#words are from a black dresses song of the same name ^-^

[pixlatedvampire]

i met this priest in the dungeons of fear and hunger and he told me to fuck off and die?? is this a meet cute??

[lovedbysolaris]

Unsigned Feelings.

Isabela Merced x Reader

Summary: You were hired to help her write an album not fall for her. Ghostwriting kept you safe. Until her. Isabela Merced sees through the walls you built with every lyric. What starts as late-night writing sessions turns into something you can’t name—until it hurts not to. But your past doesn’t stay buried. And when secrets surface and pressure builds, you're left with one choice: walk away like you always do... or stay and fight for the one thing you never let yourself want.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Honestly I dont think so- oh! Anxiety lol.

I aso have a soundtrack for chapters. yes. im smooth like that.

"Criminal" – Fiona Apple

"Say It Right" – Nelly Furtado

"Dreams" – Fleetwood Mac

"False Confidence" – Noah Kahan

"Eventually" – Tame Impala

I said I was gonna post some of her. You're welcome.

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

You wake up before the sun, same as always. There’s a certain kind of silence before the world starts making noise again—before traffic hums, neighbors argue through walls, and someone’s kid starts kicking a soccer ball against the hallway. That silence? It’s yours. Sacred. Like the half-second before a song drops.

The alarm never goes off. You beat it. 4:42 AM. Muscle memory guides your hand across the nightstand to silence the buzzing it never gets to complete. The bedroom is dim, painted in navy shadows. A single strand of light from the streetlamp slips through the blinds, cutting across the floor like a sword. You sit up and roll your shoulders. Your body creaks like it’s lived more than twenty-two years.

First thought? Coffee. Second? What day is it. Third? You should probably take Hades out before he pisses on your new rug again.

The apartment’s not big, but it’s clean. Minimalist, but lived in. One wall is all windows. A worn leather couch. A record player on a reclaimed wood shelf. A giant canvas with muted reds and golds leans half-finished against the wall—one of the rare times you tried painting your feelings and just ended up angry at the brush. There’s a guitar case leaning under the window you haven’t opened in months.

The Spotify speaker starts playing without asking. You set it up that way. Shuffle playlist: Wake the Hell Up. First song? "Criminal" by Fiona Apple. Then maybe Mac Miller. You never know.

You stretch, your Greek mythology sleeve flexing with the movement—Achilles' heel bleeding into Hermes' wings, Medusa's eyes threading up to your shoulder. It took four years and more pain than you'd admit out loud, but it's your story. Or the parts you let people see.

Your hair is still flattened on one side as you tug on a pair of boxers and gray sweats. Sports bra. Loose tank. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror: tired eyes, messy mullet, and that treble clef behind your ear that only shows when your hair is up.

You touch it sometimes without thinking. A melody without a home.

Hades scratches the door. You open it before he can bark. He’s big—obsidian-black doberman, ears cropped, eyes smarter than most people. You swear he’s part therapist. He waits while you leash him, nudging your thigh with his head like he already knows you didn’t sleep well.

Out on the pavement, it’s still dark. You jog beside him, earbuds in, letting Nelly Furtado’s "Say It Right" set the tempo. A mile. Two. You don’t track distance anymore—you track how many songs it takes to get your head quiet.

Back home, it’s protein shake, then a hot shower. The steam makes your hidden tattoos sting a little—the one on your ribs you got the night your mom stopped calling, and the one on your thigh you’ve never shown anyone, not even your ex. It’s a line from a Sappho poem, but no one would guess from how often you wear jeans.

You dress in something loose but intentional: dark jeans, open flannel, boots. A single gold chain. The class ring catches in the mirror, the way the sapphire shines against your skin. You hate it and love it. 2021. A year you earned but barely survived.

You check your email. Nothing exciting. An old professor inviting you to a Zoom panel. A royalty statement from the poetry book you ghostwrote last fall. A Spotify payment from some girl in Brooklyn who sang your lyrics like she wrote them herself.

Then your phone rings.

Unknown number, LA area code.

You hesitate, thumb hovering. Then:

“Yeah?”

They say your entire name.

You lean on the counter. “Depends who’s asking.”

“This is Vanessa. I’m calling on behalf of Isabela Merced. She’s looking for a writing partner for her next album—someone to help shape the narrative. We heard about your work through a mutual contact.”

You blink. “Merced as in...?”

“Yes. That Isabela.”

