’re delighted to find nothing else underneath. 

you’re greeted by her glistening pussy. blowing onto her folds, you run your tongue from her hole to her clit, loving how you already feel her slick coating your lips. vi spread her legs even wider, and you take the opportunity to sink two fingers into her cunt. you know her body, as well as you know your own, as well as she knows yours. you flick your gaze up, view slightly blocked by the pink curls of her bush, but you can still picture it — how her eyes roll back, how her mouth opens to release a perfectly delicious gasp.

"god, i've barely touched you and you're already about to cum. did you miss me that much?" you tease, feeling her clench around your fingers. as if you aren’t subtly rutting your hips against the mattress, eager to ease the throbbing between your legs. 

all you get in response is whine. it’s muffled, and you crane your neck upward to see her biting down on her knuckles, so hard you’re worried she might break skin. 

unacceptable.

the rest of the world gets to hear her every day, any time they please. you want to be serenaded by the lyrics of her want, the notes of her desire. all for you and you alone.

with your other hand, you reach up to pinch one of her pierced nipples, always so sensitive. "answer me, violet."

vi props herself up on her elbows to look at you, just as you remove your mouth from her.

"yes!" she sings, practically sobbing. you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel the throbbing between your thighs intensify, hearing the frantic lilt of her voice — like she needs you and only you. "i missed you so fucking much. please, just do something."

at her request, you move up the bed so that the two of you are face to face, one of your hands holding her chin while the other is two fingers deep in her cunt. you add another, just to reveal in the timber of her sultry moan. she tries to bring her hand back, to quiet herself, but you shake your head. 

with your thumb, you trace over her lips, uneven and scarred and imperfectly beautiful. "open." 

vi obeys you instantly. you spit in her mouth, heart racing as you watch her swallow the combination of your saliva and her cum without question.

you continue fucking her with your fingers until she moans, louder and louder as she reaches her peak.

removing your fingers from her pussy, you lock eyes with her as you bring your syrupy fingers to your mouth and suck off her juices. then, you kiss underneath her ear, lips sticking slightly to her skin, and you whisper: "now i know why they say you have the voice of an angel.”

“fuck,” she exhales, the breath turning into a chuckle as you kiss underneath her chin, where you know she’s ticklish.

"one more time for me, okay, pretty girl? i want to feel you against me," you whisper. "i want to watch you fall apart, knowing that i'm the one who makes you feel this good."

vi nods, allowing you to adjust your positions so that your cunts are touching. you start fucking her down into the mattress and she sits up slightly so that your nipples brush against each other, the cold metal of her piercings encouraging the roll of your hips, her nails digging into the curve of your ass to bring you impossibly closer. 

“i missed you too. so fucking much,” you finally admit.  you flick one of the silver rings before leaning down and wrapping your lips around her nipple. 

“i missed these, too,” you add as you release her nipple with a pop, and vi moans. you’re grinning from ear to ear because, holy shit, vi is here and you’re together and you’re both happy, if only at the ecstasy of your silken cunts gliding against each other, at the taste of the other slicking your tongues, as thick as nectar and twice as sweet.

she laughs — love and magic and everlasting bliss — and you have to capture her lips now if you want to swallow the sound. you feel it bounce through your ribcage, awaken something deep within you that you feared was lost to time.

vi thrusts her hips upwards, presses harder against the seam of your cunt until you’re gushing against each other, not quite sure who’s making what mess. 

strings of cum connect you as you remove your body from hers. for a few seconds, you both lay on your backs, staring up at the ceiling and trying to catch your breath. vi drapes an arm over her eyes, chest heaving. 

you throw on some clothes and leave the room, hoping that vi’s still there when you get back.

….

vi worries that if she opens her eyes, she’ll wake up from this dream. 

she’ll be in some uncomfortable bed in london or tokyo or los angeles. the dull ache between her legs would be thanks to some girl who’d be eager to text all her friends and spill all the details about what vi likes in bed, or caitlyn who would tell vi to shave next time, darling, or i won’t let you fuck me again anytime soon.

instead, vi hears the creak of a door opening, feet tiptoeing along the floorboards. the mattress shifts with the weight of someone between her legs, though their body is not touching hers. 

“vi, baby,” a gentle coaxing, a familiar voice, pulling towards something she forgot she needed. her heart soars when she finds you kneeling on the bed, holding a damp towel in one hand and a glass of water in another. 

“yeah?” her voice is hoarse, but her throat doesn’t sting in the same way it does after a concert. it feels tender, well-used, well-loved.

you hold out the cup of water, watch vi eagerly gulp down half of it before she realizes what she’s done.

“shit, i — did you want some?”

you smile and shake your head. “i had some downstairs after my shower.” it’s then that vi registers the water dripping from the ends of your hair, soaking the fabric of her (fine, your) sweatshirt. “i’m gonna clean you up. is that okay?”

vi nods.

okay? okay? vi thinks she might have whiplash. 

it’s been a while since someone has fucked her so well she’d be satisfied for years and then touched her so tenderly afterwards. you run the damp cloth over vi’s sticky, sweaty skin, occasionally leaning down to press soft lips where you’d left teeth marks and bruises before. 

“there.” you throw the cloth on the floor. “so, um. do you wanna stay….?” 

you bite your lip as you wait for vi to answer. you start picking at your nail polish, too. vi sits up and grabs your hand. 

“i do,” she soothes. “do you want me to?”

your smile brightens the entire room and you kiss vi before muttering:

“i do.”

vi slips on her boxers as you settle into the bed next to her, leaving her top half bare. she notices the sketchbook on your bedside table, and she lifts it up at you, a silent question if she can flip through. you take it from her as you shift to sit between her legs, her chest warm against your back. the room’s only illuminated by the string of multicolored christmas lights you’d left on, but vi can see the talent, the passion behind your work as you walk her through your sketchbook. you tell her about the techniques you’ve been working on and new mediums you want to explore, about how you want to make the kind of art that makes people appreciate the beauty in the everyday. 

“i always loved your art,” she muses. vi cranes her neck slightly, places a kiss on your shoulder then one on your cheek. “the world would be more beautiful if you shared it.”

you hum and place the sketchbook on your bedside table. you each shift to your sides, facing each other; vi notches a leg around your hips, and you throw an arm around her waist, fingers trailing down her tattooed back. 

“ekko talked to you, huh?”

“i would have said that even if he hadn’t,” vi promises. “so….have you heard anything yet?”

“well….yeah,” you sigh, smiling shyly. “i got in, actually.” 

“really? that’s amazing, baby.” she beams at you, excitedly cupping your face in her hands, leaving small kisses across your cheeks until you’re giggling. 

“okay, okay,” you laugh. “i don’t know if i’m gonna go yet.”

vi hums knowingly. she presses her forehead against yours. 

“i know you’re scared, baby,” she says softly. “but sometimes it’s just a leap of faith.” 

“i know.” you pause, gnawing at your bottom lip while your eyes fixate on the scar on her upper lip. “can i ask you something?

“anything.”

“when you proposed to me….” her body tenses up, but you brush your hand over her bicep and the tension in her muscles dissipates. “was that a leap of faith? like, were you scared?”

“well, not at first.” she takes a shuddery breath, her voice suddenly small. “i always thought that we’d be together….i just didn’t think through how we’d make it work, i guess. i didn’t mean to mess things up, though.”

“hey.” vi leans into the hand you cup around her cheek. “we both messed up. we never actually talked, you know? but….i’m glad we are, now.” you swallow. “i still love you, vi.”

vi exhales. “you know, girls tell me that they love me pretty much every day.” 

you can’t help it — you roll your eyes, and vi laughs. because, truthfully, her heart has felt more full at your admission of love just now than it ever has for an area of screaming fans.

“there’s a point to this, i promise,” she says, nudging her nose against yours. “i used to get such a thrill from it….but then i think about what you said earlier. my heart — it’s just not in it anymore. all the band is now is drama and gossip and compromises of fame over art, and…. i don’t know. it’s not really what i want anymore. i want to be with you. for real, this time.”

you blink at her; she can feel your chest pulsing against hers like a hummingbird.

“would you, um, if i were to take that leap of faith and do that artist residency, would you —”

“anywhere you wanna go,” vi promises. she thinks about it a bit more….how nice it’s been to be home for the holidays, how nice it would be to come home year round.  “preferably close enough so we can have dinner at home on the weekends.” 

“sounds like a plan,” you smile.

the two of you twist closer underneath the flannel sheets, sink into the mattress, and gaze up at the faded glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to your ceiling until you fall asleep in each other’s arms.

you jolt awake a few hours later, several firm knocks on the door and ekko shouting:

“it’s christmas! get the fuck up before ziggy eats all the bacon!”

beside you, vi protects you from the frosty winter morning. her body radiates warmth, and her eyes flutter open, ever so slightly, as you gently shake her shoulder. 

she groans, turning on her back, rubbing sleep from her eye. 

“i better go.” 

“....yeah.”

you flush when you glance over as vi’s slipping on her sweatshirt, rose-petal bruises delicate across her skin. she opens the window, hair still mussed up, and a gust of frigid air rushes into the room. 

the image is so familiar: vi, one leg in your room and another out the window. you feel like a teenager again, scrambling to get dressed and avoid anyone hearing that you’d snuck your girlfriend into your room late at night. but there’s something else now, too — you imagine this becoming routine: waking up next to each other every day, swapping clothes, kissing over coffee and pancakes at breakfast. a place where the two of you might create some new memories, build a shared life together. and much more, so much more that feels like it could be your reality, sooner rather than later. 

you’re so deep in thought that you don’t notice vi rushing back towards you. she kisses you and kisses you, until your lungs are burning.

"merry christmas, baby,” she mumbles against your lips.

you grin back at her. “merry christmas, vi.”

....

hi baby, i know you’re at studio right now, but i forgot to ask you this morning: how do you feel about sending out holiday cards this year? i know they’re kind of cheesy, but it seems like the type of thing married couples might do…..

anyways, we’ll talk about it when you get home. i’m test-driving this new recipe for brussel sprouts to bring to dinner at my dad’s. 

i’ll see you later. love you!

[trashytracktales]

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

Lights, Camera, Action! | LN⁴

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

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

🔹️ rating ──── explicit

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

🔹️ word count ──── 6.3k

🔹️ date ──── May 6, 2025

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

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

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

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

Every single time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, it gets worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lando,” she exhales irritated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her mouth goes dry.

His jaw tightens.

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

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

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

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

It drugs her.

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

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

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

“Yeah, baby. I feel you.”

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

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

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

“You like how wrecked you’ve got me?”

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

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

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

“Lan,” she warns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lando lets out a breathless laugh, “Talent.”

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

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

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

The camera. Still recording.

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

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

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© trashy track tales, 2025

[kayharrisons]

Will you go, lassie, go? [Remmick x fem!Reader] [18+] [1 of 11]

Remmick has been drifting for a decade now, aimlessly passing from one town to the next as he hunts and feeds and fucks and-

And. And. And.

One could go mad after a while with all those ands.

Loneliness threatens to consume him, to pull him right over the brink and into insanity.

Until, that is, he hears a voice sweeter than a nightingale's and with a haunting, melodic pain that buries itself deep in his chest and takes root there.

Until, that is, he meets you.

A/N: hey guys!! My first attempt at a Sinners fic o o p I LOVED the movie sm and Remmick was just 😩 😩 Jack O'Connell the man that you are fr!! Anyway, idk if I'll write a LOT for Sinners, my brain rot is still very much Romulus focused BUT HEY have this lil two shot for now! Scottish Reader x Remmick oh no oh DEAAAAAAR!!! I'm not a native Gaelic speaker by any means (I know a couple basic words lol), so any future Gaelic sentences will be in italics! This fic is set some time in the 20s before Sinners! Next chapter will be up soon hopefully!! Apologies if there's any mistakes we rock and roll buckaroo over here ✌️

Series warnings: younger woman (19-21) x older man (literal vampire), blood, biting, sexual acts, mentions of immigration and racist/xenophobic attitudes towards Scottish and Irish communities, colonisation mentions (Ireland in Remmick's past), manipulative Remmick, naive Reader, Remmick was at one point Jack the Ripper 💀

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Time.

It's a funny thing. Especially to someone like him, to someone with this affliction.

It both passes in the blink of an eye and goes by slower than those snails that used to infest his mother's garden when he was a boy. He can't remember her face much, but he remembers how she used to rant and rave over the little creatures as they ruined vegetables and plants she'd oh so painstakingly grown.

He's had many families over the centuries. Many mothers, many brothers, sisters.

The faces blend, sometimes, when you're as old as he.

His birth mother had eyes like his, he thinks. She had his laugh.

He recalls having been told, frequently, that he takes after his father.

He wonders if that was before or after his skull was cleaved in two. He can't recall his father's face before it was split in half like a log for the fire.

Fire. Warmth.

He misses that.

Misses sitting with his brothers and sisters around the hearth as their mother hummed lullabies in their native tongue. Síthmaith had been his favourite of the bunch, his precious sister only nine when her throat had been cut to the bone.

Remmick had been the oldest of the bunch.

He'd failed them, and this, he thinks, is retribution.

He's never done well without people to care for, could never cope knowing people were sad. His mother used to smile and call him her mo mhuirnin whenever she'd catch him being kind.

The last time in his human life that he'd been kind, he had invited a sobbing stranger inside of his home, a frail woman begging for shelter against Protestant brutes, could he please help her?

The children hadn't survived the turning. They never did, according to the woman.

His mother had taken one look at her dead children and screamed an almighty roar of agony before walking out into the sunlight.

Remmick can't remember his mother's voice anymore, but he remembers that scream.

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The centuries passed. He spent it learning, teaching himself.

He occupied himself with hobbies, with history, and eventually with song.

That was the one thing he'd never allowed himself to forget over the years. The act of putting pen to paper and letting pain spill out as ink, of taking the time to sit back and think of melodies, of chords and notes.

He loves to sing.

Sometimes, he can still hear his mother when he sings, can hear his siblings laughter around the fire.

There is rarely anyone around to hear him, however.

New families come and go; not everyone is suited to this way of life, a lot lack survival instinct he's found. Lovers are there for an hour or two or three, the ones that linger end up drained upon the bed, his songs still lingering in their dead ears.

Perhaps one time he'd been overzealous in Whitechapel, had earned himself a nasty moniker and had had to hastily retreat to the countryside for a few years all while the public pondered over the identity of this Ripper fellow.

Animal blood wasn't quite the same as a human's, it must be said.

It's rather like drinking tar, he's come to find. Unpleasant and thick down his throat. Only worth doing in a pinch.

He hasn't met anyone else who's even tried it.

The others he'd been with on the ship, the ones who had burnt brighter than the sun, had rolled their eyes at him for that admission.

Lions were not expected to eat plants and nothing more, so why should they?

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He hasn't eaten in weeks.

He could. Easily. Easy pickings don't even begin to describe half of the people he's come across as he wanders the earth.

New York had been ripe with bodies, and he'd indulged himself more than necessary during the ten years he had spent there.

But his legs were leading him south. And who was he to go against them? Taken him this far, hadn't they?

He is curious to see the rest of the continent, to meet people, hear stories, to rebuild that which he's lost time and time again.

He can help people, like he used to, he can give them a family, can take all their petty human squabbles and differences and turn it into something good, can't he?

He hums to himself, a melody he has hazy memories of his mother singing. The words are lost to him now, taken from him by time, but he recalls the melody, at least.

Over and over, he hums, his fingers brushing over brick and stone and cold hard suburbia, before eventually his fingers run over trees and leaves and life itself.

He never did like cities much.

Remmick hums into the dimming light of the night, with no expectations of a response, an answer, of divine intervention.

He gets one anyway.

A little miracle in its own right.

"-the blooming heather, will ye go, lassie, go?"

His blood ignites in his veins just as brightly and fiery as it had the day he'd been turned into this.

If he had a pulse, he is sure it would be racing in his cold dead chest. If he could blush, he's sure the tips of his ears would be a burning red.

Your voice creeps through the trees like that of a fine mist, and it settles over him like dew on grass during a summer's morning. Refreshing, soothing, anchoring.

When was the last time he had felt anchored?

Voices, he's found, have a way of carrying stories, of harbouring emotions in a way that sometimes merely speaking doesn't even begin to encompass.

Sadness, anger, love, lust, loss-

It all sounded beautiful, in song.

Your voice reaches out like that of a beautiful plant, wraps around his soul like vines in the forest, takes root upon his very being like that of the strongest of trees.

Nature personified.

His pace quickens, the damp grass and dirt cliging to his bare feet, his hair sticking to his forehead.

He only wishes he was more presentable for you. Remmick is far from vain, but he's certain he's about to waltz into the den of perfection, an alter of beauty that would put Aphrodite herself to shame.

And he finds it.

Your back is to him, your hair is down loose around your shoulders. Your blouse is a few sizes too big and clings to your shoulders, your waist cinched by your skirt. You sway softly, like that of a flower in the breeze. Your fingers move effortlessly over the strings of your guitar, your voice having lowered to that of an airy hum.

He damn near almost collapses at the sight before him. Of such beauty here before him, untouched by the world outside of this forest. He's not a religious man, hasn't been in centuries, but Remmick is struck by the urge to collapse by your feet and cling to your skirts as if you were a Saint of utmost divinity, one he would swear his life and soul to.

Such natural, effortless beauty, and he hasn't even seen your face yet. Persephone can weep for all he cares.

A branch snaps beneath his feet, and your hair whips your face as you whirl around to face him.

Oh.

Oh.

Remmick staggers back a step, unusual for someone with supernatural grace on their side.

You're more radiant than a sunrise on a winter's day, more beautiful than poetry itself.

He could weep in your presence.

"Can I help you, sir?" you ask, pausing your guitar strumming and setting the instrument aside, leaning it against the tree beside you.

Your accent isn't from here. Scottish, the highlands, he thinks. He smiles at the sound, at the knowledge that he won't have to use that goddamn ridiculous Yank accent that helps him blend in.

"Aye, lass'," he nods, hands in his pockets as he steps closer. You watch him with a furrowed brow, with complete and utter confusion across your radiant face.

He stops short of you, leaning back against a tree, crossing his legs at the ankles as he studies you.

His eyes...

You straighten a hairs breadth, the same way one does when they spy a wolf in the distance, when you know a predator is watching you.

Remmick merely hums, unbothered at your reaction, even as his eyes gleam unnaturally in the darkness of the night.

"You can help me somethin' fierce, darlin'."

You smile, a touch uncertainly, your head cocked as you patiently wait for him to explain whatever it is he needs help with.

Remmick can only smile.

[jamminvroomvroom]

give me a reason.

LN x fem!reader

in which… ‘the one where’ lando needs to get his shit together, or lose the love of his life…

hi! it’s me! back again with angst, fluff and filth! i needed to get this the hell away from me bc i worked on it so long that it kinda stopped making sense so i fear this isn’t my best work oopsie! anyways, thanks for being the best bunch ever and pleaseeeeeee let me know what you think - likes, comments and reblogs are so appreciated and make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside soooo you know what to do…

songs to set the vibes: hoax by t swizzle, no i’m not in love by tate mcrae, come over by noah kahan

warnings: 18+!! minors BEGONE! smut, angst!! but also fluff sooo..! friends to something worse to lovers, lando needs to be shot ngl, lando is so messy, max is yet again a victim, r loves wine a lot, alcohol use, swearing, lando has a bitchy gf (we hate her!) for a bit, r is just a girl, p in v, general sex acts, unprotected sex (sigh)

8.2k words

you’re perched at the edge of the booth watching. pietra plies you with drinks, knowing full well that it’s the only way you’re gonna make it through the evening. max sits beside her, an arm wrapped loosely around her shoulder as he glares at his best friend at the bar.

“he’s such an idiot.” max sighs, polishing off the rest of his drink in one. he knows he’s about to have his ear talked off about lando’s latest fling.

“such an idiot.” p scowls. you just laugh, reach for another shot of vodka.

“what do you guys expect?” you sneer, faking a smile as the bitter liquid warms your belly.

“you guys are meant to be together.” max states. p nods quickly, but pauses.

“not sure if he even deserves you though, baby.” she coos, squeezing your arm softly. you thank her with watery, bleary eyes.

lando’s on his way back over now, the pretty blonde he’d been chatting up for the last ten minutes tucked under his arm. that shuts you all up, but the cold air blasting out of the dimly lit booth could give lando and his mystery woman fatal hypothermia.

“guys, this is casey.” lando grins toothily, ushering you to move around in the booth so they can sit with you. you end up sat between pietra and casey, smushed uncomfortably into the sticky pleather. lando makes the introductions.

“my best friend max, his girlfriend pietra, and,” he clears his throat when his eyes fall on you. “and, um, my other friend.”

my other friend.

you didn’t think he could reach a new low.

“wow.” you hiccup, wriggling closer to pietra.

“i thought she was your best friend.” pietra narrows her eyes at lando, keeps her voice light and teasing.

casey is beautifully oblivious, sky blue eyes remaining firm on the racing driver at her side. you want to throttle them both.

“course. yeah.” he laughs it off awkwardly, before placing all of his attention on his latest conquest. it sounds harsh, sure it does, but you know lando and you know how he operates.

“i’m going. thank you,” you say directly and loudly to max and p, who are shuffling from the seats so you can get out of this prison of couples that you’d been so cruelly trapped in. “for a nice evening.”

you don’t bother to say goodbye to lando.

-

you spend the next morning crying into a cup of coffee, wrapped in three different blankets. deeply, devastatingly hungover.

you spend the afternoon that follows on the phone with max.

“it’ll be over in days, hun, don’t even worry about it. he’s probably trying to get her out of his place right now and can’t even remember her name.” max reassures, and while history would suggest him to be right, something inside of you twists with dread. “i don’t know what he’s playing at.”

“you told me that he… you said he liked me, max.” you groan, hot with embarrassment.

“he did! he does! he thinks you aren’t interested so- “

“i don’t wanna hear it max. i went to abu dhabi, flew in just to surprise him, to finally fucking tell him, and… well you know what happened.”

you’d walked into his hotel room and found him balls deep inside someone else.

needless to say, you weren’t convinced that he was as hopelessly, pathetically in love with you as max claimed him to be; as hopelessly, pathetically in love with you as you were with him.

“i know, i know, but he was hurting. doesn’t excuse the, uh, emotional warfare, but he doesn’t know how you feel.”

“well, at this rate, max, he never will.”

-

you’re stupid for being excited for the group dinner you’ve planned. everyone’s coming, max and p, martin, some of the boys and some of your girls. and lando. you haven’t seen him for a week, not since caseygate, and if you’re being earnest, you don’t really want to. at least he’ll be alone, you think. he doesn’t bring his hookups to group plans.

you think, and god laughs.

he’s the last to arrive, the same blonde with the same striking blue eyes tucked under the same stupid arm. you sink your glass of wine before they even get to the table, leg bouncing frantically against the chair. you swear you see pietras lips recoil into a snarl.

“did you know he was bringing her?” she hisses quietly to max, looking at you cautiously.

“obviously not!” max defends, nostrils flaring.

“sorry we’re late.” you hear from the head of the table. “everyone, this is casey.”

-

half an hour later, after having the magical story of their blossoming relationship shoved down your throat, you escape to the bathroom.

you’re fixing your lipgloss when the door swings open. in casey walks, complete with a hair flick and a tacky, expensive handbag.

“oh, i didn’t even realise you were here tonight.” she speaks, sickeningly false. “i thought i’d notice such a good friend of lando’s.”

you suck in a breath.

“i wouldn’t get too used to little old me.” you shrug, meeting her condescending grin with a better, badder one. “or lando, quite frankly. he’ll get bored soon.”

you leave her in the dust, only letting yourself shake with rage when you know she can’t see you. you bypass the table completely, shoot p a quick text that says you’re going home, and wait for the maître d' to hand you your coat. you wait outside the restaurant for your uber, glance back to see if anyone had even noticed you’d gone. by anyone, you mean one person, and one person only.

lando’s looking around the table, something vacant in his eyes. it’s perhaps the first time you’ve properly looked at him all night. there’s something withered and haunted in his eyes, even from so far away you can see it. he seems to be searching for something, something that he can’t place. someone.

you see that same tired face in your dreams that night, joined by a pretentious, condescending smile, taunting you while you toss and turn.

-

casey becomes such a constant that you’re shocked that lando eventually comes to a party without her. it’s pietra’s birthday, and max is throwing her a party at their apartment.

you’re there early to help max set up when lando walks in, better rested than the last time you’d seen him. he’s wearing a loose white button up and light wash jeans that sit just right, curls a crown atop his head.

“no casey?” max asks subtlety as him and lando hug. you make no move to greet him.

“nah, she had other plans.” he scratches his nose as he says it, and you know it’s a lie. it’s been his tell as long as you’ve known him.

max stares awkwardly between you both, gesturing his head wildly towards you when he knows you’re not looking. lando shrugs, frantic silent conversation transpiring between them until you turn around.

“fuck, forgot candles. silly me! be back in ten.” max doesn’t give you a chance to breathe before he’s darting out the door, jacket slung over his arm. you glare as he disappears out the door.

“you gonna talk to me?” lando questions, hands shoved deep in his pockets. he tries to sound light, nonchalant but it just comes off standoffish, an awkward reminder of just how much distance there is between you now, and how much there has been since he made it his personal mission to sleep with every woman he laid eyes on. except you.

“depends.” you reply flatly.

“on?” you can hear his footsteps against the hardwood floor, inching closer and closer. your hands shake as you untangle the balloons, pouring them out of the packet onto the table. you feel the heat of him before you see him, closing in on you. it’s been so long since you’ve been this close to him that you can anticipate each movement before he even makes it, your senses ultra heightened.

your breath shakes.

“on?” he presses, aware of just how stubborn you can be. “what’s going on with you?”

“nothing, lando. tired, busy, the usual. nothing crazy.” you attempt to shrug him off, but apparently he’s not done with you.

“then why can’t you look at me? did i do something?” he chokes out a laugh, a revelation of how uncomfortable he is.

you brave the sight of him, turning slowly until you’re face to face. he looks beautiful, freshly shaved, curls tamed back but not enough to stop them from hanging over his forehead to frame his face. just the way you like them.

“see? nothing wrong.” you smile tightly, wondering if he can see the effort it takes to make your face move for him, if he can see the tension coursing through your veins like electricity. he seems to scan your face, taking his time, before he sighs, hums like he’s finally satisfied.

“so you’ve been busy?” lando asks, trying to revert to your status quo, but you can’t bare the agony of pretending. “hardly seen you since, uh, abu dhabi.”

“yep.” you quip, disappear into the kitchen just as you hear max’s keys in the front door.

-

a few hours later everyone’s had too much to drink, and the party is in full swing. lando’s persisted more than you thought he’d bother to, and you’ve managed to exchange sentences made up of more than three words apiece. you’ve left your circle to get a drink, about to slip into the kitchen, but hushed whispers stop you from entering.

your blood runs cold when you realise that one set of frantic whispers belong to lando, the other to max. you feel that you should leave, come back when it’s all clear but something tugs on your heartstrings and ties you to the threshold of the room. maybe it’s the possibility for closure, or worse, hope.

“mate you called me basically crying, telling me how in love with her you are, and when she gets there, you’re fucking someone else! what the fuck do you want from her, man?” max spits.

“how the fuck was i supposed to know she was gonna show up?” lando retorts, an edge of desperation in his voice.

“the real question is: why would you sleep with someone if you feel that way about her? why are you fucking around? why are you with casey?”

“because i was hurt, max! she’s been going on all these dates, talking about guys she’s seeing and, what, i’m supposed to put my life on hold waiting for her to love me back? i can’t do it anymore. i can’t.” lando’s voice cracks at the end and you lean into the wall, unable to feel your legs.

“you could have told her, you idiot.” max is having none of the pity party, it seems, finally ready to knock some sense into your mutual best friend.

“and ruin everything? she clearly didn’t want to be with me.” lando argues. max sighs.

“if you actually think that, then you’re a lost cause, mate.” you hear what you assume is. sympathetic slap on the back.

“i’m doing fine with casey, i’m finally getting somewhere. jesus, i haven’t even slept with her yet.” lando whines. your heart stops on the other side of the door.

“so, it’s serious then? you and casey?” max asks, skeptical.

“it could be.” lando admits.

you put yourself out of your misery, loudly opening the door to the kitchen. you act aloof, surprised to see them, but the crease in your forehead is all max needs to see. he knows you heard at least some of it. fifteen years of friendship with him means he can read you like a book. fifteen years of friendship with lando has done nothing but break your heart.

“sorry, guys, didn’t know you were in here.” you feign nonchalance. “just need a drink.” you slide past lando, watching the way his back ripples with tension at the slight brush of your body against his. you let out a deflated breath, wrapping your hand around a cold can of god knows what. all you know is you need a drink, and you need to get out of this fucking kitchen.

you find pietra on the makeshift dance floor, join her and your friends to spin and twirl and forget about the man who’s stood in the corner doing nothing but watch you.

-

a week passes. lando’s wine drunk. you’re laying across one of his sofas, sharing with him, and max and p sit on the other sofa. you’re all giggling about nothing in particular, latest gossip, old anecdotes, random shit that no one’s sober enough to not laugh at. it feels like balance is being slowly restored, like the good old days before it all went sour.

“still can’t believe you did a whole lap of the ski lodge naked.” you tease lando, smirking at him from your end of the sofa. you nudge his thigh with your foot, and he grabs your ankle, thumbing over the sensitive skin.

“a dare is a dare.” he replies, grinning back at you, his gaze lingering even when max interjects.

“again, mate, no one fucking dared you to do that.” max shouts, and you all descend into laughter again.

“i did not need to see some of the things i saw that night.” p grimaces playfully, and you can’t help but flush at the memory of lando’s bare ass disappearing into the snow.

“agreed.” you say, drawing lando’s eyes back onto you.

“you know you loved it.” he raises an eyebrow at you, and you stare bashfully into the wine glass in your hand. you feel his hand squeeze, nails ghosting above your ankle, making you shiver.

“got an early morning tomorrow, fuck.” max groans. “better get going.”

you hug him and p goodbye, graciously offering to help lando tidy up a little as the couple leaves the driver’s london apartment for their own.

you’re carrying empty glasses into the kitchen when you spot it, and it stops you dead in your tracks. the same handbag that casey had carried into that bathroom all those weeks ago. your skin tingles, a phantom touch making you burn.

“so you and, uh, casey are getting serious, huh?” you mumble, finally making it into the open plan kitchen.

lando stands on the opposite side of the marble counter, a tea towel slung over his shoulder, disgustingly domestic.

for her, though. never for you.

“not sure.” he responds flippantly.

“must be, can’t remember the last time you kept a girl around this long.” your attempt at a joke falls flat, even though he’s still tipsy, flushed with alcohol.

“s’that supposed to mean?” lando asks, boyish and defensive.

“nothing, just… you haven’t really seemed in a relationship-y place.” you remark, trying to appear casual as you place the glasses on the countertop.

“i wasn’t but i realised i needed to get my shit together. haven’t even-“ he starts, but cuts himself off abruptly.

“haven’t what?” you press, finding a cloth to wipe the marble clean.

“don’t wanna make things weird by telling you that kinda stuff.”

“lando, you called me when you lost your virginity and couldn’t find your way out of her apartment building. commando. you can tell me.” you deadpan.

as much as you could do without a play by play of his newfound relationship and changed ways, he’s your friend first, and he seems like he needs a shoulder. it would be careless, cruel, even, to deny him of that.

“well, we haven’t, uh, you know.” he looks at you intensely.

“oh. still?”

lando looks at you strangely, wondering what on earth you mean by that, but you swoop in with a get out of jail card that stops him from figuring out you’d eavesdropped.

“i mean, haven’t you guys been together for like a month?” you continue.

“yeah but i guess i figured i should take it slower, deviate from my, uh, usual way.” he admits, scratching his neck.

“oh, that’s… nice.”

“not according to casey.” he mutters, slinging the tea towel across the counter, frustrated.

“what’s that supposed to mean?” you enquire, avoiding eye contact.

“i don’t know, she’s just… she wants it and, fuck, i was trying to be a good fucking guy for once.” lando sighs, disheartened. his eyes are trained on you but you can’t meet his gaze, it would destroy you. “i spent so much time unhappy, wanting something i can’t have, so now i just… what would,” he inhales sharply, centring himself. “what would you want?”

“huh?” you squeak, daring to look at him. the room fades away in the intensity of his stare, his eyes boring into yours. the counter that separates you grounds you, stops you from dropping to your knees and begging him to love you.

“what would you want? how would you want that to be, your first time with someone?”

you stop breathing, curling your fingers around the cool marble.

“i… i don’t know.” you whisper.

“sorry, i knew this would be weird.” he rushes out.

“no, it’s not! well, yeah it is, but,” you inhale deeply. “if it were me, i guess i’d want you to… catch me off guard.” you murmur, leaning against the counter, the swirled marble cool against the bare sliver of skin that your ridden up t shirt exposes. “you know, with a really good kiss - soft at first, but the kind that… as it gets deeper, you know something so good is about to happen.”

lando stares at you, mouth hanging open as you speak softly, so earnestly, into the empty space between you. it seems like a million miles keeps you apart, and his eyes go wild, hungry, like he wants to crawl over the surface and pin you to it as he hangs on to your every word.

“i don’t really know,” you continue, trying to brush it all off, pretend that your entire body isn’t on fire, like you’re not itching for something that cannot be scratched. “but i suppose you’d pull me close, so i’m pressed up against you, and then it would get kind of sweaty, blurry… and then it’s just happening.”

lando seems to be bracing himself, holding position, a tension running through his body that wasn’t there before. he’s flushed, and if you squint, there’s a bead of sweat slowly dripping down his forehead, giving him away. your nails dig into your palms, a reboot to your system, and you shuffle backwards awkwardly, recoiling from the counter that keeps you from him.

“okay. uh, okay.” he whispers, nodding rapidly. “i’ll keep that it mind.”

“i’ll put the glasses away in the dining room.” you tell him hurriedly, grabbing the stems and hurtling out of the kitchen. when you reach his dining room, where the air seems to be much thinner, normal, you exhale shakily and book an uber.

“thought you would stay here.” lando strains when you tell him, watching you shrug your coat on.

“can’t tonight.” you reply, clipped.

“can we… can we get dinner this week maybe? just us?” lando pleads, doesn’t even try to hide the desperation in his voice.

“lando… i don’t think that’s a good idea.” you finally give up the ghost, looking him right in the eyes.

“why not?”

“you know why.”

he breathes your name, takes a step closer to you as you take a step back.

“no, i really don’t. why have you been so distant? i know what you saw in abu dhabi was weird but-“

“do you know why it was weird, lando? do you know how that made me feel?”

“no, because you haven’t said anything. tonight was the first night in months that you’ve seemed okay and now you’re being off again.”

“imagine finally thinking that the guy you’re in love with finally feels the same, only to walk in on him fucking some random person.” you bellow, tears slipping over your waterline. you breathe heavily, the admission taking tons off of your shoulders.

“what?” he gasps, jaw going slack.

“forget it.” you mumble, backing away towards the door. you can’t believe the relief you feel, exhausted from the pretending. you can’t even bring yourself to care about the repercussions.

“no, i- what the fuck did you just say?” lando’s eyebrows are drawn together tight, confused.

“you heard me.” your words are hushed, shy, laced with a tremble that makes his chest ache.

“i didn’t know.” is all he can say, staring at you with a desperation that makes you want to stay. you know better.

“it doesn’t matter now. you said yourself, you wanna be happy with her. so do it, go be happy with her.” you tell him, your lack of malice astounding.

“why can’t you fight for us?” he whispers, finally dares to go there.

“i did. abu dhabi. that was me fighting for you.” you scoff at his audacity. “why can’t you fight for us?”

“i didn’t know.” he repeats, voice going up an octave with annoyance. “imagine watching the girl you’ve been in love with for years go on dates, listen to her talk about the guys she’s seeing.” he hits back.

“maybe we’ve both made mistakes, lando, but i tried to put myself out there and got hurt. why would i do that to myself again?” you retort, crossing your arms over your chest protectively. your heart pounds in your chest, flustered at his admission, as much as you try and hide it from him. it hits different to hear him say it to your face; it didn’t cut as deep when you’d heard it lingering outside max’s kitchen.

“if i thought for a second that you felt how i felt - how i still feel - none of this would have happened, abu dhabi, casey, none of it.”

“but now you’re with her and, great, that’s fine, i’m just not sure how to be your friend right now.”

“no, no, we’re not throwing that away. even if we can’t be together,” you both visibly deflate at the word. “i know it’s so fucking selfish but i can’t lose you like that too.”

“give me a reason, lando. because right now? you’ve already lost me.”

when you get into the uber, you’re sobbing, and you’re sure the poor man that had the misfortune of picking you up understands when he turns the radio up - taylor swift is playing - and smiles at you sadly.

-

he’s spinning aimlessly in his gaming chair when max finds him.

“what the actual fuck is wrong with you?” is all max has to say, looming in the doorway to lando’s office.

“what happened to a simple ‘hello’?” lando grumbles.

“you’ll get a simple hello when you stop being a dick.” max replies, matter of fact.

lando laughs bitterly in response.

“just tell me one thing. one thing that makes no fucking sense to me. why are you still with casey?”

“i don’t know if i ever really was.” lando observes, eyes vacant and tired. “she was a distraction and i’m an asshole.”

“well, at least you know.” max mutters under his breath. lando can’t even muster a glare his best friends way.

“i ended it about an hour ago.” lando starts. “she told me that she was gonna go public, call me a cheater, say that i used her as a pawn. don’t even get me started on what she was gonna say about…” lando trails off, can’t even say your name. he feels like he doesn’t deserve to.

“fuck.” max sighs, finally walking into the room. he takes a seat on the small sofa. “what are you gonna do?”

“spoke to my team. they’ll deal with her. told me that they all deserve a pay rise and i don’t disagree.”

“and what about…” max echos his friend, trailing off. he leans forward with anticipation.

“i don’t know, man. i love her but i know i don’t deserve her, not after all this. she deserves to be happy and all i seem to do is make her miserable.”

“mate, she wasn’t miserable because you were just friends. she was miserable because you were ignoring her, choosing randoms over her. you know that, right?” max says, finally something resembling gentle in his tone.

“if i couldn’t even be a good friend, how the fuck am i gonna be a good boyfriend?”

“figure it out, you knob. all this feeling sorry for yourself isn’t working out. be honest with her for once, tell her how you feel. it’s not rocket science, lando. she loves you more than you deserve, so pull yourself together and fucking show her that she is everything to you.”

-

the next week is spent working far too hard and sleeping far too little.

you don’t hear from him, and he doesn’t hear from you, but it’s how it should be. if there’s no distance, you’d have a whole set of problems on your hands, forced on you by a can of worms that needed to stay sealed. it’s better this way, you relentlessly tell yourself.

max and p bring you dinner the night things change.

“you sure i can’t convince you to come work at quadrant?” max prods, taking in the ridiculous amount of papers and spreadsheets that have taken over your living room. “wouldn’t be as intense as this.”

“for so many reasons: no.” you shoot him a look, one that says leave it alone. he nods, gets the hint, and drops onto the scrap of sofa that isn’t covered in paperwork.

“you’ve been sleeping though, yes?” pietra asks, eyebrows raised with concern. she knows how you get.

you hum in acknowledgment, avoiding eye contact as you plate the food they’ve brought. p sighs.

“have you spoken to him?” max finally asks, and you know it’s taken everything in him to not ask, in the short five minutes he’s been in your flat.

“max!” pietra hisses, and he raises his hands in surrender.

“c’mon, you knew i’d have to ask, especially considering he’s been a little bitch all week.” max defends.

“i haven’t. told him i needed space.” you shrug.

“how’s that working out for you?” max gestures to the mess that engulfs the room, swallows it whole. again, you shrug.

“fine.” you stress, digging in to the chinese food. max scoffs and you snort with a mouthful of noodles when pietra glares at him.

“well, he’s miserable, and you’re behaving like someone who’s gonna end up on a true crime documentary, so sue me for asking.” he scolds sarcastically.

“okay, you want the tea?” you roll your eyes. “he told me they hadn’t had sex. i gave him advice - against the better judgment of literally anyone ever, by the way - tried to leave and he fucking ambushed me. wanted to have dinner with me, as if he hasn’t been pushing me away for months, and then had the fucking audacity, max, to ask me why i won’t fight for us, for him - oh! and he still has a girlfriend! so, you know what, you got me, i’m not doing so great but,” you choke out a laugh, opening the box of prawn toast. “too fucking bad.”

“i promise you, this will pass and casey will be gone and then-“

“and then me and lando can go back to pretending and avoiding and hurting each other. can’t wait.”

max shakes his head in defeat, knows he has to let lando fix this himself. he has no chance of winning this one with you.

“eat your noodles.” is all he has left. pietra disappears into your kitchen, and returns with a bottle of wine.

you eat together, put on netflix, slumped into the sofa as you try and relax. you’re halfway through your first drink when your phone buzzes. assuming it’s your overbearing boss, who apparently doesn’t sleep either, you pick it up and quickly wish you hadn’t.

lando: can you come over

like now

if you can

please. please please please please

we broke up.

“holy shit.”

you sit up suddenly, scan the room for your bag and a jacket. you don’t care that you’re in old sweats, you just feel the need to move, to get to him before common sense kicks in.

“you good?” max asks.

“uh, i need to go, like right now. stay and finish the wine if you want, but i just need to go to-“

“lando?” max and p ask simultaneously, and you burn with embarrassment.

“i can’t even try and lie to you right now. is this pathetic?” you question.

“no! go!” max shouts, exasperated, standing to usher you out of your own apartment.

-

twenty minutes later, you knock on his door.

when it opens, he’s disheveled in a way that makes you hug him immediately, his touch disturbingly foreign, and you feel him sink into your hold. he pulls you inside, kicks the door shut, and doesn’t let you go.

“sofa?” you murmur into his hoodie. you feel him nod, and you part, pad towards the lounge as you shrug off your jacket.

“hi.” he says tiredly, as soon as you’re both sat.

“hey.” you coo back. your eyebrows are drawn together as you take him in, concern woven through your features. “sorry about casey.” lando scoffs.

“don’t be, don’t even know what i was thinking.”

“well, neither do i,” you retort. “but i’m still sorry. did it happen just before you texted?” you ask.

“no, a week ago.”

“a week ago?” you gasp. “but that would mean…”

“yeah. right after you left here. asked her to come over and ended it. she told me she was gonna go to the media with a whole load of shit, so i’ve been sorting things out.”

“i’m so sorry.” you whisper.

lando laughs.

“you’re sorry? god, you’re way too fucking good for me.” he scoffs, bitter with self deprecation. “i can’t believe you even came, to be honest.”

“course i came. i might be angry at you, but you- you wanted me to, so…”

“i don’t even know where to start. i’m just so sorry about the last few months. i thought i was losing you and it drove me insane, but i should have never, ever taken my shit out on you.”

“what do you mean? losing me?”

“the dates, the guys. god, it was awful of me but it killed me.”

“that was only because i didn’t think i had a chance.”

“well, if it makes you feel any better, i didn’t think i had a chance either.” he laughs. “so what you said about abu dhabi… was that why you came? to tell me?”

“yeah, kinda. after some… encouragement from a mutual friend, i was gonna tell you that i wanted us to be more.”

lando shifts closer, your thighs pressing together. you can feel his body heat, so warm and inviting, drawing you closer.

“more.” lando repeats, tasting it on his tongue, the weight of everything he’s ever wanted since he was sixteen and fell in love for the first time.

“yeah, and then it seemed like you didn’t want that.”

“you must know by now that i also want more.” he murmurs, fingertips brushing your forearm. you keen into the barely there touch that traces over your skin.

“i’d say that’s been implied, yeah.” you joke, searching his eyes. they’re hooded, swirling with an intensity that you never thought you’d experience with another person. “um, i heard you and max. the night of pietra’s birthday.” you admit.

“fuck,” he sighs, shoulders sagging. “i’m so sorry, i swear, i never meant to put you through any of this. ‘m so, so sorry.”

“i know you are.” you whisper, loaded with a sincerity that only you could give him. “but you can never, ever treat me like this lando. i mean it.”

“i need you to know that i never meant to hurt you.” he swallows down a lump in his throat, voice wobbling just enough for you to notice.

“i do, lando.” you grab his hand, squeeze it tight.

“what do you want from me now? anything you want, i promise - i’m yours.”

“i want us to try, to see where this goes. i think we owe it to ourselves to see.”

“i never thought i’d ever get a chance with you.” lando laughs softly, the hand on your arm travelling to ghost over your cheek.

“why?”

“because i don’t think there’s anyone on this planet that’s good enough for you.” he confesses, leaning in until your foreheads touch.

“i don’t think that’s true, at least not where you’re concerned.” you breathe.

���how are you real?” it’s barely a whisper, barely audible, but it hits your ears like an alarm.

“don’t go all existential on me now.”

“then what should i do?”

“kiss me.”

“doesn’t that go against your whole ‘catch me off guard’ philosophy?” he murmurs, one hand reaching up to cup your jaw. your foreheads are still pressed together, eyes roaming each others.

“you’ll have plenty of time to surprise me.” you whisper.

you take a second to admire one another, the proximity mingling your warm breaths. when your lips finally brush, it’s slow, tentative, silent exploration. he tilts your head so that he can kiss you deeper, fingers sliding from your cheek into your hair. you emit a quiet moan, open up for him so he can taste you, and the feeling of him licking into your mouth sends your mind utterly blank.

he’s all consuming, totally intoxicating, a fresh blend of mint and something so blatantly lando that you feel like you’re floating. you find his neck, threading your fingers through the short strands at the nape of his neck. you hear something from deep in his chest, feel the vibrations of the low rumble as he presses you even closer to him.

when you inevitably break apart for air, he looks dazed, grinning like a fool as he smoothes his hand through the loose strands of your hair that fall around your face.

“i’m sorry that took so long.” lando hums, leaning in to peck your lips again. you can’t help but smile into it, in a daze of your own.

“me too.” you manage between smiling dopily up at him.

“you’re so beautiful.” he coos, still entranced. “you wanna stay here tonight?”

you hesitate for a second. he notices, interlacing your fingers with his.

“for the record, um, she never did. i couldn’t have her that close.” he mumbles, looking down at your hands guiltily.

“why?”

“didn’t feel right. she wasn’t,” he inhales shakily and meets your gaze again, piercing you with hazy blue hues. “she wasn’t you. i think that’s the real reason that i couldn’t… you know, with her.”

“i’ll stay.” you whisper, nodding softly. it’s all you can formulate as a response.

“i can make up the guest room.” he says wearily, posing it as more of a question than a statement, putting out the feelers. you scowl, eyes sparkling with a mischievous danger that leaves lando’s mouth bone dry.

“don’t bother.”

-

the grey linen of his bed sheets are soft against your skin as you sink into his mattress, watching intently as he pads around his room. you can smell him everywhere, a tangy, fresh musk that you want to bottle up and keep forever. lando glows in the dim, warm light of his bedroom and you feel a pang of regret that it’s taken this long to get here, muddled with a sense of relief that finally, you’ve made it.

“‘m gonna take a quick shower, okay? make yourself comfortable.” lando says, pauses for a second to take in the sight of you in his bed.

“okay.” you smile softly, eyes heavy with sleep as you relax further into the cushions. you hear the water running, white noise that allows your thoughts to run wild. the slide of the shower door grabs your attention and you think of him under the spray of water, bronze skin damp, hair slicked back.

when will it be your turn to see him like that, you wonder, musings of him pressed against you, bare and firm, flitting through your wandering mind. you realise, then, that you have him; he’s yours. why delay the inevitable?

slowly, you rise from the mattress, breathing shakily as your shirt comes off. your sweats follow, a trail of your clothes leading to the en-suite door. you can hear him humming to himself, the echo barrelling through your shaking body. you’re frantic with tension, a tinge of embarrassment, but then you consider his beautiful words, his confessions of love, and banish the feeling of shame that threatens to ruin you before you’ve even started. you unhook your bra, shimmy out of your panties, and grip the door handle. it turns slowly, steam spilling out of the room immediately, yet you shiver with anticipation.

“room for one more?” you call, and he jumps, turning suddenly.

you can’t make him out clearly, the fog painted across the shower door concealing his lean frame, and it draws you in closer, anticipation swirling in your belly.

he responds by sliding the door open, and you join him under the hot water. his eyes stay firmly on yours, body opening up to invite you in, hold you close as the spray hits you. the heat loosens your muscles, and you sink into him.

“fuck.” you hear him whisper, more to himself than to you.

“hi.” you breathe.

“am i dreaming?” lando blinks, a slow smile spreading across his face as he not so subtlety rakes his eyes over your frame.

“no,” you purr. “i’m real. this is real.”

his hands find your waist and you loop your arms around his neck, the kiss he pulls you into heated with a slow burning passion that makes you ache.

“you’re so pretty.” he pants into your mouth, firm and desperate - so sincere that it shakes you to your core.

“you’re perfect.” you choke out, mesmerised, alight in his thick hands.

“let me show you,” he starts, pauses briefly to kiss you. “wanna worship you.”

his words make you chase him for a kiss that doesn’t come. instead, he turns you to face away from him, your back to his front. you feel the cool spread of shower gel against your back, calloused hands working it into your skin gently. your hair, heavy with water, is pushed over your shoulder and you turn your head just enough to find his lips. your mouths move with intent as he works the soap down your back and over your waist. it tickles and you keen into him, enough that he holds you tighter, angles your hips away from his.

“careful, baby.” he warns lowly, his lips brushing over the shell of your ear.

“don’t wanna be careful.” you half moan, but he grips your hips even harder.

“not tonight, yeah? let me look after you. need you to know that i’m serious about this.” lando pants, his self restraint thin as it hits your ears. you smirk.

“you back on your ‘good guy’ bullshit?” you tease, throwing him a look over your shoulder. you catch sight of his lip caught between his teeth, wet curls matted against his forehead, and a wave of pure need washes over your body.

“for you? fuck yeah.” he manages, crouches down to lather soap down your legs. his hands roam your inner thighs, dangerously, painfully close to where you really need him to touch you, and you groan defeatedly.

“you’re horrible.” you sigh when he’s back to his full height, facing you once more. he flashes you a cheeky smile, fingertips smoothing over your arms.

“wanna get this right.” he shrugs.

“we could get it right - right here, right now.” you pout.

“patience.” lando cautions, rubbing over your sternum. he grazes over the underside of your breasts, daring to go even higher. you let out a broken sigh, shuddering at his incessant attention.

“asshole.”

“we already knew that about me, baby.” he winks. he maintains eye contact as he cups your breasts, massages them just enough to leave you wanting. his touch vanishes, then, and the elastic band of tension seems to snap. “rinse off, i’ll leave a towel for you.”

just like that, he’s gone.

-

you stretch like a cat across the mattress, the low sun sending the early light streaming through a devastating crack in the curtains. it leaves you disoriented - the sun never hits your own bedroom like that.

quickly, you remember you’re not in your own bed, partly because of the heavy arm that sprawls over your tired body, pinning you to the mattress. his breath hits your bare shoulder in heavy puffs that warm your skin, leaving your tingling as your curl further into the curve of his body. your movements nudge his head into the crook of your neck, his nose bumping the sensitive skin there and he stirs slightly, puckers his lips into a gentle kiss at the base of your throat.

you roll over, his arm weighing heavy against the curve of your waist the whole time. when you’re face to face, his eyes are still closed, unfairly long eyelashes dusting his cheekbones, but a smile is painted languidly across his lips. he looks so soft, boyish, perfectly unreal that you snuggle closer to him.

“go back to sleep.” he groans, hardly opening his mouth as if it’s too much work in his cosy state.

“not tired anymore.” you whisper into the slight space still left between you. your lips find his jaw, trailing across it until you find a sensitive spot just below his ear. he shivers, but he still doesn’t open his eyes. you smirk, tracing your tongue carefully over the definition of his jawline. you suck, bite down gently.

“really?” he murmurs, still smiling like a fool, only intensified by your movements. you hum in response.

“go back to sleep, baby.” you coo, sealing the hickey you’ve left with a delicate kiss, one that contradicts the harsh mark you’ve left.

“drives me insane hearing you call me that.” he sighs, almost pained. the newfound friction against your thigh explains why.

“does it, baby?” you murmur, right in his ear.

“roll over, honey. get comfortable for me.” is all he says in return. electricity shoots down your spine as you oblige, resuming your previous position.

“that’s it, c’mere.” lando rasps, sliding impossibly closer. you can feel the full length of his body pressed against yours, heat seeping from his bronze skin onto yours. your eyes flutter shut, a delicious buzz coursing through you as the anticipation grows.

you can feel where he’s hard, solid against the curve of your ass and you keen into him, arched into his front as much as you possibly can be. your thighs clench together, liquid heat pooling between them. your mouth hangs open as his hand grazes the outside of your thigh, smoothing over the thickness of them before he pulls them apart. his hand slots between them - a perfect fit - and he wastes no time grazing his knuckles over the damp cloth of your panties.

“lando.” you sigh, utterly content. it’s been a long time coming, but it already seems like it was worth the wait.

“you’re so wet for me already. you want me?” lando growls against the shell shell of your ear.

“touch me, baby.” you plead, pressing your ass harder against him. he hisses, thumbs hard at your clit in response.

you mewl, squeezing your thighs around his hand but he forces them apart, his arm tensing as he does. you grip it hard, nails digging into his forearm but he doesn’t relent. he rubs firm circles into the bundle of nerves over your panties, fingers dipping down to press into the wet patch quickly pooling in the lace.

“take them off.” you urge.

he quickly complies, fingertips grazing your hips as he slides the material off of your frame. as one hand settles back between your thighs, two deft fingers pinching your clit, his other snakes under the old mclaren t-shirt he’d leant you. he traces the pudges of your belly, scaling up, up, up, tickling across your ribs until he caresses the curve of your breast, his whole hand engulfing it. he plucks a nipple between his fingers at the same time he slides a digit between your folds, spreading your wetness around.

“feeling good for me, honey? do you know how sexy you are for me, making a mess, wearing my shirt?” lando muses, dangerously low. his voice is strained, a side affect of the hold your have on him, of how entranced he is by the way you writhe against him.

“so good.” you choke, rolling your hips to meet his hand. “need more.”

“more? is my girl greedy?” he taunts, circling your entrance with the tip of his finger.

“please?” you’re not above begging him. it does the trick.

you both moan at the way he stretches you around one finger, the single digit sliding deep. he grinds it into you, palm nudging against your clit with every move he makes. one finger becomes two and you gasp out his name, your hand finding his under the shirt, holding it to your chest. he squeezes your flesh, tweaking at your nipple until it’s hard between his fingers and your ass is grinding faster into his crotch. when he moves on to your other breast, you choke out a moan that tears through the both of you, the tension so thick in the room that it’s stifling.

“c’mon baby, i need you inside of me.” you beg, your voice a pathetic garbled whine, one that makes him falter and suck in a harsh breath.

“not sure you can take it, pretty girl. so tight just around my fingers.” lando challenges, slowing his fingers so that you can hear exactly what he’s doing to you. he curls them with every thrust, reaching a spot that temporarily leaves you blinded in the throes of his searing touch. “you’re gonna cum for me like this first, yeah? and then we’ll see if you can take me.”

“can’t- lando please just-“

he shushes you.

“you’re gonna let me give it to you, honey. you’re gonna take it all, because you’re a good girl, right?” his voice is so condescending, so commanding that it makes you throb around him, his fingers flexing harder and faster as he senses your lurking orgasm. “that’s it, honey, i can feel you. come on.” he urges.

your body spasms hard against his as it hits, any semblance of sleep shaken out of you as you fall apart. he holds you close, rides you through it - palm flat on your overstimulated clit while his fingers gently coax you over the edge. he’s hitting every spot, toying with every piece of you he can get his hands on. the hand alternating between your tits roams up to your neck squeezing briefly, just to tease, before he cups your jaw, turning your head enough so he can capture your lips in a feral kiss. it’s needy, full of greed as he swallows your cries of pleasure, keeps them all for himself.

when you go limp against him, the coils of tension finally loosening, he slips his fingers out slowly. you’re panting against his chest, descending back to reality, when you hear the telltale hum, a soft pop - he’s sucking his fingers clean.

“taste so fucking good.” he finally speaks, slick fingers pushing your shirt up your body and you manoeuvre it over your head. it’s tossed away, lost to the shadowy room.

“lando,” you hum. “i’m ready.”

it’s a plea that he can’t ignore, the duvet rustling around you. you feel him kick off his boxers and then he’s pressing his cock against the curve of your ass once more. its big, leaking already, and your mind goes completely and utterly blank.

“you feel so good against me.” he notes, dazed at the sensation of your bare flesh warm against his. “you sure?” he mumbles, pressing a firm kiss against the base of your neck, his hands working to reposition your legs so that he can slip into you.

“never been more sure in my life.” you promise, tingling with the anticipation.

he’s so close that you can feel the pulsing heat of him between your parted thighs. the head of him nudges over your clit and he drags himself up and down, coating his cock with your wetness. you’re frustrated - ready to flip the two of you over, fuck yourself full, but he beats you to it. the stretch of him makes you gasp, knuckles white as you grip the soft bedding. when his hips meet yours, he pauses, teeth sinking into your shoulder, utterly overwhelmed. you’re not doing much better, one hand snaking up behind you to find his curls, tugging softly on the messy strands. he likes it, groaning into the marks he’s leaving on your shoulder, lips trailing messily up your neck.

the sunlight streams harshly through the crack in the curtain, momentarily blinding you. it leaves you with only the feeling of him, a golden haze invading your other senses. he’s gripping your hip so hard that you’re certain that you’ll be able to map out each of his fingerprints after.

“can i move?” he rasps, punctuating his request with a delicate kiss just below your ear. you shiver, clenching around him tight, and he bucks into you inadvertently. it sends sparks shooting up and down your spine, an electric wave of pleasure that has your eyes fluttering shut.

“you better.” you implore.

“you’re fucking perfect around me.” he grunts, beginning to build a rhythm. it’s one that leaves you both breathless, brainless, unable to utter anything besides the relentless chants of each-others names, the needy wanton moans that neither of you can hide.

lando’s hands are everywhere, your hips, your ass, wrapped around your sternum to pull you back into him, plunging himself even deeper into you. you claw blindly at any part of him you can reach, braindead from the way he’s fucking you. you and him are like a tidal wave, surging closer and closer to shore after years of dormancy, of an aching, crushing build up. now, as it peaks, it could destroy you, wash you away and leaves you nothing. you know he won’t. you know by the way he’s holding you, by the soft whimpers he lets you hear, by the way he makes you feel more alive than you have in months.

“i’m so close.” your voice quivers, pleasure bleeding into the edges of your words.

“i’m gonna get you there, pretty girl. you’re so good for me.” he promises, one hand slipping between your thighs. he finds your clit, plays with it between his fingers. messy swirls combined with precise flicks make you shake “i can feel you, honey. can feel you holding back. let it all out for me.”

he sounds wrecked, like he’ll die if he can’t feel you let go around him. you feel the start of your orgasm crawling from the tips of your toes, up your legs, and into the fire pit of your belly.

“that’s it, give it to me.” lando whispers, his voice so far away, even though he’s right there, talking you through it with his lips pressing the shell of your ear.

“i love you, lando.”

with that, you shatter into a million pieces, convulsing around him, against him, trying to get impossibly closer to him as you simultaneously try and squirm away. he holds you close, barrelling into you with fast, deep rolls of his hips. each thrust taps into your special spot, stars clouding your vision, his name the only word on your lips, the only word that has ever existed.

“where do you want it?” he asks quickly, urgently anticipating his own end.

“inside of me.” you pant, delirious, but he’s not in the space to do any critical thinking - you love him! - so he takes your words at face value.

a guttural groan hits your ears like a sonic boom, his body tight and firm against your sweat slick back. he squeezes you tight as he fills you up, submitting totally to the heat of your core, to the intoxicating way you draw him in.

“i love you, too.” he mumbles into your shoulder, kisses the words into your flushed skin. “i always have.”

he flops onto his back, slipping out of you carefully first, a lazy smile on his face. his eyes are shut, angelic once more as if he hadn’t been whispering filth into your ear just a minute prior.

“we gotta do more of that.” lando laughs, blindly reaching out for you. you slip into his welcoming arms, draping yourself over his body.

“think i need a shower. maybe you can make up for leaving me in there last night.” you giggle, agreeing that, yes, you absolutely need to do more of that.

he hugs you closer, a kiss placed atop your forehead.

“you can have anything you want, honey.”

-

phew.

-

taglist.

@mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys  @rachstash @infinitebells @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit @youdontknowmeshh @im-an-overthinker @jule239 @darleneslane @jazzy722 @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @therealone4r @pleasecallmeunhinged @theonlyadrienne @formulaal @carlandoxlestappen @cmleitora @pianor481 @costkappen

[osaemu]

GOJO SATORU: THINK I NEED SOMEONE OLDER

✩ ‧ ˚. synopsis: what do you do when your boyfriend cheats? you go to his house and look for revenge, and you get it by fucking his dad! NSFW

contents: fem!reader. age gap, blowjob, praise, degradation, use of slut, slight dumbification, dirty talk, and possibly more. 2.6K words.

you should've known that dating a rich boy came with more than just the money—it came with a shitty boyfriend too. 

as you walk to his house, rain falling in your eyes, you curse every time he had you do his homework, his bills, even his fucking laundry. that's what you get for dating the spoiled heir to the massive gojo fortune.

you step onto the gojo estate's porch, wondering what possessed you to come all the way here in the middle of the night without an umbrella. thank god you still had the key your ex had given you, since he was too stupid to remember to take it back after he dumped you.

hands shaking from the cold, you slip the key into the lock and turn, a small smile dancing across your lips when it opens as easily as your ex's legs. he was probably out fucking another girl right now, if the pictures on his instagram story were any hint of his whereabouts.

you push the door open with your shoulder and dry your feet on the doormat. his parents are never home, and it's late enough for the staff to have all gone back to their quarters. besides, even if one or two were still here, they probably didn't know you weren't their spoiled brat's girlfriend anymore.

humming the post-breakup revenge song you'd been listening to for the past hour, you tie up your hair and look around. the only reason you walked all the way here in the middle of a dark, stormy night was for revenge, and you weren't leaving without it.

on the way to your ex's room, you stop in one of the bathrooms to dry off. rainwater slides off your body as you wring out your hair in the sink, water dripping down your wrist as you do so.

you walk the familiar path to your ex's room, rolling your eyes when you see a bra on the floor that definitely isn't yours. funnily enough, you aren't surprised. there's no hurt, no sadness, just disgust. your suspicions were right—he was fucking other girls while the two of you dated. 

a sigh slips through your lips as you look around his room. it's messy, even with the help from the gojo estate's numerous staff. they say bigger rooms naturally look cleaner, and yet your ex's room still manages to mirror his mind—filthy.

you're so immersed in the thousand ideas you have to ruin your ex's life that when a deep, sleep-ridden voice asks you what the fuck you're doing in his house, you nearly jump out of your skin.

you spin around, words caught in your throat when you come face-to-face with satoru gojo, your ex-boyfriend's dad and the infamous head of the gojo family.

it's more than shameful that the first thought you have is that shit, he's hot. you've met before, but it was only in passing. satoru's never around, and the extent of your relationship was a brief nod as he passed you in one of the many passageways in the gojo estate. in fact, you aren't entirely sure if he even knows who you are.

satoru gojo's well-known in japan—not only is he the reason the gojo family has its reputation, but he's made quite a name for himself by being the most affluent and handsome of them all. 

you've heard stories about him back in his prime. most sound too far-fetched to be true, but the photos of him in his twenties that resurface from time-to-time make good material for your late-night fantasies. 

and satoru's even more intimidating in person. he's easily over six feet tall with well-defined muscles, and he's the definition of a dilf. he's probably twice your age, but the glint in his eyes and casual arrogance in his stance makes him all the more attractive.

it's a shame his son is such a dickhead.

"are you one of my son's whores?" satoru asks dryly, eying the bra on the floor. you scowl and kick it away, a soft huff slipping through your lips.

"no, i'm— wait, he never told you?" you cut yourself off with the question, a hint of incredulous disbelief in your tone. 

satoru shrugs, reaching up to ruffle his hair. his shirt slides up just enough to expose his abs, which are really fucking hot by any standards. "if you're asking about my son, he thankfully leaves me out of his sex life," he says amusedly. "so, who are you? and what the hell are you doing in my house this late?"

"i—" well, you couldn't just say you were here to ruin his son's life. "uh, i'm his... girlfriend."

satoru barks out a laugh, looking down at you through his long, white eyelashes. "really? you sure you're dating my son?"

you narrow your eyes and nod. satoru shakes his head, slipping one of his hands in his pocket and gesturing to the bra on the floor with the other. "either you aren't his girlfriend or you just found out he's cheating. which is it?"

well, you tried. "both." satoru raises his eyebrows at that and takes a seat on the chair across from his son's bed, exhaling as he does so. 

"so, sweetheart, what's the story?" he asks, a bored expression on his face. he leans back and spreads his legs enough for you to wonder what it'd be like to be in between them. 

not sensing that you really have a choice, you sit on the corner of his son's bed and start explaining. at first, you sugarcoat his son's actions, not wanting to sound like a whiny brat, but at one point he interjects with a sigh.

"i know my son," he says dryly, brushing his floppy white hair out of his eyes. "and i also know a liar when i see one."

"s' that so?" you mutter under your breath, ignoring the way satoru's eyes narrow at your side comment. from then on, you list every detail of just how shitty your ex was to you. you tell satoru how his son made you fold his clothes, how he dragged you to parties even when you swore you had homework, how he'd make you fu—

you stop there, not wanting to divulge every detail of your sex life. sure, your ex forced you to fuck him every night in every way he knew existed from watching porn, but that wasn't for his dad to know.

satoru, who's been listening intently for the last five minutes, studies your irritated expression thoughtfully. rather than comment on the way you suddenly stopped ranting, he asks, "so you're here for revenge?"

you nod, crossing your legs. satoru eyes you for another second before placing his hands on his knees and standing up with a soft grunt. "do whatever you want, but i want you out of my house in fifteen minutes. and whatever you do stays in this room. no fire."

satoru looks down at you and raises an eyebrow. "is that clear?"

it would be easier to agree if satoru wasn't looking down at you with an expression like that on his face. it's somewhere between mild irritation and disgust—whether it's directed at you or his son, you're not sure, but he probably has better things to do than listen to some girl's breakup story. so you nod, and satoru starts to leave.

just before he steps out the door, you think of a really fucking insane idea—one that would absolutely shatter your ex. and for some reason, you say it out loud.

"you should fuck me."

oh my god.

satoru turns around slowly, hand clenched around his phone. "the fuck?"

you swallow, eyes wide and a stupid grin plastered on your face. "shit, i—" you were ready to apologize for just about every word you've ever said, but satoru holds up his hand before you can start, cutting you off.

he scoffs, blue eyes glimmering with either amusement or annoyance. "you really are a piece of work, aren't ya?" satoru narrows his eyes, surveying you critically. his gaze settles on the way your shaky hands, and you hide them behind your back self consciously.

"you want me to fuck you on my son's bed?" he says dryly, stifling a laugh. when you force yourself to nod, he grins. "not bad, sweetheart. not bad at all."

"i-is that a yes?" you hate yourself for stuttering, but it makes satoru laugh.

"sure, why not?" he says, walking over to where you're still sitting on his son's bed and resting a hand on your shoulder. satoru rubs the side of your neck with his thumb, cerulean eyes fixed on your lips. "might be about time to teach my son a lesson anyways."

satoru's agreement surprises you enough to make your mouth fall open, and soon enough, his dick replaces the empty space between your lips.

"shit, you're takin' me so good, baby," satoru groans, hand tangled in your hair as he pushes his dick deeper into your throat. "yeah, that's it, jus' like tha— fuck," he cuts himself off with a breathy laugh as you nearly choke.

he's big, way bigger than your ex, and you wonder how his dad's big dick gene skipped him. and even better, satoru's skilled too. he knows how to fuck you good, and you can tell that it's from experience, not from watching porn—unlike his lame excuse of a son.

"tell me, sweetheart," satoru drawls, looking down at you with a cheeky smile. "was my son half as good as i am in bed?"

when you shake your head no, satoru clicks his tongue in disapproval. "shit, now y're gonna expect every guy you fuck with to be as good as me. well, sorry 'bout that, because they aren't."

at least you know where his son gets his arrogance from. 

it's getting a little hard to breathe, especially since you have ten inches of dick shoved down your throat. despite all satoru's talk, you can tell that he's getting close to cumming down your throat—his eyes are twitching and his breaths are starting to become more and more shaky as you suck him off. soon enough, the coil in his stomach snaps and he cums, cursing and praising you as he does. satoru's grip on your hair tightens, and it's borderline painful as he tugs you deeper by the hair.

"shit, that was the best head i've had in a while," he groans after his breathing starts to go back to normal. satoru grins at you, shaking his head and pinning you on your back on the bed.

"you've already been fucked by a gojo here, haven't you?" satoru cooes, tracing your jawline with one of his fingers. "tch, i'll fuck you better than my shithead son ever could. show ya the reason we gojos have a reputation for our dicks."

and fuck, he does. after quickly making you cum on his fingers with the excuse of loosening you up, he roughly shoves his dick in your already-throbbing pussy with a grin. he's so fucking big that you've convinced he's gonna rip you in half.

"g-gojo, i can't—"

"sure y'can," he cuts you off, jaw tightening as you tighten around him. "fuckin' hell, you're just tight as a virgin. my son must be shit in bed, yeah?"

"mhm," you hum, tilting back your head and gasping for air as you feel your body heat up. "shit— right there—"

satoru grins, dipping his head and meeting your tear-lidded eyes. he's far from gentle—it's barely been a couple minutes and your back is already in the highest arch of your life, and it's hard to form coherent thoughts as satoru continues bullying his cock into your pussy.

you lose track of time easily—fuck, you forget there's even a world outside of whatever this is. at some point your tongue falls out of your mouth, lolling to the side as your eyes roll back—just a dumb slut for satoru; or at least that's what he calls you.

as you approach what must be the hundredth orgasm of the night, satoru asks you to say his name. it's almost embarrassing how much effort it is to say—he's fucked you dumb enough to the point where you're a babbling mess.

"shit, you can't even talk," satoru says with a grin, flicking your forehead playfully. "cute." he rests his elbow by your head and shoves his hand over your mouth, amusement dancing in his eyes. "you talk too much anyways, princess. take a break."

you whine against his hand and satoru shakes his head, a faux pout on his face. "c'mon, it's not like you can talk anyways," he tsks. his next thrust is particularly rough, and you can't seem to remember who the name of the dickhead who got you in this situation—what was your ex's name again? does it matter?

"yeah i can" you mumble, voice muffled by satoru's hand. when his pout deepens, you can't help but giggle, a sound that soon turns to a squeal when he pushes the side of your face into the mattress.

"what's so funny?" satoru grumbles, dipping his head and pressing his lips against the hand seperating your mouth from his. satoru's glimmering eyes are fixed on yours as a cheeky smile spreads across his face. "fine then."

he pulls out, cursing under his breath as he presses his back to the headboard. satoru ignores the hm? that slips out of your lips and removes his hand from your mouth, resting it on his dick instead and stroking it with a smirk. "what is it, princess?"

"wha— why'd you stop?"

satoru lifts his other wrist, studying the watch on it and turning his hand so you can see too. your vision is still so fucked up that the numbers look like swimming otters, but you can vaguely make out the time.

"it's been fifteen minutes, kid. time to go."

your mouth falls open and you sit up, still breathing heavily. one second you're having the best sex of your life, and the next your ex's dad is calling you kid and telling you it's time to go?

"not fair," you mumble, pulling your legs into your chest and resting your head on your knees. "that was a stupid time limit," you huff, chest heaving. "i couldn't have done anything to him in fifteen minutes anyways."

satoru snorts, stretching his arms and resting his hands behind his head. "i'd say we did something in those fifteen minutes," he says dryly, white hair falling into his eyes. 

"hmph."

satoru raises his eyebrows, biting the inside of his lip as he continues stroking himself. you notice the way his abs flex and tense the closer he gets; something that shouldn't be as attractive as it is.

"can't believe my dumbass son fucked up so badly with a girl like you," he groans after a minute, back resting against the headboard as he continues stroking his dick. "won't be seein' you around here again, huh?"

you blink, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as satoru eyes you intently. "what d'you mean?"

before satoru can answer, the two of you hear footsteps, and before either of you can do anything, standing in the doorway to his own room is your ex, a giggling girl on his arm. the faint scent of alcohol floods through your nose as they stumble in, and it's all you can do to stop yourself from laughing when your ex sees that his bed is already occupied.

"why the hell is my dad in bed with my ex-girlfriend?!"

[idiopathicsmile]

School Gymnastics: A Tragicomedy

So one day when we were in third grade, our P.E. teacher divided us into girls and boys. (I don’t remember what the boys had to do. Wrestling? Tackle football? I don’t know, probably not at age nine, but that’s not the point. Gladiatorial combat? I still don’t really understand kids’ sports.)

What matters for this story is that all the girls had to do gymnastics. Now—and I suspect this won’t surprise you if you know literally anything about me—I was always terrible at any form of school athletics. I am intensely, almost impressively uncoordinated. This doesn’t affect my life much at 36, but it was often a miserable way to be a kid. The only playground game I liked was playing pretend, because when you are playing pretend, you don’t have a bunch of people ostensibly on your side screaming in your ear, “Pretend faster! Pretend over there! Pretend with greater accuracy!”

Anyway, gymnastics and my clumsy, doughy little body. I couldn’t do a cartwheel. I couldn’t do a backwards somersault. I couldn't do any of it. We had an entire unit on this business and I literally did not learn how to even safely attempt a single move besides the log roll (lie flat and roll sideways on your belly). In retrospect, this seems like maybe it was in part a teaching problem, not a me problem, but that’s actually not the point either.

The point is, at the end of the unit, we were told to divide ourselves into little teams and choreograph a group gymnastics routine. My group, faced with my long list of limitations (more limitation than girl, really) decide my role will be to just forwards-somersault around the rest of the group as they do their moves. (This is itself kind of embarrassing but trust me, it is but the appetizer.) My friend Ashley has the Lion King soundtrack and we all agree that it is a great choice. The movie has only come out a couple of years earlier, and it of course features some funny, peppy options. 'Hakuna Matata'? 'I Just Can't Wait to Be King'? It's all coming together.

Carried on a wave of youthful enthusiasm, none of us even think to double-check which track Ashley has picked. Foreshadowing!

So the day of the performance comes. Another group goes right before us. They had picked “Wannabe” by the Spice Girls, which was a huge hit at the time. I mean, it still is because it’s a classic, but then it was big and new. They step onto the mat and immediately begin to do choreographed dance moves, which they have worked into their routine. We had not thought of this. Oops. Dance moves, of course! So they incorporate the necessary gymnastics, it goes over really well, the energy is high, and now it’s my group’s turn.

I take my place at the edge of the mat, the mat we are required to stay on for the length of the piece. Ashley cues up the track she’d chosen.

A song starts up. Instantly, I recognize it from the movie. It is the very slow instrumental music that plays when Simba realizes his dad is dead.

‘Well, this is not optimal,’ I think. I've been on this planet for nine years; I can see that much. But it’s too late to change the track, and so I tell myself, ‘It’s okay. I’m a performer. I can sell this.’ I put on an extremely solemn face and begin to execute a series of the world’s saddest somersaults.

Friends, when I say “sad” I mean it, in every possible sense of the word. Picture a nine year old with the gravest possible affect, determinedly doing somersaults to the slowest, most serious music she can imagine, in a careful ring around her friends who have actually learned any gymnastics whatsoever. Okay, now as the music starts to pick up and get more hopeful, imagine she gets real dizzy and in front of everyone, she rolls all the way directly off the mat, careening dangerously towards the assembled students.

Somehow, I roll myself back onto the mat, we survive what feels like hours of humiliation, we stagger away, and I blessedly avoid adding “puking my guts out in front of all of my peers” to my very short list of gymnastics tricks.

Later, I asked Ashley what in the world possessed her to choose that song.

“It didn’t have any words,” she said.

(There was absolutely no rule against using songs that had lyrics.)

Anyway, that’s why being an adult is better than being a kid.

I may have to do laundry and make my own dinner and wrestle with more complex existential angst, but you know what I haven’t been asked to do in like 26 years? Somersault for three minutes straight to the musical shorthand for “this cartoon lion cub has no choice but to process the weight of unimaginable grief for his dead dad.” And you know what? If I live another 50 years, I can be pretty confident nobody will ask me to do it then, either.

[subbmissivesuccubus]

I don't know if this kink has a name but I am just obsessed with super casual boob play lmao

Also!!?? Thank you guys for helping me reach 2K followers! It's so exciting and i've been having so much fun writing and reading the smut on this website. Here's to many more stories which hopefully give you the tingles <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Alright, so that's the groceries we need for this week."

"Mmm."

"Oh, don't forget to buy flowers! It's my moms birthday tomorrow."

"Mmm."

"Are you even listening?" you asked, crossing your arms over your chest as you glared at your boyfriend, the man simply staring at you.

"Mmm."

"Ok, so that's a no." you said, rolling your eyes before snapping your fingers in front of your boyfriends face, the man jumping and blinking a few times as he was brought back to reality.

"Can you pay attention now?" you asked sternly.

"Sorry. I was too busy staring at your tits." he said honestly, making you sigh. There he goes again with his very obvious boob obsession, your man having a clear fetish for your breasts.

"Well, if you continue to ignore me, you won't see my boobs for a week."

"Or, you flash them to me now, I promise I'll remember every single word you say."

"Oh my God."

"Come here, baby. Come here." he begged, hands reaching out to quickly grab you by the hips and drag you forward, his nails digging into the fabric of your skirt as he all but manhandled you onto his lap, smiling at you as he got your legs to straddle his waist.

"You're a degenerate." you snarled as you placed your hands on his shoulder, more than familiar with this particular song and dance.

"I'm your degenerate. And besides, this is your fault you know." he said, casually fisting the hem of your t-shirt before pulling it up, "If you didn't have such perfect titties, I wouldn't be like this!"

"So you weren't obsessed with boobs before you met me?" you questioned, allowing him to tug the t-shirt upto your chin, the man greedily looking at your bra covered breasts. Not having the patience to take the shirt off of you completely, he simply pulled it over your head so it looped around the back of your neck, your arms still in the sleeves but he didn't care as all he wanted was access to his favorite part of you.

"Of course not." he said confidently as he all but face planted into your cleavage, groaning in delight as he pushed his face in as deep as he could go, "I only got obsessed when you came into the picture."

You huffed, trying to fight the blood rushing to your face and between your legs as you fisted a hand through his hair, tugging at it a bit as you got his attention:

"Are you going to listen to me now?"

"Mmhmm." your boyfriend groaned, nodding a yes against your boobs, truly happy being surrounded by your plump flesh. Sighing, you once again told him what he needed to buy for groceries, allowing him to grope and kiss you wherever he wanted. His tongue ran over your skin, huffing and humming in response every time you asked him if he was listening.

He soon pushed your bra up as well, too eager to bother unhooking it as he placed it against your collarbone, the elastic of the band digging into your skin and making your tits look even more delicious than before. He opened his mouth and took a nipple in, closing his eyes as he started suckling gently, his arms wrapped around you and pulling you in closer.

"H-Hey..." you moaned, gripping his hair tighter as he suckled on you, "It's getting late. You need to leave before the stores close."

"Mmhmm. I know." he muttered against you, tongue coming out to flick at your nipples a few times before he moved to the other breast, giving her the same treatment, "Just- fuck- give me a minute."

You sighed, jumping as you felt his hands move down to your ass, taking greedy gropes of your butt as he lost himself in the sensation of your breast in his mouth.

Yeah, you were not getting your groceries today.

~~~~~

You slipped away from the group of friends in the living room to your bedroom, wanting to get your phone which had hopefully finished charging by now. As you were checking your phone and responding quickly to a few messages, you suddenly felt a hand on your waist that swiftly moved upwards and groped your right breast.

"Eh-hey!" you hissed softly, head snapping back towards your boyfriend, his touch so familiar that you instantly knew it was him, "Cut it out! We have guests!"

"I know but I just need one suck, ok?" he asked even as his other hand came up to start unbuttoning your shirt dress, "I'll be super quick, I promise."

"You- ah!" you squealed as he got the buttons undone enough to expose your bra, his fingers digging into the cup of the right side to pull it down, revealing your bare breast to the crisp air. He turned you around and quickly bent down and took the nipple into his mouth. Your head kept snapping between him sucking your nipple and the door, on edge as if anyone walks in, it would be very obvious.

Your man groaned as he suckled on your nipple, eyelashes tickling your skin as he closed his eyes. The sound of the TV and chattering was loud enough to thankfully drown out his groans, your boyfriend suckling you so hard it made your toes curl.

"Wh-you-" you hissed as his hand quickly pulled down the other cup of your bra and exposed your other breast, "You said only one!"

"I know but I can't not suck her too!" he protested, giving your left nipple a greedy lick, "she'll get jealous!"

"What the fuck are you talking abooouuttt!" you gasped as he suddenly took the nipple in and sucked on it as well, just as vigorously. You stood there for a few seconds, allowing your maniac of a boyfriend to suck and feel you up before he finally pulled away.

"Just what I needed. Thank you baby." he said, kindly helping you stuff your tits back into your bra and right your dress, giving your tits a final squeeze before he walked out of the room, leaving you a frustrated mess with your nipples tingling.

What a menace.

~~~~~

It was movie night, one of your favorite ways to spend time together. It was always a treat to just relax with your boyfriend, put on a random movie, eat popcorn and talk.

And of course, he also loved that he gets to play with your tits the whole time.

You huffed as your boyfriend pulled you onto his lap, his legs spread wide to accommodate you between them. Bowl of popcorn in hand, you munched away at the treat even as your man slid his hands up your shirt, aiming for your breasts.

"Ew, why are you wearing a bra?" he asked, clicking his tongue as his hands got in contact with the soft fabric.

"Sometimes I like having my boobs supported by something, ok? Fucking sue me."

"You don't need a bra to support your tits when you have my hands. I'm taking it off."

Before you could even protest, your man slid his hands to your back and unhooked the bra masterfully, practically an expert at it at this point. He was about to push the straps down your arms and pull the bra out from under your shirt but then he realized- why are you wearing a shirt? You might as well be topless as he was going to play with your boobs the whole time anyway.

So with your shirt and bra tossed onto the floor, you tried your best to focus on the movie playing on screen even as your boyfriend happily groped away at your tits. Ample flesh spilling out between his fingers, he squeezed you like a toy- like your tits were something he could use to alleviate stress. Occasionally, he'd flick his fingers over your nipples, working them up to stiff peaks before gently pinching them between his thumb and index finger. He'd place his hands underneath your breasts, cupping them before he bounced them up and down, loving the feeling of your heavy flesh landing on his palms, the ripple of your breasts on impact instantly making his cock hard.

And of course, as usual, once he was done playing with his hands (which was practically an hour long activity), he'll move onto his mouth. Your body automatically moved along with him as he lifted you up a bit higher onto his lap, looping an arm over his shoulder so he had the space to lean down and take a nipple into his mouth.

"Y-You're not even watching the movie, are you?"

"Mm-mmm" he responded, shaking his head no against your breast, his response making you shiver. You rolled your eyes and continued to watch the movie, failing at it even before he started sliding his hand into your pants.

~~~~~

Of course, your boob obsessed boyfriend can't sleep unless it's on said boobs.

"Take it offfff!" he whined, wrestling with you as he harshly tugged at your shirt.

"It's cold!" you protested as you tried to pull the fabric back down over you, "I'm going to freeze!"

"I'll keep you warm! You know the rules- no clothes in bed."

"You're wearing clothes!"

"Yes but I don't have a pair of delicious tits that are just begging to be suckled!"

"Oh my God- fine, how about this?" you asked, slapping his hand away from your shirt before you pulled up upto your chin, flashing him your bare boobs, "Just get in here and I get to keep the shirt on."

"...Why didn't you just say so?"

You grunted as you were tackled, pushed to lie down on the bed as your boyfriend landed on top of you, face first into your tits. You pulled your shirt over his head, covering the dopey smile on his face as he used his hands to push your tits against him, shaking his head from side to side as he motorboated you.

He thankfully still had some sense to pull the blanket over the two of you and you were able to dim the lights, whipping your phone out so you can get some screen time before you went to sleep. You felt wetness on your left nipple, your boyfriend finally done with shaking your fat tits in his face.

His tongue ran in circles over the hard bud, dragging it slowly as he knew he could take his time. He started flicking your bud harshly, his hot tongue making you shiver with each flick. Eventually, he sealed his lips around it, groaning happily as he started to suck. He was noisy- moaning like he was eating a delicious meal and the slobbering noises of him feasting on you making your ears ring, the pressure he used to suckle on you keeping you on your toes.

As he sucked on the left one, his hand came up to play with the right, toying with her as he got her ready to be sucked next. He rubbed the nipple around with his thumb before pinching it gently, giving her a few twists once in awhile. He was latched onto the same nipple for almost 30 minutes before he moved onto the next one, but not before dragging himself from underneath your shirt and pushing the fabric upto your chin.

Fuck it. You were falling asleep and now your body was running hot so you didn't really care.

"Baby... I want-" he gave your nipple a kiss before he snuggled his face into the fat of your breast before looking up at you, "I want to drink your milk. Make it for me."

"How many biology lessons did you fail for you to think that's possible?" you asked, your eyelids drooping and voice heavy.

"Why are you not pregnant yet? I cum in you like, everyday."

"...You know I'm still on birth control."

"I know but I'm confident I can defeat it."

"Mmkay, keep dreaming. Now shut up- i'm gonna sleep."

"...Stop taking your birth control."

"I'm not having a baby just so you can drink some breast milk."

"Of course not. We'll have a baby because we're in love and we'll be together forever!"

You opened one eye and looked down at him, letting him know you were not impressed.

"...And so I can drink your milk."

"Just keep sucking or sleep."

He pouted before he took your left nipple into his mouth.

~~~~~

Gojo Satoru, Haibara, Shanks, Sanji, Luffy, Ace, Kaeya, Kaveh, Childe, Cyno, Itto, Uzui, Sanemi, Eren, Jean etc. etc.

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐳𝐨𝐧𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: there’s some russian spoken here so i’ll put the translations into [little brackets] next to it

summary: nat cheated and you got a divorce. time jump of three years

warnings: smut (brief), alcohol, mentions of blood/injuries, house fire, child endangerment

word count: 17.2k (oops)

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Part 2: Secondhand Smoke

The drawer is open, its contents a mess. Old baby socks, screws, a teething toy. Natasha stares at it, trying to find what she's looking for. If she doesn't, you might kill her.

Behind her, Valerie runs down the hardwood stairs. She slips on her jacket and skids to the front door.

"Mama, we're going to be late!", she says impatiently. Lottie, sitting on the table with a donut in her hands, grins. "Hey, why'd she get a donut?"

"Because she wouldn't put her shoes on. Do you know where that permission slip for your field trip is?"

Valerie shakes her head. She steps over the backpack Natasha left on the floor to reach her shoes. "You can't find it?"

Natasha grunts and shuts the drawer, only to open the other one. More screws. A broken pipe wrench. A stack of documents she doesn't have a place for. She glances at the clock and realizes she's about to be late for the drop-off — again.

"Mommy's going to be mad", her older daughter helpfully informs her.

"Yes, bub, I know that", Natasha mutters. Lottie slides off the table, a sad little piece of donut in her hand, and tugs at her sleeve. "Hm?"

"Braid my hair, mama?"

She hesitates and looks at the clock again — 7.12. If they don't hurry, they will not only be late, but you'll get a text message from their schools as well. But Lottie blinks her big eyes and Natasha folds. As predicted in the hospital, she has your eyes, and she can't resist the sweet look on her daughter's face.

"C'mere", she mumbles, scooping Charlotte up and setting her down on the table. "Quick one, alright?"

Valerie groans and flops into the worn armchair. She stares at the ceiling, complete with wooden beams and a chandelier, and impatiently kicks her feet. Her shoes leave specks of dirt on the rug.

"Hurry", she drawls. Natasha curses quietly, her hands working on Lottie's hair.

"Shit", the younger girl parrots. She's been going through a phase lately. Whenever she learns a new word, she has to repeat it constantly until a new one catches her attention.

Much to Natasha's dismay, of course. She was forced to replace an entire list of curse words with kid-friendly alternatives.

"No, we don't say that."

"Why?", Charlotte asks. She's on the table, cross-legged, fingers sticky with sugar glaze. "Shit! Mama, shit!"

"You're not funny", Valerie mutters. She reaches for the remote and turns on the tv. Natasha gives her a hurried look.

"Wait, you can't-"

"I am funny!" Lottie turns her head. The braid slips from Natasha's fingers and comes undone. "Meanie!"

Ten minutes later. Natasha's sweaty, Charlotte's braid turned into space buns, Valerie's in a mood. The car ride consists of Elsa songs and two girls fighting over who gets to pick the music. Everyone's on edge.

Natasha can't help but think that this never happened when you were still married. A fleeting thought, but it stings. Once upon a time, she had her life together. Now, she's barely keeping it from falling apart. If it weren't for caffeine and duct tape, it'd all crumble.

She parks in front of the elementary school first and shoos Valerie out of the car. Right as she's about to walk away, Natasha rips open the door and hurries after her.

"Your permission slip!"

"You found it?"

"Under the car seat", she mumbles, turning Valerie around and putting the piece of paper against her back. She quickly signs it. "Here you go, bub. Have a nice day at school, yeah?"

She shrugs and grabs the permission slip. Natasha stands there, rubbing her forehead and watching her go, before she remembers that she still needs to drive Lottie and then make her way to work.

She turns around and gets into the car. The Elsa songs keep playing, Lottie keeps singing along, and Natasha is teetering on the edge between gratefulness and panic.

. . .

"You're late."

"I know. I'm sorry."

You're in the kitchen, scrubbing a pot with a sponge and holding the phone between your ear and your shoulder. It's Sunday afternoon, which means it's time for Natasha to drop the kids off at your place for the week. You decided on shared custody together, because how could you not?

She cheated on you, but that doesn't mean she she's a bad mom. She loves the girls as much as you do. She shows up for the small and the big things. She's present, and even though communication still isn't her strongest suit, she's trying.

You're still holding a bit of a grudge, though, and you're far from letting her forget it. Natasha understands that sentiment completely, which somehow feels like the worse option.

You adjust your shoulder and put the sponge aside. Someone screams in the background, then you hear the maniacal cackling of your younger child.

"What's going on?", you ask, slightly worried. Natasha's house is not quite as toddler-proof as you'd like it to be. You’ve seen it via FaceTime — dumbbells and tools everywhere, a huge fireplace, some arts n' crafts table for Lottie she got started on.

At least the backyard is big, with plenty of space for the girls to play. It's the main reason why Natasha bought the cabin sitting on the edge of a forest, and she took full advantage of it. Within a single summer, she built an entire playground, complete with a sandpit and a merry-go-round.

"Nothing- no, don't jump off that! Charlotte!"

You sigh and dry your hands, then exchange your shoulder for your hand. You open the fridge and grab the lettuce you bought the day before.

"Can you please make sure our daughter doesn't break her neck?"

"Sorry, babe. She's good, she just found one of my energy liquid gels."

In the background, you hear a high-pitched voice ask if it's mommy on the phone. You smile faintly and lean against the counter.

"You gotta hurry", you say, one arm crossed over your chest. "I made baked ziti, Vee's favorite. It'll go cold."

"Yep, yeah, in a minute." Natasha digs through something, and you hear bags rustle. "Goddammit, where'd you put your left shoe?"

"You lost her shoe? Which one, the Stride Rite?"

"Uh..."

Someone falls. You hear the thud, muffled but clear, and frown. Then, someone starts to cry. Natasha drops another curse word.

At this point, it doesn't faze you anymore. Charlotte is as energetic and reckless as Valerie was at her age, and you're used to the countless bruises and scraped somethings she brings home every week.

"Go help her", you sigh.

"We'll be there in a minute."

They, in fact, aren't there in a minute. It takes them forty minutes and a near-mental breakdown. But they make it, and Natasha pulls up in front of the house you once shared.

It's still the same. White picket fence, a red front door and window frames, the shoes next to the doormat. The grass has been freshly mowed, and the air smells like flowers and late summer nights spent on the porch together.

Natasha scoops Charlotte out of her car seat and carries her on her hip. The girl is barefoot and only dressed in one of Natasha's oversized shirts, which functions as a dress for her. Valerie's already a few steps ahead, so she opens the gate.

You step out the door and smile. "You made it!"

"Mommy!", Lottie shrieks. She starts kicking her feet until she's back on the ground, then she starts running.

"Hey, mom."

"Hey", Natasha adds, her hands in her pockets.

She takes a moment to look at you. Nothing about you is particularly outstanding, at least not right now — it's a Sunday afternoon, so you're in a white shirt and sweatpants. Your hair is up, your face bare, your eyes crinkling at the corners when you smile at the girls.

Then, you look up. Her heart flips. She's always been a little too weak for you.

"Hi", you say, crouching and hugging Charlotte as you redirect your attention. "You're barefoot, honey."

Natasha lingers by the gate, hands in her pockets and feet unmoving. She's still staring, still soaking in, and she's also zoning out. Even if just for a short moment in time, you're soft. Unguarded. You rub Lottie's arms, ask her if she's hungry, scoop her up and kiss her cheek.

You look at Natasha and tilt your head. It feels like there's miles between you.

"So", you start, adjusting your hold on the little girl, "we're going to have dinner."

"Oh, right." She nods and takes a step back. "Sunday afternoon? You'll drop them off?"

"Of course."

Natasha nods and turns around. Her phone starts ringing, so she fishes it out of her pocket and glances at the screen. She hesitates, then makes sure she's in the car before answering. You close the door behind you.

Valerie helps you set the table. Lottie is less productive — she's sitting on the floor with a coloring book —, but at least her humming is cute.

Between scooping baked ziti onto plates and pouring juice into glasses, you've been wondering who was behind that phone call Natasha got. It's a dumb thing to think about. It was probably her sister, or her mom. Clint also calls sometimes. Maybe he invited her to barbecue, as he sometimes does.

In the end, you're wrong. You're really wrong.

"Mommy, mama kissed a lady."

You freeze. Valerie's head whips around.

"Lottie!", she hisses.

"What? She did!"

"Yes, but-"

You lift your hand to interject. It's not your place to be jealous (you are); it's not your place to talk to the kids about this (you will); it's not your place to confront Natasha (oh, you have to). Yet, you can't help it.

She's not yours anymore, but when you were married to the one person who you actually loved, it feels like you'll always own a little piece of them. No matter what she did, it feels like she's still yours, in a way. Whether that's actually the case or not is debatable.

"Who was she?", you ask, trying to sound calm. But the way you keep wiping loose strands of hair out of your face is anything but.

"A lady", Lottie says. She's too enthusiastic for her own good. "She's pretty. She has a purple dress, mommy."

"Uh-huh", you say. Valerie looks like she's about to lose her mind. You raise your eyebrows at her. "You don't have to protect her from me, you know."

"I'm not!", she protests. "But I don't want you to get mad at mama."

"No, mama doesn't want me to get mad at her", you argue. You grab your phone and tap the phone icon. Valerie starts bouncing in her chair. "Just a quick call."

"Please!", she groans. "Don't fight again."

"Shush."

You walk into the living room, your phone against your ear. You barely hear how Valerie whispers something to Lottie about her ruining everything. For a split second, it's enough to make you rethink this.

Of course, Charlotte doesn't remember that day. She doesn't remember the yelling, the packed suitcases, how you kicked Natasha out. But Valerie does, and she's terrified of it happening again. She can't risk it — things are more or less peaceful right now. You haven't had a real fight in ages. This, however, might change everything.

Natasha picks up. She sounds almost relieved. "Hey."

"Who is she?"

A long pause. You swear you can hear her heart beat faster, louder. "What?"

"The woman", you say, coming to a halt next to the staircase. "The one you brought home. The one who met my kids without my permission!"

Natasha starts stammering. There it goes, her usual confidence. Goodbye, self-assurance and pride. You've always had a way of dismantling her like a children's toy.

"She, uh...her name's Irina."

"I told Lottie not to tell you!", Valerie yells from the dining room. You ignore her.

"And you let her come over?"

"It's not like I had a choice!", she says defensively. "She just wanted to pop by. She-"

"Does she know you have kids?"

"Who do you think I am??"

You barely manage to stop yourself from hissing the words that lay on the tip of your tongue. Throwing the fact that she cheated on you back at her would, despite everything, be a little too harsh. Plus, little ears are listening. All of this is bad enough already.

"Natasha, all I need is for you to tell me next time", you say, sounding curt. No room for softness, even if you still feel it between you. "I don't care that you're dating someone. But when it involves our children, that's when it becomes a problem."

She lets out a halfhearted noise. For some reason, she's stuck on you apparently not caring about her dating other people. It shouldn't bother her, but it does. Do you really not care?

She knows she'd care if you started dating. She'd lose her mind.

"Fine", she agrees. "But like I said, I didn't-"

"Well, you still let her kiss you in front of them."

"We were outside! They were probably peeping", Natasha says. "I'll tell her not to do that anymore."

"Yes", you mutter. "Good. Fine."

"Yeah."

You exhale slowly and glance toward the kitchen. Valerie's head is poking out the doorway, her face nervous. You give her a tight-lipped smile.

"Are you fighting?", she whispers.

"No, bub", you sigh. "Listen, Nat, we'll go have dinner now."

"Sure, yeah."

You give a noncommittal hum, then hang up.

You told Natasha you don't care. You told her that it's fine she's dating someone, because it should be. You're the one who rejected her when she tried to patch things up a couple months ago. You're the one who keeps avoiding her. You had every right to do that, and you have every right to keep reminding her of what she did.

It's simple — Natasha cheated. There are no excuses, no explanations, nothing that could justify what she did. She hurt you, which means that she should be in for a lifetime of being hurt by you as well. If only it wasn't for your kids. They're the reason why you try to remain friends with her, which doesn't always work.

The breakup was painful. Looking at her is, as well. Sometimes, you make Yelena pick up the kids or drop them off just so you don't have to see her. But there's secondhand smoke, still affecting you, and thought the support beams are burnt, they're still standing.

Still keeping it all upright.

. . .

Thick smoke curls out of open windows, tinted a dangerous black. Flames dance and flicker behind glass. Sirens blare and neighbors watch.

The fire engine comes to a halt, and Natasha immediately jumps out. The rest of the crew follows, all of them dressed in fireproof gear. Radios crackle and people yell — she's not sure who's yelling, but someone is.

They run toward the house, passing a distressed father who's trying to keep his wife from storming back into the house. Natasha knows what that means, and it only raises the stakes.

"Fire showing second floor, alpha side", the lieutenant yells. "Possible entrapment. Let's go defensive. Romanoff, search and rescue. Barton, fire attack. Rodriguez..."

None of this is new to her. She's seen it all before, and it's as familiar as breathing, but it's still scary. Adrenaline floods her, her heart beats faster. She's thinking on autopilot. Every move is practiced, from the way she breaks down the door to her crawling on the floor.

Smoke rises, after all. She has her BA mask on, but she still needs to stay as close to the ground as possible. It's hot inside, the heat even reaching her through the thick layers of gear she's wearing, and it's pitch-black. Her gloved hand sweeps across the floor, searching for bodies.

"There's a kid upstairs!", the lieutenant yells through the comms. "Up the stairs, first door to the left!"

She feels sweat drip down her lower back as she makes her way up the stairs. She doesn't get far, though — her path is blocked by a roaring fire.

"Fire located", she says, out of breath. "It's blocking the second floor, the kid's trapped. Need a ladder to the bravo side."

"Come outside."

The fire engine has already pulled up to the side of the house when Natasha gets there. She grabs an axe and starts climbing, her heart thudding and her baby hairs sticking to her temples.

In a field like hers, staying professional is important. You can't let your own feelings get in the way. But sometimes, that's impossible. All she can think about are Valerie and Lottie. Unlike this child, they're safe and sound, and somehow that makes everything hit harder.

The cries she hears are unbearable. They're not coming from the kid, no — it's their mom. Standing in the backyard, her husband barely keeping her from running straight into the flames. She doesn't blame her. She'd do the same.

Natasha grabs the axe and swings it. Glass shatters and thick smoke billows out. Fire's licking at the door that leads into the child's bedroom, but thankfully, the room isn't in flames yet.

She climbs in through the window and gets on the ground again, hand sweeping. She knows what kids do in situations like this one. She's a mother, of course she knows. She's also had to do this before.

The boy, maybe four years old, is hiding inside the closet. Tears have dried on his cheeks, but he's not crying anymore. It's hard to cry when you're unconscious. Natasha curses and gently picks him up, then she hurries back to the window.

"Child located", she says, clutching the boy like a little bundle of blankets. "Exiting now. Need a medic."

Getting down the stairs is, ironically, the hardest part. Her legs are shaking, her feet keep slipping, but her grip on the child is tight and secure. The second they're back on solid, safe ground, she drops down. Her eyes are red and teary, sweat is dripping, she feels like she's about to collapse.

Medics surround her and start to treat the kid. She only allows them give her oxygen once he's let out a cough and opened his eyes. The fire has been put out as well, and Barton sinks into the grass next to her. He nudges her side.

"You look beat."

"I am", she says, gulping water from a bottle she was handed. She's taken off her gear and is now sitting there in a soaked tank top and pants. The wind feels soothing against her skin, which is still way too warm from the fire. "Fuck."

"You're shaking."

"Yeah."

"It's hard when there's kids involved, huh?"

She nods, picking at the grass and still chugging water. She doesn't say anything. She can't. She's already close to sobbing. The boy was too close to not making it.

"I need to call the girls", she finally mumbles, running a hand through her damp hair. "Just to check on them."

"They're with Y/N?"

"Yeah." Natasha gets up and wipes her hands on her pants. "I think they're at some puppet show."

"The one that freaked you out?"

"Still getting nightmares. But the kids love it."

He nods, and she walks to the fire engine. Once she's found her phone underneath one of the seats, she sits down and dials your number. It takes seconds for you to pick up.

"Hi, mama!"

It's Lottie. Natasha nearly bursts into tears. But the kids get anxious when she cries, so she blinks a few times and inhales deeply to keep herself under control.

"Hey", she mumbles, rubbing her eyes. "How are you guys?"

"Good! We saw puppets."

"Mhm? The scary ones?"

"They're not scary!"

She hears Lottie chew on something. Popcorn, probably. It's what the girls usually eat at those puppet shows. She also hears you, talking to Valerie and making sure Lottie doesn't run off.

Suddenly, she wishes she could be there with you, puppets be damned. Steal popcorn from the kids, kiss you in the dark, get fast food on the way home. It's not her life anymore, though. And the worst part is that it's her fault.

"So you had fun?", Natasha asks. She's leaning against the wall, legs stretched out. Outside, the crew is slowly returning to the fire engine.

"Yes! I want a puppet."

"You do, huh? I'll get you one for Christmas, how's that sound?"

"Mama, you're silly", she says, giggling. "Santa brings the presents!"

Of course. Even the imaginary bearded man from the North Pole, the guy who sits in malls and wears a fatsuit, outranks her.

"You're right, bub", she agrees. "Hey, how's mommy?"

"Mommy's good", Charlotte says, voice tiny and chipper. The second she says that, she hears you pause in the background. Valerie doesn't say anything, either. "She bought us popcorn."

"Yeah? Did you have lunch before?"

"No."

"That's a lie", you call, sounding muffled. "We had stir fry."

Natasha smiles to herself, but quickly puts on a neutral face when her colleagues enter the vehicle. She turns toward the wall a little, trying to shield the fragile bubble the phone call put her in.

"Mommy makes the best stir fry", she says. Men and women talk, change out of singed gear, intrude without being aware of it. She glances at them, then tries to focus on what her daughter's saying. "What was that, bub?"

"We miss you!"

She swallows and blinks. Her eyes are burning, but this time, it's not from the fire and the smoke. She rubs them to keep the tears at bay. She's surrounded by the crew, after all. They tend to not hold back on the teasing.

When she doesn't respond for a couple seconds, you gently take the phone from Lottie. Your voice cuts through the silence, kids' chatter in the background, and that makes everything worse.

"Hey", you say softly. "You okay?"

"I'm fine", she mutters. "Don't worry."

"You're at work?"

"Mhm." Natasha nods and flicks a blade of grass off her leg. "There was a house fire. It's all good now, though."

"Oh."

Something rustles, then beeps. Natasha recognizes it as the sound of your car being unlocked.

"Going back home?"

"No", you say, struggling to get Lottie into her car seat. "Wait, let me buckle you up- we're going to the library. Vee needs to pick up a book for her oral report."

"What's it on?"

You pause. "It's a surprise."

Natasha lets out a quiet laugh and nods, rubbing her forehead. The crew sits down, and the fire engine starts to drive away and back to the station.

"Well, I can't wait to find out."

"You'll love it. Want the kids to call you around bedtime?"

"Yes, that'd be..." She trails off and nods. "Please."

"Of course. Take care of yourself, yes?"

"You too."

You hang up with a click. Natasha stares at the screen for a moment, then a message from Irina pops up. She turns her phone off and tucks it into the waistband of her pants.

. . .

When you met Natasha, there was one thing you realized immediately. It didn't take long — she'd barely stormed into your apartment, fully dressed in her firefighter gear, and you knew already.

The woman in front of you was a flirt. She was putting out fires, yes, and she looked good doing it, but she was also flirting. Constantly, shamelessly, like it was as much of a routine as putting on her boots before work.

For some reason, you liked it. You were charmed by it. You knew you couldn't be the exception, that she probably flirted with just about every woman she ran into, but you didn't care.

Smoke had filled the kitchen. You were standing to the side, only in slippers and an oversized shirt, and coughed as she extinguished the fire. Her colleague stood to the side, assisting her and trying to get you out the door.

"Too much smoke", he said. "You'll damage your lungs."

"Fine, sorry."

A few minutes later, they both stepped out. Natasha took off her helmet and let her eyes sweep across you, from head to toe.

"You were making dessert?"

"Crème brûlée", you replied, hands tucked behind your back as you leaned against the wall.

She hummed, smirking faintly. There was the tiniest soot-smudge on her jaw.

"I'd advise against keeping cotton towels in the kitchen. They catch fire pretty fast", she informed you. She paused, looking at you again. "Though some things are worth the heat."

Pink color dusted your cheeks. You rolled your eyes and nudged her out the door, but now, there were two things you knew about her. She's a flirt, and she'd flirt with you again. Eventually.

You ended up being right about both. You went to the fire station a couple days later to thank them and drop off cookies (which you managed to bake without setting off another fire alarm).

Natasha was there, too. Smirking, teasing, a black undershirt displaying her casually muscular form. Her hands were calloused in that blue collar-way, her hair in a low bun. She accepted the plate and took a quick bite.

"No fire today?"

"Maybe next week."

Natasha, chewing, tilted her head. "Sounds like you want me to come back for seconds."

You suppressed a smile. The lieutenant was watching, after all.

"Careful", you said. "Don't want you to get in trouble."

"Might be too late for that", she mumbled, letting her eyes rake up and down your body once more.

No oversized shirt and slippers today — instead, you got into a short dress and dolled yourself up a little. Natasha appreciated it as much as she did the domestic little outfit you wore the other day.

Something warm stirred inside her. Before you knew it, you started meeting her for coffee. A quick 'I'm not seeing anyone right now' got tossed into conversations here and there.

You took her home one day, offered to make lunch for her. The third thing you figured out was that she loved fire jokes. She made them constantly, especially when you were handling something hot in the kitchen.

You had lunch together that day. You slid into her lap because she tugged you there, but you stayed because you didn't want to move. You feed her a forkful of food and managed to be the one who dusts her cheeks pink.

It was stir fry. To this day, it's her favorite dish.

Even when the plates were empty, she didn't leave. You sipped on a wine bottle together, talked, kissed once you were tipsy enough to have the courage to.

The night ended with Natasha in your bed and you on top of her. That joke she'd made a couple weeks ago — her being in trouble, thanks to you — turned out to be true. You were straddling her, hands on her shoulders, and she knew was falling way too quickly.

Natasha didn't do this. Not really. She flirted, she had sex, she blocked numbers. She excused all of that with her abysmal work schedule, her 24 hour shifts, the dangers that came with it. How would a relationship fit into her life when she barely managed to keep it together already?

She didn't expect you to come along, though. She didn't expect to fall in love. She did, anyway.

Suddenly, keeping her life together was the easiest thing she ever had to do. Because after every shift, she was able to look at the text messages you sent. She was able to come over, just like that, without having to announce herself. And you'd have a meal ready for her, even if she didn't warn you beforehand.

Natasha proposed a year later. At that point, you were basically living together.

It all felt easy, safe. You got married in a small vineyard (your idea), bought a house (her idea). Not even three years after you got married, you gave birth to your first daughter.

When Natasha gets called to that same apartment that started everything — the crème brûlée, the stir fry, the proposal between bedsheets and rose petals — she feels sick to her stomach. She goes home afterwards, tired and aching all over, and opens the door only to find Irina in the living room.

"Hey", she says. Natasha nods and drops her bag. "Sorry I didn't call. But you said there's an extra key under the doormat, so-"

"Yeah, it's fine." Natasha walks into the kitchen. It matches the rest of her cabin — counters made of walnut wood, complete with granite countertops. Steel appliances, chipped mugs, a protein shrine with powder, bars and beef jerky. She grabs a shaker and scoops powder into it.

Irina joins her. She feels her arms around her stomach.

"Someone rang the doorbell earlier."

Natasha pauses mid-water pour. "When?"

"I don't know. 2 o'clock, maybe?"

She curses and puts the shaker aside, then reaches for her phone. Surely, new messages have popped up.

Y/N: Vee is coming over later, so you can help her with her oral report — 11.42am

Y/N: don't know if you'll be home, a quick answer would be nice you know — 12.05pm

Y/N: you could've told me you wouldn't be home. — 2.38pm

The oral report. One on firefighters, inspired by none other than Natasha herself. She sobbed when Valerie told her over FaceTime a couple days ago.

"Why didn't you answer the door?", Natasha asks, already typing out apology after apology. Send her over, please, my phone was on mute, I completely forgot — and Irina is just standing there, peeking over her shoulder.

"I wasn't sure whether I'm supposed to."

"You weren't supposed to take the key either, yet you did." Natasha bites the inside of her cheek. She left the key under the doormat for Valerie specifically, so she could enter whenever she felt the need to.

That plan didn't work out, though. Why did she have to tell Irina about the stupid key?

Irina leans against the counter, arms crossed. "It was your kid?"

"Yes, it was my daughter." She lets out a frustrated noise. You've received her messages, but aren't looking at them. "She was supposed to come over today."

"You forgot?"

There it is. Natasha puts her phone aside and grabs the shaker, shaking its contents until the protein powder and water have formed a silky, foaming liquid. She takes a sip and walks into the living room.

"I was stressed", she defends herself. "Had a grease fire. It was the apartment where..." She pauses, then shakes her head and sits down. Irina raises her eyebrows.

"Where...?"

"Doesn't matter." Natasha kicks off her boots and leans back. She turns on the tv, zaps through the channels, then turns it back off. Outside, it's getting dark. It's around dinner time, so you probably wouldn't appreciate a phone call right now.

Irina sits down next to her. Her body curls into Natasha's, warm and distracting. If she screwed up everything else, she might at least get some sex out of today.

Delicate fingers trail down her forearm, to the little beaded leather armband around her wrist. Valerie made it for her when she was five, and she only takes it off when she's working.

It's enough to pull her back into reality. Natasha gets up, leaving Irina alone and rejected on the couch.

"I have to call my kids", she says, disappearing into the bedroom and closing the door.

She dials your number. You don't pick up.

On Sunday, Yelena drops off the kids instead of you. Apparently, you don't want to see her right now. Rightfully so, her sister says, and Natasha almost slaps her for it. But you'll get over it, like always.

No. You won't. She won't hear from you for a while, either.

. . .

"Please, mommy."

"No, honey. I'm sorry."

Lottie whines and bounces on the spot. She looks cute in her green dress, with her hair curled and the non toxic nail polish on her fingers. It is a special occasion, after all — it's her grandmother's birthday.

One you won't be going to, because Natasha will be there as well. It's been weeks of nothing. No phone calls, no texts, no dropping off the kids yourself. She's done a bunch of stupid shit in all those years that you've known her, but her forgetting Valerie like that may have taken the cake.

Valerie's not mad at her anymore, not at all. But, again, you're good at holding grudges.

"Mommy", your younger daughter whines. "I don't want to go alone."

"You're not alone." You put her on the table so you can put on the ballet flats you got her. "Your sister is going, too. And mama will be there. It's babushka's birthday."

"Lottie, stop crying", Valerie says. She sits down on the striped rug and puts on her own ballet flats. "There will be cake. You like cake."

"Exactly", you affirm. "You can bring me a slice, hm?"

"No", she says, covering her face with her hands. You get up and kiss her fingers, which are resting right on her forehead. "Don't wanna go."

You sigh, then scoop her up. You can't force her to do anything, but she'll probably change her mind once she sees her grandma, so you carry her to the car. Once everyone's buckled in and ready, you drive.

Melina's house is an hour away, but it takes you almost two thanks to a cranky toddler and her annoyed older sister. You wipe the seat with a wet wipe — Lottie, who got an apple juice pack as a sort of consolation, squished it so hard it exploded. Thanks to some miracle, nothing got on the girls' clothes, but it's all over the middle seat.

You scoop Charlotte out of the car set and dare to set her down. She immediately starts crying and stomping her feet, so you cave and pick her up again. Seems like the terrible two's sometimes last a bit longer.

Valerie is in a much better mood. She sees Melina's backyard — the wide patch of grass, the yellow shed, the huge tree with the tire swing — and immediately starts running. It's a sunny day, the sky's clear and the air smells like shashlik.

"Babushka! [grandma]", she yells, running straight into her grandmother's arms. She's embraced into a tight hug. "S dnem ​​rozhdeniya! [happy birthday]"

"Hello, my darling!" She kisses the top of her head and then pulls away to inspect her outfit. "Ah, red dress. Looks pretty!"

"Thanks!" Valerie smiles brightly. She seems to remember something, so she runs back to your side. "Mom, where's her present?"

"Oh, right here." You turn around and open the trunk of your car. You grab the gift bag, which is almost too heavy, and hand it to Valerie. Off she goes again.

You look at Charlotte, who has her face buried against her neck. You rub her side, try to coax her into looking at you, but to no avail. You've given up already and are walking toward Melina when, suddenly, she lifts her head and perks up.

"Mama!", she screams happily.

You freeze — no way —, then turn around. Yes way. Lottie's right, Natasha showed up. And she's not alone.

You're not too familiar with the blonde who's getting out of the car, but you can easily guess who she is — Irina. Dressed in a tight skirt and a blouse, her lips red and no dark circles under her eyes. Probably childless.

You adjust your hold on Lottie and try not to look too irritated. Melina, on the other hand, isn't trying.

"Who's that?", she asks promptly and straightens up.

Valerie turns around and grimaces slightly. You've raised her to be polite and kind, but in that moment, you can't blame her. You wish you were able to throw your own morals out of the window as well.

"You brought her?", Valerie says. She sounds so disbelieving it's almost funny. Instead, you rub her back with one hand and keep cradling Charlotte with the other.

Natasha looks stressed. She offers a tight-lipped smile as Irina kisses her on the cheek, and seeing that is enough for Lottie to lose the happy attitude again. The girl starts sobbing, because how dare her mom show up with a near-stranger?

"It's okay", you mumble, glancing at your ex-wife again. She lets Irina kiss her on the mouth, then the blonde turns away and waves at everyone in the backyard.

"Bye", she says, already making her way back to the driver's seat. The car engine roars and Irina drives off, thankfully.

Natasha lingers by the gate, and even though you're pissed, you can't help but look at her. She's always had a talent for looking her most irresistible when she absolutely shouldn't. Turnout pants, suspenders hanging off her hips, her beloved black tank top. Not at all birthday-conforming, but it's not like she cares.

Melina walks up to her. If there's one thing you know about your ex-mother in law, is that she's not going to be pleased with her daughter's decision to bring along a stranger. A stranger she wouldn't even introduce, for obvious reasons.

"Chto eto bylo? [what was that]", she asks, grabbing her daughter's shoulder and steering her further into the backyard. Lottie blinks away tears, then reaches her arms out for her mama again.

"Nichto [nothing]", Natasha says, glancing at the girl in your arms. She nods at you. "May I?"

Melina, shaking her head, answers for you. She steps in front of her. "What, 'nothing'? That wasn't nothing! Now don't play innocent. You don't bring stranger to my house, Natasha."

"She's not a stranger."

"She is to us."

Valerie crosses her arms and stares at the ground. Green grass, covered in wildflowers. You run your hand over her head.

"Listen", Natasha says, stepping around her mom to reach you and the girls, "she insisted on driving me. Said I never have enough time for her. I just didn't want it to end in a pointless fight. Hey, bub."

"Hey, mom", Valerie mutters. Natasha cups her face and tilts it up. "Hm?"

"I know I screwed up", she says apologetically, then kisses her forehead. "Your dress is beautiful, dochen'ka. [little daughter]"

"Thanks."

Lottie makes grabby hands, so you set her down. Without so much as even an ounce of hesitation, she tumbles into Natasha's arms. A few kisses, smiles, and she's back to being a mama's girl.

Then, Natasha looks at you. You raise your eyebrows, jaw set. She doesn't say anything.

Neither do you. You turn around and walk to the little porch. You enter Melina's house, which is somehow always cool and smells like tea and herbs. It's empty inside, no one to be seen, so you make your way into the kitchen and lean against the counters.

The fridge in front of you is covered in all kinds of memorabilia and keepsakes. An ultrasound of Valerie, a handprint of Charlotte. Family pictures, held up by little magnets. Another magnet, a souvenir one from Greece — you spent your first vacation as a family of three there.

You rub your eyes and turn around. Borscht is boiling on the stove, a bowl of pelmeni sits next to it. She made appetizers as well, which mostly consist of vegetables like radishes and cucumbers.

You grab one of the dirty bowls in the sink and start scrubbing it. Anything to distract your mind is welcome right now. Soap bubbles pop under your fingers, suds cover your hands. It smells like citrus.

Footsteps appear behind you. Someone leans in, blows warm air against your neck. You shut your eyes — when Natasha apologizes, this is her way of showing it. It's what comes before the words.

"Don't."

"I'm sorry." She nudges your hair aside, then places a kiss on the back of your neck. "I didn't know you'd be here. I wouldn't have let her."

You stand there, frozen, the feeling of her lips lingering hotly on your skin. You dry your hands, then turn around. She's standing so close she's got you caged in against the sink.

"You're going to pretend everything's alright?", you ask, crossing your arms. Natasha sighs. "Listen, you crossed a line. Multiple, actually. So don't act like, like..." You gesture desperately, then let your hand drop against your arm again.

"Like?"

"Like you're still allowed to do this." You swallow, trying your hardest not to look at the fridge again. "You showed up with her."

"She left", she says, putting her hands on your waist. Once a flirt, always a flirt.

"You're with her", you retort. It takes everything in you to push her hands away.

After all this time, they still feel comforting. Safe. They shouldn't be, but they are. She'd still start wars for you, and that may be the worst part. Those wars wouldn't be worth fighting.

"So?", she replies. "You're the mother of my children. Nothing will ever change that. Besides, things aren’t that serious."

"Oh, right." You laugh bitterly and shake your head. "If only that meant something. You cheated, anyway."

Natasha falls silent. Your words hit where it hurts most. She stands there, studying you in that inoffensive way she's got down to a tee. Despite her physique being the peak example of someone who's able to lift tree trunks double her weight off the ground, you've never seen someone resemble a hurt puppy more accurately.

"Nat", you plead.

"No, you're right."

"You know it's true. You've moved on."

"Mommy?"

You both turn your heads. Lottie's in the doorway, her mouth and hands stained red from the wild strawberries Melina always feeds the kids. You reach out your hand and she pads closer to grab it.

"You okay, sweetie?"

"I'm sticky", she says, holding up her other hand.

Natasha hums and scoops her up, then helps her reach the tap. You watch them, silently, your mind running in circles. For a moment, you see what things could've looked like if they'd been different. If everything had worked out.

Once Charlotte's hands are clean and dry, she zooms back outside to play with her cousins. You look at Natasha. She avoids your eyes and instead turns off the stove.

"Melina told me to get the borscht", she mumbles. "Can you help with the bowls?"

"Yeah, sure. Sour cream?"

You open the cupboard and grab every bowl you can find. Blue-rimmed, with little pink roses on them. Natasha hums and looks into the fridge, then pulls out two smetana cups.

It's silent. No one's speaking anymore. All you hear is the quiet clinking of silverware and the hum of the old fridge.

You almost bump into each other when you're leaving the kitchen. Natasha pauses and looks at you, contemplating. You tilt your head.

"You used to bite your lip when you're mad at me", she says. "It was easier when I knew what you're thinking. I miss it."

You falter, so much so that you almost drop the tall stack of bowls you're holding. She's flirting. Probably. Or she's using this to (cruelly) remind you that not only your marriage ended — but also the access you used to have to each other.

You used to be entangled. Without having to talk, you knew what the other was thinking. You remember an instance where she brought home comfort takeout without even knowing you'd been sobbing over Valerie outgrowing a onesie all morning. You remember her building dozens of seemingly useless things — a birdhouse, another bench (but make it kid sized), a whole pergola. She thought that it'd help.

You used to complain. Now, you look at your empty garage and miss the stacks of wood she used to have on hand.

"Yeah", you say, struggling to speak. "I know."

Natasha stops in the middle of the hallway. It's pure instinct for you to do the same.

"I miss you", she adds. You stare at her, desperately holding the bowls. "I think you know that. Just had to tell you."

"I mean..." You trail off. "Yeah. I guess I do."

There's a window at the end of the hallway. Small, insignificant, not even big enough to let much fresh air into the space. But it's slightly ajar anyway, just enough for Valerie to hear your mumbled words.

. . .

"Happy birthday!"

"S dnem ​​rozhdeniya!"

Melina raises her eyebrows, but you can tell she's enjoying the attention. She blows out the candles, eyes closed, then immediately gets up and starts cutting it into slices.

"Wait", Natasha says, grabbing the paper plates. "It's your birthday, for god's sake. Let me help."

Yelena stretches out in her lawn chair and yawns. She arrived an hour late, but she made up for it by bringing a puppy. She thinks she made up for it — in reality, only her and a handful of kids enjoy the hyperactive dog that's now chasing Lottie through the backyard.

She giggles loudly, then trips over nothing and falls into the grass face first. The puppy climbs onto her back and licks her red curls.

"No, no!" She giggles, then lets out a frustrated noise. "Mommy!"

"That's me", you mumble and stand up.

As soon as you've left, Valerie turns to Yelena. She's been carrying this little secret around for way too long now. She's itching to get it out.

"Aunt Lena", she whispers. Yelena raises her eyebrows and leans in.

"Is this a conspiracy?", she whispers back.

"No." Valerie shakes her head. "I heard mommy and mama talk. In the hallway. I think they still love each other."

Yelena freezes, her eyes locked onto the child's. Being Natasha's sister, she's usually the first to find out about stuff. She sometimes handles drop off's, whenever you're not in the mood to look at your ex-wife. But you and Natasha still loving each other? That's news.

"You mean, love-love?"

"Mama said she misses her", she adds. You return to the table, Lottie sitting on your hip, and Valerie puts a finger over her mouth. "Shh."

You sit down, oblivious, and thank Natasha when she hands you a slice of honey cake. Valerie gives Yelena a pointed look. She suppresses a grin and puts her hand over her niece's eyes.

As evening approaches, it gets colder outside. Charlotte falls asleep on your chest, Natasha scoots closer with her lawn chair. She drapes a blanket over you, and Valerie rams her elbow into Yelena's side. The blonde nearly chokes on her water.

"Blyat-"

"The kids", Natasha warns her. Yelena shoots her a glare. "What's your problem?"

Yelena grunts and sinks into her chair. You are my problem, she thinks, bitterly crossing her ankles. You and your ex-wife are. Just figure shit out.

You won't figure it out. Not for a while. But Natasha wraps her arm around your shoulders and you lean into it. Melina and Valerie both watch, one stunned and the other trying to hide the hope that's flaring up in her.

You ignore the others. You look at Natasha, who's warm and familiar despite everything that's happened, and feel her thumb rub circles against your shoulder. She hums, either not aware of what she's doing or overly confident in it.

"It's getting dark", you remark, voice hushed. She nods. "I should get the kids home. It's a one hour drive."

"Let me drive you", she whispers. You hesitate. "You said it yourself. It's dark, you're probably tired. It'll make it easier for you."

Valerie tugs at your hand. She heard every word, despite you trying to be quiet and discreet. You squeeze her hand, but don't look at her.

"I don't know, Nat."

"Come on", she says. "I don't like the idea of you and the kids being on the road this late. Let me drive you."

You hesitate again. But it's completely dark by the time you decide to leave, so you have no choice but to agree. You know you're in good hands with Natasha, so what's the harm in letting her drive you?

Valerie is half-asleep but thrilled. She tugs Natasha to the car and, despite knowing exactly how to do it, makes her buckle her in. You handle Lottie, who almost wakes up. Through some kind of miracle, she stays asleep.

You get into the passenger seat and wave at Melina and Yelena. The puppy in her arms yaps and tries to break free from her arms, but he doesn't succeed. The car drives off, and suddenly, it's just you and your sleepy kids in the back.

If you didn't know any better, you'd think it's always been like this. You, Natasha, the girls. Valerie watching like a hawk, despite her eyes being sleep-heavy. Music low and windows down just enough to let in some night air. A stuffed tiger in the middle seat, dangling from Lottie's limp hand.

There's no need for words, but there also isn't space for it. Anything you'd possibly talk about is not fit for Valerie's ears. She's still awake, so you need to be careful.

You glance at the time, which is displayed on a little screen. 9.21pm. Way past her bedtime.

"Honey", you say, looking at your daughter through the rear view mirror, "don't you want to sleep a little? Rest your eyes? It's a long drive."

"No", she says, shaking her head. "I'm not tired, mom."

"Your mom's right", Natasha says. "Take a little nap, hm?"

"No", she says stubbornly. She squeezes the hem of her dress. "I like it when it's the four of us. I don't want to sleep now."

You and Natasha glance at each other. It's quick, silent, but it's everything you need in that moment. She'd reach over and hold your hand, but again, there's a little hawk sitting in the back.

"Yeah", she says, voice softer. "I like it, too."

You don't know what to say. You can't afford to start missing this life that you never got to have, so you turn your head away from her. The fields and houses outside the window pass by in a blur.

. . .

Each of you balances a sleeping kid into the house.

Halfway through the drive, Valerie fell asleep as well. Neither of them woke up, even when Natasha pulled your car into the driveway, so you now have to deal with the unnecessarily difficult task of relocating children without waking them.

You slowly make your way up the stairs, Natasha following close behind. Lottie's limp in your arms, her mouth slightly agape. Asleep like this, you see the features she got from Natasha. You exhale and focus on not accidentally falling down the steps.

You carry Charlotte into her bedroom and tuck her in. Bedsheets with a zoo animal pattern, her little tiger plushie still clutched in her hand. You kiss her forehead, adjust the nightlight next to her, then walk out the room and leave the door ajar.

Natasha and you step into the hallway at the same time. You look at her, then quickly turn to go back downstairs. You're hoping she'll follow. That she won't stay upstairs, where it's way too close to your bedroom.

You're not sure what you'd do if she asked. If you'd say yes, if you'd allow yourself to bask in a fantasy that can only end in being hurt all over again. A fantasy, doomed to end eventually.

Thankfully, you hear her footsteps behind you. You walk into the kitchen and grab a glass of water. Natasha leans against the counter.

"They didn't wake up."

"No", you say, taking a sip. "They usually do."

"Yeah." She nods. "I know."

It's awkward, because you're both forcing yourselves to talk about something you don't want to talk about. But it's the safer option — always has been — so it's what you're going for.

You clear your throat and put the glass aside. Natasha watches you, contemplating, her arms crossed. Eyes meet, heads tilt, and she smiles faintly.

"Tired?"

"I'm fine", you say, pushing off the counter and walking into the living room. Natasha hesitates, then follows. "Didn't get much done today. Sorry about the mess."

"I found a bagel in my bookshelf last week", she says, helping you gather a couple toys and throw them into a laundry basket. "This is nothing."

You both reach for a baby doll. Your hands knock together. It's nothing but a brief touch, but you falter and look at her. You're crouched on the floor, so close you could kiss if only you leaned in a little.

You don't know if you should. Irina is lingering at the back of your mind, with that stupid skirt and the flawless, well rested-looking face. But Natasha's staring back at you, unmoving, and her eyes flicker to your lips.

That's when you quickly straighten up and grab the laundry basket. You hold it in front of you like a shield.

"It's late", you say, shifting awkwardly. "I'll call you a taxi, if you want. I don't know if there are any buses this late."

The disappointment is etched into her face, but so is a subtle sense of relief. Natasha is sure that her and Irina aren't that serious yet. There are no real labels (though, she did hear Irina refer to her as 'her girlfriend' before), and she doesn't want to put a label on it.

However, she cheated once already. She can't do it again, at least not if there's nothing more attached to it. Unless it promises her the future she thinks she's lost, she won't do it.

"Taxi's fine", she says, tucking her hands into the pockets of her pants. "You'll drop off the kids tomorrow?"

"Yeah." You nod, then remember something. Good thing you didn't forget thanks to the almost-kiss. "They're going to their cousin's birthday party next Saturday, if that's alright with you. It's a sleepover. I'll text you the address?"

"No, no." Natasha shakes her head. "Gracie, right? We've been there before."

"Mhm." You hum and lead her to the front door. "I got her a gift, all you'll have to do is make sure the girls bring it."

"Will do, captain."

You smile and lean against the doorway. The door is open, Natasha is standing on the porch. The wind is making loose strands of her hair flutter. Green eyes twinkle in the porch light, and a calloused hand squeezes your arm.

You recall hundreds of moments just like this one — late at night, Natasha coming home from a shift or leaving for one. Handing her a lunchbox, kissing her goodbye; or getting a 'I'm home'-kiss. Kisses that stopped, eventually. Nobody warned you that you'd have to go without them one day.

It's hard, not leaning in and trying to revive that little habit you had. Natasha has to keep herself from stepping over the threshold again. It wouldn't be fair, not to you or Irina. But there's a part of her that doesn't care whether it's fair to the blonde who can't be bothered to learn her daughters' names.

She doesn't know whether you'd want that kiss, so she finds a compromise. Her lips press against your cheek, quick and soft, and she pulls away. Your face burns up, you almost reach out, but she's already making her way to the gate.

"Taxi", you call, dumbfounded.

"I got it", she calls back. "Go inside. It's cold out."

"You don't have a jacket!"

Natasha taps her index finger against her lips, then she smirks and steps out of the front yard. She closes the gate, pulls out her phone, and gone she is.

You linger for two minutes. Pretending this is just another night — you waiting on the porch, dinner warming up on the stove, Natasha returning from a late shift — is the stupidest thing you could do in that moment, but you do it anyway.

The wind chime above you tinkles, and you look up. Another apology, back when she forgot to do something mundane. You stare at the shapes, all of them custom and dedicated to each member of what was once her family. A psi for you, a soccer ball for Valerie, a tiger for Charlotte. Natasha's, a fire helmet, dangles just a bit lower.

Despite everything, this is her family.

. . .

It's Natasha's idea that you go pick up the girls together. At first, you hesitate; it's not just that you'll be alone with her for a longer drive, but because this Sunday is hers. It's her time with the kids.

Your sister, however, texts you that Lottie's been whining and asking for you all morning. To help Natasha avoid having to deal with a cranky toddler, you agree.

She pulls up twenty minutes late. You're waiting by the front door already, dressed in a white shirt and short denim dungarees. Sunglasses are perched atop your head, and you immediately look up from your phone when you hear her.

"You're late!", you call, making a beeline for her pickup truck.

"Sorry", she says, leaning over the open the passenger door for you. "Look at you, all dolled up."

"Look at you, not even changing out of your pajamas."

Natasha grins. She's not too offended — she knows she looks anything but put-together, wearing shorts and an undershirt.

"It's warm out. Can't blame me."

You hum, agreeing, and sink into the seat. "A/C works again?"

"Fixed it last week", she says absently, turning down the volume of the radio a little. "Lottie helped me. She grabbed a wrench and added a nice dent to the door panel in the back."

You grimace apologetically. A song comes on, one you both can't stand as it brings back memories of alcohol, a party at the fire station, and vomiting into shrubs. When she kissed you on the hood of her truck and thought she could impress you with vodka shots. When she got drunk and told you she could see this being forever.

You reach out to change the station, then you stop in your tracks.

What you noticed is not worth mentioning, really. It should mean nothing. In that moment, it feels like a little stab.

"Don't like the 'new car' smell anymore?"

"What?" Natasha glances at the air freshener. "Oh, that. No, just thought I'd try this one."

"What was wrong with the other one?", you ask, sounding snippy.

For as long as you've known her, she used the 'new car' air freshener. Always. Whenever you'd stop at a gas station to buy a new one, she'd get that one. Obviously, it shouldn't be that important. For some reason, it is.

"Nothing's wrong with it", she says, glancing at you. "What's the issue?"

"Thought you'd at least be loyal to a fucking scent."

Natasha stammers. She glances at you from the corner of her eye a few times, her hand nervously tightening around the steering wheel. She's dumbfounded. She expected you to say a lot of things, but not that.

"It's- it's just a scent", she says weakly. "It doesn't have some deeper meaning."

"You're sure?", you hiss.

"Yes, I'm sure! God, you're going all therapist-mode again!"

You raise your eyebrows at her, and she winces slightly. That was the wrong thing to say. She regrets even thinking those words now.

"This has nothing to do with that! Ask any sane person, suddenly switching scents after years of having a favorite is not normal!"

"It's just a scent."

"It's not!"

"It is", she insists, suddenly grabbing the air freshener. You shut up and watch her tear it off, then she tosses it out the window.

Just like that, it's gone. You don't even hear it hit the ground. You stare at her, then shake your head and slump into the seat again. You hear her exhale, quietly but filled with so much frustration you swear she's about to have an aneurysm.

You cross your arms and shift in your seat. Natasha doesn't say anything. She keeps driving, the car passing by a gas station and some convenience store.

"That's not good for the environment, you know", you mutter, stubbornly refusing to look at her.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Y/N!"

"You saw that documentary!"

Natasha rolls her eyes, but doesn't reply. Of course she saw the documentary. You randomly sent it to her one morning, with a text attached to it — use metal straws. That was it. Nothing else.

She watched the documentary, of course. And of course she bought those stupid metal straws you told her about.

The silence lingers, heavy like the clouds hanging in the sky. They're dark and thick, and before you can even think about the incoming weather situation, it begins to rain.

Raindrops patter against the windshield and roof, constant and rhythmic and loud. You hope it won't be that bad — just a couple raindrops. A drizzle, maybe. Nothing so bad that it'll affect you.

It's not just a light drizzle, no. It starts bucketing down on you, rain pouring and the sky darkening. It begins thundering in the distance, then lightning strikes. Despite the air conditioning being on, you feel the air in the car get chillier.

"We'll be fine", Natasha mumbles when you glance at her. "Just a storm. I've driven during worse conditions."

It gets worse. On top of rain and thunder and lightning, the car makes a whining noise when it accelerates. The radio flickers, the headlights weaken, and you give her another worried glance.

"That's nothing", she says, but you don't miss the slight frown on her face.

"Nat, we're already running late!"

The car wheezes pathetically, then it slows down. Natasha curses and hits the steering wheel a couple times, but it's no use. It breaks down in the middle of the road, and she just barely manages to pull over.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Wait", she says, stressed, and gets out of the truck.

Within seconds of being outside in the rain, her clothes get soaked. She ignores the uncomfortable feeling of wet fabric sticking to her skin and pops open the hood. You stay where you are. She can get wet all she wants, but you're not moving. No way.

Something clatters, then you hear her curse. She stomps back to the driver's side and gets in.

"So?", you ask impatiently.

"The alternator's dead", she mutters, reaching for her phone. "I'll have to call AAA."

You stare at her, then exhale slowly. No need to start a fight — but your blood is boiling. All it took was one air refresher, and your day is ruined. Pair that with a storm and a truck that's broken down in the middle of the road, and it can't end well for Natasha.

"The kids are waiting!"

"And the truck broke down", she replies, pressing a button and holding the phone to her ear.

When she's done talking, she lowers it. The silence tells you everything you need to know. It'll be a long wait, possibly around an hour. That was the case a couple years ago, when you were on your way to your parents' place for the holidays.

"Idiot!", you hiss. "Did you know about this?"

"Well, it was acting up last week", she says, rubbing her face. "I thought I tightened the belt enough. It should've held."

"You thought? Nat, we're stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere! The kids are waiting!"

"I know that!"

"No, you don't!", you snap. Tears shoot into your eyes, and you're not fully sure why. "You can't do this anymore, Natasha! You can't pretend everything's alright and then be surprised when it all goes up in flames! Actually take care of shit for once! Be responsible!"

"I'm trying!", she retorts. She's a mess — water is dripping from her hair, her clothes are drenched (as is the car seat), and she's panicking. Another fight. Everything's been going somewhat well, and now you're about to get into another fight. "You think I wanted this to happen?"

This wasn't supposed to happen. Those are the words Natasha said on the phone three years ago, right before she told you she'd slept with Wendy. It's funny, how the human brain pushes some information aside and yet retains things you'd love to be able to forget.

You didn't forget, though. You stare at her, teary-eyed and furious, then open the car door and jump out. Natasha stares at you as you leave, the raindrops heavy on your skin. It takes her a second to register what's going on.

"Shit! Y/N, wait!" She accidentally hits her hand trying to open the door, then she storms out. "Wait, please!"

"Fuck you!"

"Y/N", she pleads. She's a firefighter, and she's faster. She reaches you within a matter of seconds. "Please."

You whip around. Loose strands of hair are sticking to your cheeks, and your eyes are red. She can't see the tears due to the rain, but she can't tell you're crying.

"Why'd you cheat?"

She blinks, her heart sinking. She never figured the 'why' out, either. There was never a reason, or an explanation, for what she did. It was cowardice, and idiocy, and selfishness all poured into what'd end up being the worst mistake of her life.

"Tell me!", you sob. "Come on! Don't just stand there!"

"Because I was an idiot", she says, finally able to speak again. She steps closer. "Because...I..."

You shake your head. The rain keeps pouring, and it thunders again. It's a furious sound, sizzling and crashing, and it sends lightning zipping across the sky.

"You don't even have an answer", you say. "Was it worth it? Destroying everything and not even knowing why?"

"It was a mistake, Y/N", she says, her voice breaking. "I told you."

"No." You laugh bitterly. "I hate that word. It wasn't a mistake. It was a choice. You chose to do it."

Natasha doesn't say anything because it's true. You're right, unfortunately, and it's painful to admit. Spilling juice, losing a key, forgetting about an appointment — those are all mistakes. They're forgivable, human. But cheating is not.

"I regret it every fucking day", she says quietly. Another step closer. "I miss you constantly. I don't just miss our family, but I miss you. I married you for a reason, Y/N. That day you almost burnt down your apartment for crème brûlée? I mark that date in my calendar every year, and I buy crème brûlée because god knows I'd end up burning down my kitchen as well, but I buy it because it's the reason why I got to marry you."

The crème brûlée. What started as a poor attempt at making a French dessert ended in you meeting and marrying this woman in front of you. Rain-soaked, stupid, but you love every tiny part about her. Even the ones that ended up hurting you.

Believing someone who cheated, however, is hard. Love doesn't change that.

"Bullshit", you whisper.

"It's not bullshit", she pleads. "I've loved you for over 12 years, and that's not something that's going to change. I love you."

"Natasha." You let out a soft sob. "You slept with someone else. That's final. Do you know how much it hurt me? It still hurts. Every day. God, Vee and Lottie both look like you, and sometimes it hurts to look at them!"

Natasha swallows. Tears fill her eyes, but she blinks them away. Emotionally avoidant — that's how you once described her as to Valerie. In hindsight, you shouldn't have. But you were tired and sick of her, and in that moment, you needed someone to vent to. Though there are certainly better options for that than your child.

That doesn't change the fact that you were right, though. Your ex-wife was never good at communicating. She doesn't like to show her feelings. Even now, tears are something she needs to suppress.

"I know", she mumbles. The storm is so loud you can barely hear her. "I'm sorry."

"I love you too", you say. Your voice shakes. "I don't think I can change that."

She blinks and nods. You shiver pitifully, and Natasha reaches out. You want to back away, but then her hands touch your arms, and you're pulled in. She feels warm against you despite the cold rain, and she feels solid.

Way too much of you relies on the woman who's holding you. Despite the divorce, and the fights, you can't imagine existing without her at this point. It's your biggest weakness.

You look up, jaw set. You shiver again. She smiles, eyes glassy with tears, and you tip your head back a little. She's taller than you, and what you're doing is instinct. It makes it easier for her to kiss you.

It's been years, and yet, the feeling of her lips moving against yours is as familiar as breathing. You get on your tiptoes and cup her face to keep her close. Bodies pressed together, you nod your head and deepen the kiss.

She tastes like tears and rain and that gum she always buys. Her hands run down your sides, squeezing and roaming, and she keeps pulling you closer like you aren't already intertwined.

You wrap your arms around her neck. Natasha hums quietly, her hands on your thighs, then hoists you up. You pull away.

"What are you doing?", you ask, out of breath. She's already walking back to the truck.

"You're shivering", she says. "I got a blanket in the back."

"Oh."

With the door open, you slide into the backseat. You tug Natasha in with you, and she doesn't resist. As soon as she's sitting, you're swinging one leg over her lap. She feels a twitch inside her shorts, a familiar one, and shifts.

"It's fine", you mumble, pressing your lips to her jaw. She exhales quietly. "I know what I'm doing."

"You're sure? We haven't..." She trails off. You close your eyes.

You haven't slept together in over three years now. Not long before you got pregnant with Lottie, sex turned rare and lost what it once overflowed with. It was hollow and lacked passion. But if you try hard enough, maybe you'll be able to pretend that never happened. That sex is still the same as it was. That you still know each other's bodies by heart.

Even if it's just to distract yourself for a short while.

"If you don't want to, we don't have to. Obviously."

"No, that's not..." Natasha laughs nervously. "I'm not going to last long, love."

"That's what you're worried about?"

She shakes her head, then kisses you. Her hands move upwards, undo the straps of your dungarees, take them off. You feel the bulge in her shorts, straining against the fabric, and help her out of it.

You straddle her again and sink down onto her. Neither of you are worried about using protection in this moment. You're too fixated on the feeling of her inside of you.

The rain keeps pattering against the windows, which are now fogging up on the inside. Her hands are holding onto your waist like it's a lifeline. The backseats creak softly, you grip the backrest, and everything around you stops mattering.

She lets out a quiet curse when you clench around her. You bury your face in her neck and smell rain and cologne.

"I mean it. I love you."

"I know", you moan. Her hips thrust off the seat.

"I want to fix this. I want to fix us."

You hum vaguely, but it shifts into a soft whine. "You're really picking your moment here, Nat."

"Sorry", she gasps. Her forehead is presses against your shoulder. "But I mean it."

"I know", you repeat, nodding and biting back moans. A shiver rolls up your spine, and heat pools in your lower belly. "Just...wait a minute."

"Right."

Her hips roll up against yours, and the orgasm washes over you like the rain earlier. You shudder and slump into her. She kisses your neck and you feel something warm drip down your thighs.

The windows are fully fogged up by now. It smells like sex and rain, and you close your eyes to soak it in. Her heart beats against yours, steady and rapid, and you feel like you got tossed back into the past.

. . .

The girls ask no questions when you pick them up, but you've never seen Valerie look this excited.

She jumps into the car, clutching her duffel bag like an oversized teddy, and gives you a toothy grin. It should relieve you that she's happy about this — in reality, it freaks you out.

There were no promises made. Nothing's certain. For all you know, you're playing house instead of trying to become an actual family again.

Thankfully, Lottie distracts all of you. She's cranky from a sleepless night, so she's fussing and complaining about everything. The fruit pouch you hand her is squeezed to death like that apple juice pack a couple weeks ago, and her stuffed tiger ends up flying through the truck and hitting Natasha in the head.

To try and bribe her into calming down a little, you grab ice cream at a fast food drive in. It offers you three minutes of peace, then it's smushed against the window. More tears come, little feet kick against the seat, and Natasha and you decide going home is probably your safest bet.

Natasha parks her truck in front of your house. You unbuckle, then give her a hesitant look. Just sex — except it wasn't. Not when there's so much history tied to it. It's tied to everything you do.

"I'll help you", she finally offers. You exhale, thankful she broke the silence. "I just gotta wipe the window."

"Sure. I'll get the kids."

You get out of the truck and gather the girls. One in your arm, the other holding your hand, and go inside. Natasha follows minutes later and drops off their duffel bags.

The moment she steps over the threshold, you silently agree on something neither of you says out loud. She doesn't consider leaving, and you don't consider asking her to. Instead, you move around in the house like this is how it's supposed to be.

(And maybe it is.)

Lottie doesn't question it. She inhales the grilled cheese Natasha makes for everyone, then drags her upstairs for nap time. Valerie stays seated at the kitchen table, legs dangling. As soon as she's alone with you, she leans in.

"Have you made up?"

You frown and put the knife aside, then dry your hands. "What? Nonsense. We weren't fighting, honey."

"You're lying", she says. She grabs the plate of apple slices you hand her and eats one. "You were. You always fight. Is mama moving in again?"

You stare at her, but she doesn't flinch. You doubt she isn't aware of the weight of what she just asked; she's been perceptive of her surroundings ever since she was a toddler. She's certainly acting like she has no clue, though.

"You're too observant", you finally say. You stand behind her and start fixing her hair. "Don't worry about me and mama, alright? You should read that book for your English class instead, bub. These are grown people-problems."

"But mom-"

"No", you reply. You use the hair tie around your wrist to put her hair into a ponytail. "I promise I'm trying my best here, alright? And so is mama. But there are some things that are just hard to deal with."

"I could help", she offers, getting up from her chair. "Please."

You furrow your eyebrows at her. Footsteps on the staircase make you pause, and you both peek into the hallway to see Natasha return. She looks at you.

"Lottie's asleep", she says. "Anyone want to watch a movie?"

Apparently, trying to distract Valerie from anything only works if you're Natasha. Even if just for tonight, she lets go of the topic. Instead, she curls up between you on the couch and stares at the tv screen like it's offering her the entertainment of a lifetime.

An hour later, Lottie joins. You finish watching the movie and put on some cartoon. You make dinner — stir fry; Natasha wants to both kiss you and sob her eyes out —, and then go outside. The rain has stopped a while ago, but the slide is still slippery, so Lottie almost zooms into the shrubs.

When it's bedtime, you get the kids ready together. You tuck them in, kiss foreheads, turn on nightlights and search for specific stuffies. Once everyone is happy, you meet in the hallway and go downstairs.

Again, there's not much talking involved. You don't have to say it out loud to agree on it. You get the couch ready like it's second nature — pillows, blankets, a change of clothes — and linger by the door when she sits down.

"Just for tonight, right?", she says, slowly unfolding the blanket. You shrug.

"I'm not going to answer that."

Natasha shoots you a faint smile, then sits down. "This is like that night where you kicked me out of bed."

"It's not the same at all", you argue. "Get some sleep, alright?"

She looks up and hums quietly. Join me — she doesn't say those words out loud, but she certainly thinks them. You, however, turn around and head up the stairs. Something rustles in the living room.

You're not ready to commit, or to pretend nothing ever happened. You can't go back to normal. But you can't bring yourself to let her go, either. All you can do is survive the moment and pray you don't fall apart in the morning.

By the time the sun comes up, three warm bodies will have joined Natasha on the couch.

2am. Valerie wakes up, thirsty, so she pads into the kitchen and fills up her water bottle. When she walks past the living room, she stops. Her mom's on the couch, asleep and snoring. She hasn't slept here in forever. Valerie hesitates, then curls up next to her.

4am. Charlotte wakes up. She carefully makes her way down the steps, her hand gripping the metal rods of the railing. She sees that the couch isn't empty and sleepily climbs on top of Natasha. She's knocked out within seconds.

5am. Something rips you from your sleep, so you get up and go downstairs to get started on breakfast. But you see all three of them on the couch — Natasha, on her back; Lottie, on top of her; Valerie, tucked between her side and the backrest of the couch. You pause and blink, eyes still heavy with sleep.

Walking up to them is not an active decision, and neither is laying down next to the woman who was once your wife. At least that's what you tell yourself, because it's been years since you were able to fall asleep this quickly.

When Natasha wakes up, all three of her girls have joined her on the couch.

You stir as well. As soon as you register where you are and what happened, you freeze.

Last night wasn't a dream. You didn't make it up. You were stupid enough to have sex with her, take her home, let her sleep over. Now, you're all entangled on the couch, and you have to deal with the aftermath.

The domestic peace you feel is the same thing you felt years ago. Back when everything was safe, when you trusted it. You were naive. You now know what it's like to have that feeling be taken from you, and having it taken away a second time will only hurt more.

Lottie and Valerie wake up at the same time, and you scramble up and excuse yourself. As soon as you've closed the bathroom door behind you, you sit down on the closed toilet lid. You feel the tears well up and roll down your cheeks. You cry quietly, hand over your mouth to stifle any possible noise.

Then, it knocks. You freeze and don't reply.

"Y/N?" That's Natasha's voice, soft and cautious. "You alright?"

"I'm good", you lie, ripping off some toilet paper to wipe your face. "Something happen?"

"Valerie's going to be late for school. It's almost 8am, which means she needs to be there in five minutes. I'm not good at maths, but I feel like that's kinda hard to do."

"Get her dressed", you say, getting up. You open the door and Natasha falters. "Grab a few snacks, she can eat those in the car."

"Are you-"

"Give her some lunch money too", you cut her off. You walk past her and scoop up Lottie, who's about to fall asleep again on the floor. "I'll pick her up later."

Natasha stays rooted in place. She looks helpless and confused; a little regretful too, maybe. You're gone already, having disappeared upstairs with a sleepy Charlotte in your arms.

She wants to follow you and apologize. She wants to talk about this. But Valerie runs to the front door, dressed and ready to leave, and she has no choice but to go.

. . .

Three days later, you find a jewelry box on your porch.

It just appeared there. No warning, no note, no quick text from the woman who made it for you. Another apology, disguised in wood and nails and painted white. You pick it up, flip it, inspect every inch of it.

Then, you open the lid. Between the little cushions she put in one of the compartments is a ring.

You know which one. It's the one she proposed with over a decade ago. It's the same width, the same diamond cut, the same design. It glistens in the sun, and you slam the box shut.

"What's that?", the woman behind you asks. You turn around and see Maria leaning against the doorframe. "Oh no. Don't tell me..."

"Yeah."

"She still does that?"

You gesture at the shoe rack next to the front door. "This thing's from, like, half a year ago."

Maria snorts into her coffee cup. She steps closer. Without even glancing at you, she pops open the jewelry box and pauses. "Dear god. Has she lost it?"

You give her a tired look. Maria is a firefighter as well. She works alongside Natasha, and she knows her almost as good as she knows you. She's also aware of Natasha's inability to communicate with words instead of DIY home projects.

"Guess", you mumble, shutting the box again.

"Is this her way of proposing?", she asks, following you inside. "I thought she'd be able to do at least that without a prop."

"What?" You stop in your tracks and whip around. Maria, startled, bumps into you and spills coffee. "Shit- are you insane? Why would you ask that?"

She rolls her eyes and puts the cup aside, then tugs at her shirt. It's stained with lukewarm coffee, and the fabric is sticking to her skin.

"Gee, I don't know. The engagement ring she gave you, maybe?"

You give her a stunned stare. "That's not- no. That's not what this is. I mean, that'd be..."

"Crazy? Insane? Completely bananas?" She shrugs and walks into the kitchen to grab a towel. You follow her. "Amen, sister. But it's kinda what it looks like."

You put your hand against your head and lean against the wall. Maria dabs at the stain and sighs.

"She's not proposing", you say. You're not sure if you genuinely believe that or whether you're trying to make yourself believe it. "I mean, she's with Irina."

"No, she isn't."

Your hand drops to your side. You wait for Maria to continue and explain — she can't just drop a bomb like this one and then not elaborate, after all. But she just frowns and rubs at the persistent stain on her shirt.

"What do you mean, she isn't?"

Maria looks up. She shrugs. "She had sex with you, didn't she?"

"Yeah, well." You laugh bitterly. "She also had sex with Wendy when we were married, so there's that."

"Yes, sure, but-" She sighs and takes off her shirt, then waltzes straight into the laundry room. You're tired of her constant back-and-forth, but you follow her anyway. "But she's changed. I think. And I heard her dump someone in the bunk room. She was on the phone, it got pretty ugly."

You stop in the doorway. Maria grabs a stain remover and dabs it on her shirt, then she puts it aside. You barely register any of it.

Apparently, Natasha's made a choice. She's sabotaging (sabotaged?) her relationship because of you. It's desperation in real time, and it's quiet, and messy. But she's picking you.

And you? You're not sure if you want to be picked. Maybe not being the first choice would be better for you this time. You still can't help the fluttering feeling in your stomach. You press your hand against your lower belly.

You're confused, you're scared, but you're also tempted. Part of you wants to believe in her, and in this love that still exists between you.

"She didn't tell me", you say dumbly.

"Of course not." Maria glances at you. "Why would she? She's terrified. She's fucked up before, and she's smart enough to know she's not immune to doing it again."

"Yes, but...she didn't tell me. She didn't...I mean..."

"Breathe, honey." She gently leads you back out into the hallway. "I mean, you should probably confront her, right? Don't be too nice, either. Make her suffer."

"Maria."

"I mean it."

You give her a deadpan look. She's one of the few who know why you and Natasha got divorced, and she's been a hater ever since. She used to be friends with your ex-wife, now she barely tolerates her. Seeing them in a room together is pretty funny, but you don't need her to act like this all the time.

She smiles and shrugs on her hoodie. "She deserves it."

"Yes, but she's Natasha."

"And this is why people fuck you over."

"Alright, time for you to leave."

She laughs and walks out the door. You stay on the porch, leaning against the railing, and watch her get into her car. She winks at you.

"I think she's off-duty today", she calls.

"No."

Maria nods and starts her car. "Yes. Absolutely", she says. "I mean it."

You groan. She sounds the horn, then drives off. You're left on the porch, alone, with a ring in a box waiting inside the house for you.

There's about a hundred things you'd rather do. Vacuum the house, mow the lawn, reschedule that appointment at the optometrist you won't be able to go to. In the end, you sit down in your car and drive to the other end of town.

Straight to Natasha's cabin.

. . .

Her cabin isn't unfamiliar. Not entirely.

You've been there countless times to drop the girls off, or to grab a toy one of them forgot. You know what it looks like — the dark wood, the gray trim, the metal roof. A huge backyard, half grass and half dirt patch, and a covered porch with a worn couch. Tools everywhere, even on the staircase.

You stay in the car for a long moment, then you get out and walk up to the porch. You don't knock, don't ring the doorbell. Instead, you lift the corner of the doormat and snatch the spare key Natasha apparently forgot there.

The door creaks open, and you're hit with a smell of pinewood and cologne. Sawdust and coffee are tangled into the scent, and you exhale softly as you step in. Now it's unfamiliar.

You inspect the coat rack, weighed down by jackets and fire gear and a diaper bag. You glance at the pairs of shoes scattered around underneath it. You peek into the kitchen and spot the protein powders and beef jerky on the shelf there.

Silently, you wonder whether her breakfasts are still as ridiculous as they were when you still lived together. She used to wolf down 5 to 6 eggs every morning, and sometimes followed up with waffles and leftover steak.

You shake your head and walk further into the house. It's comfy, you have to admit. Lived-in, too. You pick up a little sock with rainbows on it and put it on the coffee table, then you keep going.

A small staircase leads you into the walkout basement. You hear the sound of someone scrubbing something, so you keep going. You push open another door and freeze.

Natasha, on the floor, crouched next to a dresser. Sanding paper in hand, she's sanding the side. As soon as the door has swung open, though, she stops.

All you can do is stare at each other. Her hair, slowly coming loose from a low bun. The grey hoodie she's wearing, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her eyes, still looking up at you in that way that never stopped making you weak.

"You let yourself in?", she asks, her voice cracking.

"Why'd you give me the ring?"

She pauses. She slowly puts the sanding paper aside, then she wipes her hands on her sweatpants before getting up. You swallow, the jewelry box firmly clutched in your hands.

This is what you wanted. An answer. Watching her squirm, hesitate. Letting her feel what it's like to drown for a moment. You didn't come up for air for much longer, after all. Grief, motherhood, betrayal — crushing your lungs and pulling you under the surface. It's her turn.

"I don't know", she then says. You shake your head, but she lifts her hand. Her expression is pleading. "I wanted you to know I still had it. I didn't know how else to...you know."

"No", you say, both sharply and weakly. "I don't know. You think you can just drop this off and fix it all? I've told you that you building shit doesn't repair anything, Natasha."

"Yeah", she mumbles.

"And neither does this ring. I don't want it. Not like this."

She nods and steps closer. You willingly hand her the box when she reaches for it, and you watch her open it and pull out the ring. It gives you flashbacks to that night in your bed, when she was lying on her side with the ring between her fingers. She'd dumped rose petals all over the room, bed included.

It was right after sex when she revealed the ring. You were both flushed and out of breath. Back then, you swore you'd never be able to fall in love like this again. As of right now, you were correct.

"I'm not proposing", she says. She keeps the ring in her fist, careful to not drop it. "Honestly? I don't know what I'm doing. I haven't known for a while. But I need to fix this, Y/N. I need to fix us."

You shake your head. "No, Nat. You-"

"Wait", she begs. "I keep thinking about it. About the way you looked at me that night. Like I was the best thing you'd ever seen. And-"

"Natasha-"

"And I want to be that again", she finishes. You rub your eyes. "I'm not supposed to burn stuff down, you know. My job is to put fires out. But I burnt us down. And now it's my job to undo the damage."

"This is not the same as burning down a house", you say. "I'd prefer that, honestly. We'd just build a new one. But you can't do that with a marriage."

Natasha's running out of moves. She's sitting in this grief, letting it encompass her. It's like a heavy weight, one she hasn't been able to shake in three years. But she needs to keep trying, even if it costs her what little dignity she has left.

She steps closer, again. You stay rooted in place, which is both relieving and saddening. Not that long ago, she couldn't have imagined that she'd ever fear you not wanting her close. But you're still here, still in front of her, and she's not only running out of moves — she's running out of time as well.

Her eyes search yours. You avert your gaze when it becomes too much.

"Please", she says. "Just tell me what to do."

"I don't know", you say, looking at her again. Sawdust on her hoodie, her eyes filled with quiet desperation. "I can't do this if you're not sure. And even then, I..."

"No. Don't."

"Can it even work?"

"Yes. It can."

You chew on your lip and glance at the floor. More sawdust. A hammer. A stack of sanding paper in various grits. A bottle of water, and a shaker filled with some protein shake.

"You cheated", you say slowly. You're hyper aware that you're starting to sound like a broken record, but you can't help it. Natasha winces. "You slept with someone else. How do you make anything work after doing that?"

Unfortunately, she has no idea. Love and relationships don't come with usage manuals or instructions. You can either try to figure it out yourself or wing everything and pray it'll be okay.

She did try. Then, she screwed up. She struck the match, burnt it down, and now, you're standing between ambers and ash. You're breathing in the smoke in a desperate attempt to clean the air, but there's only two of you, and without opening a window, you'll die before you succeed.

There's only one solution left. Tear down the walls and let the smoke escape before it suffocates you.

"I can't undo what I did", she says. "I know apologizing isn't enough. It will never be. But I know I love you, and I'll keep working on myself, and I'll make sure that you'll never doubt me again."

You stare at her, hesitating. "Nat."

"I'm serious, Y/N. So serious." She exhales, her breath shaky. "Let me prove it to you. Give me a year. A test phase. You can back out at any point. You can always end it. But give me one chance. Just one. I'm not asking for anything else."

"And then?", you probe. "I don't trust you anymore. Not like I used to. What if I also don't trust you in a year?"

"That's okay", she promises. She cups your face, the ring stuck between her fingers and pressing against your cheek. "I'm not asking for anything else. I want you and the girls back. Just give me a shot at trying."

This is so her that you almost smile. Laying out blueprints, strategizing, framing it like something practical. Turning your relationship into a deal. But somehow, she's managed to make it raw and hopeful.

At the end of your life, you don't regret what you did — you regret what you didn't do. The 'what if' hurts the most. The knowledge that something could've been, if only there'd been more courage. If only you'd been braver. If you'd taken that leap instead of walking away.

Your marriage has always been centered around fire. It's the reason why you met. It's what Natasha deals with every day. It burned your marriage to the ground, even if not literally.

You feel it all over her, too. In her hands, which are calloused and strong. Her eyes blaze with it. Whenever you'd kiss her, you felt it. She's the human equivalent to fire. She's messy and unpredictable, she can cause disastrous amounts of damage. But when it comes down to it, she's there to warm you up.

Fire meant safety. Early humans used it as a source of light and protection.

It turns out that, even millions of years later, some things don't change.

You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. Your eyes are burning.

"Don't disappoint the girls", you mumble. "Not again. Because I'll kill you, Romanoff. I swear."

Natasha lets out a breath. Her eyes glass over, her fingers shake against your cheek. You ended it with a threat, and truthfully, she deserves it. She'll have to fight for every scrap of softness now, but that's okay. It's worth it.

"I won't", she promises. "You know they're in good hands."

"Not the point."

"I know." She brushes her thumb over your lip. You move your head so her hand drops from your face, then you lean in and kiss her.

It's not a big deal. Just a quick brush of lips, lasting a mere second. It shoots adrenaline through her entire body and her heart begins to race. You pull away and reach up to remove some sawdust from her hoodie.

You stay silent for a moment as you study her. She doesn't say anything either, just stands there and admires you like the idiot she is. Finally, you pull away, but not without snatching the ring from her.

"I'll hide this", you say, walking up the stairs. She raises her eyebrows.

"Okay...?"

"You're not proposing unless I allow you to."

"Oh, uh- alright."

"It better be. Now get a move on, we need to pick up the girls."

She stares for another second, then she hurries up to follow you outside.

. . .

Picking the kids up together once was fine. Doing it a second time, though, left Valerie bouncing on the spot like she's a battery operated toy.

She's smart. She knew. All it took was seeing you and Natasha, waiting by your car. There was less distance between you this time. She'd touched your arm, hesitantly, and you'd opted for a faint smile.

Something'd changed. Which, for once, was a good thing.

Months have passed, and it's turned into more of a routine. You pick Charlotte up together, with Valerie waiting in the car already. The second she's in front of you, she lifts her arms at Natasha.

"Up?", she asks. Her voice is grouchy in that tired toddler-way.

"Sure, bub", she says, scooping her up. Natasha's always held babies like they're made of gold. It doesn't matter if said baby is three weeks or three years old. "Let's get you home."

"We're going to mama's place tonight", you inform them. Valerie tilts her head. "Sounds good?"

"You're not mad anymore?"

Natasha and you had a little argument last night, but it really was little. And, to be fair, it was mostly your fault. There's no need to start yelling over a roll of toilet paper.

You buckle up and look at your daughter through the mirror. Way too perceptive. That won't change. You love that about her, though, even if it sometimes drives you up the wall.

"Who said that?", you ask, smiling.

Natasha sits down and starts the car. She glances at you, then forces herself to keep her eyes on the road. "You got homework, bub?"

"Answer the question", she drawls. "Are you still mad?"

You get a pointed look from Natasha. You roll your eyes and push your hand against her cheek, making her laugh quietly.

"No", you say. "Not mad anymore. Sorry for the fight, honey."

"We didn't think you'd hear", Natasha adds. She takes a left turn and drums her fingers against the steering wheel. "You were supposed to be asleep."

"I don't care. You can't fight even when I'm sleeping."

"You're not the boss", Lottie says, throwing a LEGO figure at her sister. Valerie retaliates by grabbing her stuffed tiger and whacking it over her head. The next thing you hear is screeching and whining.

Exasperated, you turn around and intervene. "No, absolutely not. If we can't fight, then neither can you."

"She hit me!", Lottie cries out.

"She threw a LEGO at me!"

"Stop fighting and I'm getting you nuggets for lunch", Natasha mutters.

You want to intervene — don't bribe the kids into behaving, this can't end well, etc. — but then you remember that she's been doing this without you every other week for three full years. So far, nothing bad has resulted from it.

You slump into your seat when they immediately stop bickering. Natasha doesn't say anything, but she puts her hand around yours and squeezes gently.

At home, she grabs both kids and carries them into the cabin. One on her shoulders, the other in her arms, she slows down and turns around. You're close behind, holding their backpacks and the takeout paper bag.

You meet her halfway. There's a second of silence, of you just staring at each other, then you get on your tiptoes and kiss her. It takes her by surprise, for some reason, and you can't blame her.

You pull away first, and Valerie gives you a mildly disgusted look. She's been hoping for this for years, but she doesn't need to see you kiss.

"Can you not?"

Natasha shoots you a smile. You put your hand on her shoulder and turn her toward the cabin again. It's a spring afternoon, the sun is warm and the grass is covered in hundreds of little flowers. On the porch, Natasha left a half-finished bookshelf for Lottie's room.

As soon as you're inside, you wash your hands and dish out the food. You allow the girls to eat lunch in front of the tv for once, and they happily agree to find something to watch without fighting.

Then, it's just you and Natasha left in the kitchen. She's leaning against the counter, her hand twisting the top part of a water bottle. You can feel her watching you as you empty out the takeout bag and put the food on two plates.

"Want to share the onion rings?", she asks, pushing off the counter and walking up to you.

"You'll make me share my fries if we do, won't you."

"You know me too well", she mumbles. She wraps her arms around you and kisses your temple. "I'll let you have a sip of my beer."

She does. You end up on the porch together, sitting on the floor like teenagers. You stretch out your legs and she pulls them into her lap. You bring the beer bottle to your mouth and tip back your head. It's still cold, fizzy, tasting like the early days of your relationship.

You pass the bottle back to her, and she finishes what's left in it.

"Bookshelf looks nice", you comment. "Looks like a little house. Lottie will love it."

"I'll paint rainbows on it, too", she says. Her hand runs up and down your calf absentmindedly. "She asked for a bed with a slide, you know."

All you say is 'no', quickly and without hesitation. Natasha grins.

"I already told her no, don't worry. Not after the soap incident."

You hum, agreeing. Back at your house, Charlotte had dumped a small bucket of soapy water onto the slide and then slid down. Needless to say that didn't end well. You're still haunted by the blood coming out of nose.

"She laughed", you mutter, rubbing your temple. "She sat there and laughed. That's all you, you know."

"Sorry."

"Well, you better be. If she ends up wanting to be a firefighter, I'm suing."

"Maybe she ends up wanting to be like you", Natasha says. "I wouldn't mind that, you know."

You nudge her shoulder with yours. She sets her plate aside and wraps her arm around you.

Fire burns and destroys. It leaves behind ambers and smoke, soot and ash. The landscape looks scorched, your marriage was a wreckage. Things looked dead. But ash is fertile, and though you're marked, you're still here.

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

🌙 tagged (as per request): @scarletsstarlet @jassgunner @marvelwomen-simp @fairyfandomwhore @womenarehotsstuff @twentyonetornmyheart

[gravegoer]

I hear your call [P3] ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ

i actually got A LOT of asks saying i should do something with siren reader having legs ?!?! did u guys band together to make me do this... summary: sevika takes you out places you've never been and shows her gentleness also a bit of a song at the end (its so fun pls)

masterlist , 2.3k , kind of suggestive? , part 2

Eventually, you did fall asleep in Sevikas tub (really the inn's). I mean, how could you not? She somehow managed to fill it with the perfect temperature and dimmed the lights just for you, making sure you settled in perfectly.

You awoke to her flicking on the big light in the early morning, hissing at the intrusion. But your motions were halted when you looked up to see her form clad in tight shorts and an almost-all-the-way unbuttoned white shirt, the sleeves rolled up past her forearms.

It was rare to see her without her intricate straps, hat, and weapons strapped to her waist, so you definitely took in this sight while you still could.

"I need to get you back to the water. Can't stay in this tub forever," She spoke, settling her hands on her hips.

"Mmm, says who?" You closed your eyes and sank deeper into the water.

"Says my dabloons, can't afford to be stayin' another night."

You suddenly remember your previous kidnapping and Sevika's heroic work (that resulted in a lot of money being spent). You shot her an apologetic look before she laughed a hearty laugh and leaned on the sink.

"I'm joking. Just dont want you out of the sea longer than you need be. Heard it makes mer-people sick," She mumbled the last part.

"Where'd you hear that?" You cocked an eyebrow at her, who was now fixing her dark hair in the mirror.

"I read it—"

"Read it? Pirates can read?" Now it was your turn to laugh.

She got flustered and blubbered out a, "Supposing you even know what a book is."

You laughed at her statement and said, "Well, did you read I need not be in water at all?"

She shook her head, still groggy from her sleep, "Hell are you talking about?"

You tilted your head to your tail— or where it should have been.

What. The. Fuck.

Her eyes widened, and she stepped over to the tub, eyeing your knees sticking out of the water. "Where— where did it go."

You laughed before explaining how, after a while of being in regular water without salt, you were able to develop human legs. This only lasted until you made long‐term contact with salt water again.

To Sevika's shock, you stood up confidently and stumbled at the slipperiness of the tub, water making it hard to maneuver. She reached out to grab you as you yelped, grunting as she held you up, helping you out of the tub. Water dripped onto the floor, and she looked down to realize that it wasn't just legs that you had.

She grunted and looked away over your head, attempting to clear her thoughts. Her thick hand rested on your now non-scaled hip, and her metal one was placed carefully on her arm, trying to keep you as far as she could without dropping you.

"I haven't stood on legs in a while, sorry."

She nodded, "Yeah. I noticed," She commented sarcastically, "Need to get you clothed."

You felt little to no embarrassment about your unclothed state and hummed at her words, starting to walk to the door of the bathroom.

She sighed at your eagerness and kept a hand on your back as you walked, tightening her grip whenever you stumbled. Sitting you down on the bed, she pointed a finger at you as if ordering you to stay.

You obeyed and watched her shuffle through her previously worn clothes, assuming she had no other clothes. (What she is wearing right now is definitely her under clothes..) She grimaced and held up quite a large white poet shirt in your direction.

You shrugged, "That works."

She tossed it to you, and the scent of cigars and salt wafted from the shirt. You threw it on haphazardly, and it covered enough to look like a short dress. "I don't have any pants or shoes—"

She stopped mid sentence when she turned to look at you and cleared her throat, "We'll go to the markets."

You nodded, assuming the market was somewhere you could get clothes. She stepped over to you, multiple straps and belts in hand, "I'll make it look as put together as possible," she mumbled.

Her hands skillfully strapped belts around your torso, making the shirt appear as though it fit properly. She made sure it still hung low on your hips, covering the fact you lacked undergarments.

You weren't so open to the idea of going out into public when you were previously almost sold off. You feared the peoples faces and evil eyes, staring you down. The memories of the cold cage were resurfacing in your mind, but you were quickly pulled out of your thoughts by Sevika.

She now stood at the door to the hall, tilting her head questioningly. She had already gotten dressed and motioned for you to follow her, "C'mon, you can take ten steps."

You rolled your eyes and walked over to her, although like a newborn deer, you still managed. She had a hand on your lower back, supporting you down the hall and just about carrying you as you walked down the stairs.

She sensed your discomfort at the fact that you had no shoes, and the hard wood of the floor wasn't helping your inability to walk. She bent over and snatched up a pair of boots from beside a random man and tossed them into your arms.

"Hey, what the fuck?"

She turned back to glare at him, "Maybe put them on your fucking feet next time."

Her voice was horse and intimidating in the face of any man, lacking the gentleness she previously had with you.

He gritted his teeth and got up to spew his complaints to the keeper. You watched in disbelief before Sevika elbowed you gently in your back, "Lets go."

Before you could say anything else, she was pushing you out the door, boots still in your arms. "Put them on before we go further."

You eyed the rough concrete stairs that were your only option to sit on. Looking up at her, you smiled crookedly. She ran her hand down her face, realizing you didn't want your legs to make contact with the roughness. But without another word, she got on one knee, other thigh level with your knees so you could sit.

Her sword sheathe scraped the ground as she kneeled, leather boot thudding on the ground behind her. Not letting you protest she pulled you by the shirt down onto her leg, taking the boots out of your hands.

Your hands stayed in your lap as she pulled your legs out to cover your feet with the boots. Although she struggled a bit to put shoes on another person she still did so as soft as possible, feeling as if your legs were frail.

You kept your eyes on her face as she did so, eyeing the scar on her face and lip before she spoke, "It has to do for now. I'll get you out of them soon."

..

Although it was a struggle, you both made it to the market. Even though you had gotten more used to legs heavy boots, weighing down your feet and tiredness made your legs sore. But upon seeing the bright colors of the market, smelling the scent of fresh pastries and fruit, and hearing pleasing music you almost immediately perked up.

Sevika noticed your change in demeanor and smirked, "Never been here, huh?"

You nodded rapidly and almost ran to a stand that had bright and scarves with intricate patterns. The shop owner immediately started to talk you up. "This color would be so beautiful with your hair, miss." She wrapped a blue scarf around your shoulders.

Sevika walked up behind you as you looked at your reflection in the small mirror, turning this way and that. You hummed in satisfaction before starting to waltz away. Sevika grabbed you by the back of the scarf, "Nope, you gotta pay."

"Ummm.." You looked up at her with confusion.

"No money, no scarf," She took it from your shoulders and set it back on the stand, grinning.

You huffed and crossed your arms, looking around at other stalls. She grabbed your shoulder with one hand and moved your face with the other, pointing it into the direction of a far away stand. "Only the necessities."

She started in the direction, and you quickly grabbed onto her arm to trail after her. Approaching the stand with shelves that held shoes, Sevika held up a pair, as if asking if they were to your liking.

You grimaced at the style and started to look for yourself. Grabbing delicacy styled shoes, you showed them to Sevika. She smiled softly and shook her head at your choice but put down a few coins for the owner anyway.

She reluctantly would let you drag her to every stall you wanted to look at, putting up with your curiosity. She knew she wouldn't have patience like this for anyone else.

When you put on something pretty and looked to her for approval, she would give you a satisfied look. But still refused to buy you anything unnecessary.

Sevika eventually got you a long skirt that was flowy and hung almost to the ground. It almost mimicked your tail in its motions as you walked, she smiles at the reminder.

When you asked questions about the odd trinkets, she would pick them up and show you how it worked. A music box looked small and delicate in her hold, and the soft melody coming from within made you smile brightly.

You swayed a bit to the music, holding her hands up to your ear so you could hear it better. She couldn't do much but stare wide-eyed at the sight of you blissfully giggling at the music.

As you started off to another stall, she quickly dropped a few coins in front of the seller and shoved the music box in her pocket.

When it neared noon, she took you to eat at a food stand, handing you a few kabobs of different meats and veggies. You munched on them happily, sharp teeth tearing into the meat easily. (Noted.)

She definitely took you to try her favorites because all you eat is probably fish. She takes in the sight of you sighing at the flavors and shoving more into your mouth.

You guys bond over food..

It was now nearing night, the sun set far in to the west. The small amount of darkness was illuminated by candles and lanterns scattered around the area. You could see women gossiping together over some tea and bread, men slinging one another around in joke, kids chasing each other with small creatures. This was one of which a sight you'd never seen.

You gawked, never having viewed humanity in this way, only seeing people that inhabited the seas you could have never guessed how average civilians behaved. The night now no longer seemed so fierce, holding no malice like the previous night.

Sevika approached you to put a hand on your shoulder. She was proud to show you things you had never experienced. She would show you as much of the land as you wanted if you just asked.

Pulling you away from the crowd, she led you to a cliff that overlooked the ocean. Your position closely mimicking the day you met her, Sevika sat on a rock with you beside her. Her metal hand rested on your hip comfortably. You talked about your adventures of the day, the things you liked, and the people you met.

"Thank you for this, I never thought I'd be happy to reside on land."

She grunted in response and pulled a small box from her pocket, a music box. You gasped and took it from between her fingers, shocked she had really gotten it for you.

You winded the small handle before releasing it to hear the familiar melody, bringing back your memories of the day. Looking up to see Sevika, her expression was so loving and gentle, a face you've never seen on her before. Her eyes were illuminated by the dim sunset, emphasizing her contentment.

You smiled before you parted your lips, and betwixt came a song,

link to it (i highly reccomend, it sets the mood)

"Upon one summer's morning, I carefully did stray

Down by the Walls of Wapping, where I met a sailor gay

Conversing with a young lass who seem'd to be in pain

Saying, "William, when you go, I fear you'll ne'er return again"

My heart is pierced by Cupid

I disdain all glittering gold

There is nothing can console me

But my jolly sailor bold"

She listened blissfully, taking in the fact that your songs had no effect on her. Your beautiful voice hummed in her ears, and she looked into the sea, engraving this memory into her mind.

She could see her ship from where you sat, the wind blowing into the sail softly, yanking on the rope that tied it to the dock. Yes, she was going to take you anywhere you wanted to go. This much was set in stone.

After this, she dragged you to the ship with her crew and invited you to join her, obviously you said yes.

She's very happy to have someone to accompany her on her journeys. She isnt so bitter and lonely now thats for sure

And yes, you still get to swim in the water. A lot of the crew doesn't know your siren side, so Sevika tosses you into the water at night, letting the glimmer of your scales lead her ship.

During the day, you will follow alongside the ship, making sure none of the crew can see you, but Sevika does.

Sometimes, she gets distracted by you and goes off route a bit.

I like to think she can't really swim, so you try to teach her whenever you get a chance, and she always ends up clinging to you as you tease her.

She shows you mountains, forests, architecture, (bars), etc. And you love every moment of it.

Also, she replaced the mermaid on the front of her ship with a mermaid carved to look like you. And no, she didn't pay for it to be done. She did it herself.

Whilst she stood on a ladder she watched you frolic in the waves, making sure to carve every curve and detail she found beautiful.

Although, there wasn't one part of you she didn't find beautiful.

the end felt a bit rushed but im bad at endings, i might do some other side fics for this but thank you for the support on this fic! also i thought it was funny how @lovinglywriting sent me an ask about something sooo similar to what i was writing while i was mid fic lol and @slut4sevika send in a sweet ask tysm <33

taglist: @thequeenreaders @hangezoes-wife @thesecondhandwoman @lez-zuha @haboinga