A pause. Hades lets out a low growl, like even he doesn’t trust what’s coming.

Vanessa continues, professional and clipped. “She’s been writing on her own, but she’s hit a wall. She’s asking for someone who doesn’t treat her like a product. You come highly recommended. She’s read your ghost work.”

You cross your arms. “Okay. But why me?”

There’s a pause. Then:

“She liked your writing. Said it felt... honest.”

A beat. That word doesn’t sit easily on your shoulders.

“She wants to meet. She’s in town for a few weeks. Can you be at Hollow Sun Cafe by four?”

You glance at the clock. 9:23 AM.

“I’ll be there.”

As the call ends, you stare out the window. You weren’t supposed to fall into music again. You were supposed to write from the shadows. But now?

Now the light’s creeping in.

You stand in front of your closet like it’s the final boss.

The first thing you pull out is your favorite fit: oversized graphic tee—vintage Nirvana print, cracked like it’s been through hell—cargo pants with a dozen pockets you don’t use, and the Jordan 3 Retros you waited four months to cop. You toss on your fitted Rangers cap and gold jewelry: a class ring with your birthstone, chain glinting low on your collarbone, watch she saved up for before she passed.

You look good.

But then you remember—it’s your first impression. And not at a cipher or a bar. This is business. Big business.

You sigh, swap the tee for a fitted cream shirt that still matches the Retros. Swap cargos for black jeans. Keep the jewelry—your mom would’ve cursed you if you didn’t. The cap stays. That’s non-negotiable.

As you check the mirror, something settles in your stomach. You’re not nervous. But you’re not ready either. You haven’t written for anyone big since… since before. Since the funeral.

Your mom was the only one who ever heard your demos and cried like they meant something. The only one who called your voice a gift instead of a gimmick. She would’ve told you to go, to stand tall. But still—this feels like a quiet war inside your chest, and no one else will understand why.

Hades nudges your leg. You ruffle his ears.

“Let’s go, monster.”

Your 2014 Nissan Altima waits in the lot like an old friend. Dusty, sure, but she runs smooth. You crank the ignition and let the playlist roll. Noah Kahan’s "False Confidence" plays. It’s too on the nose.

You cruise through your part of Dallas—old neighborhoods trying to be new. Coffee shops with unfinished murals. Cracked sidewalks and boutique gyms. It’s home in a strange, half-gentrified kind of way.

You swing by your sister’s apartment. Michelle answers in a hoodie and socks, her curls tied up, mug in hand.

“You’re late.”

You smirk. “You’re dramatic.”

She rolls her eyes but smiles when she sees Hades. He darts in like he owns the place.

“You look nice,” she says, half surprised.

“Big meeting.”

“Someone cute?”

“Professional.”

Michelle raises a brow. “You didn’t say no.”

You toss her his blanket. “Be nice to him. He’s in a judgmental mood.”

“He gets that from you.”

You head back out before the conversation can get too real.

Hollow Sun Cafe is tucked behind a row of glass buildings in Uptown, Dallas. Big steel door, exposed brick, subtle signage like they know you should already know where to go.

Inside, it smells like incense and ambition. A wall of platinum records. A quiet receptionist who buzzes you in without looking up.

You step into the studio lounge. Vanessa, you assume, is sitting by the console in a navy blazer, tablet in hand. She doesn’t smile.

Then—Isabela.

She’s smaller than you expected. Compact, radiant. Wearing a hoodie like she’s hiding, but her face is pure sun. Hair up. No makeup. And yet, there’s something about her that stings your vision like you looked straight at a star.

She glances up at you. Stops mid-sentence.

Her eyes catch yours and still there. Not because you’re famous. Not because you said anything clever. Just… your eyes. You know the look. You’ve gotten it before. Gray eyes. That shade that looks like a storm’s thinking.

Vanessa speaks first. Introducing you.

Isabela’s voice is softer than you thought. “You don’t look like a ghostwriter.”

You grin. “Good. Ghosts don’t pay rent.”

A pause. A small smile from her.

Vanessa sets the contract on the table. “This is standard. NDA. Creative credit waiver. Scope of work. We’re looking for eight tracks, possibly more if the chemistry’s right.”

Chemistry.

You meet Isabela’s eyes again. She’s watching you like she already wrote a song about this moment.

Vanessa talks on, but the room’s gotten smaller. Isabela’s knee bounces. Your fingers tap a rhythm against your ring.

You sign the contract without a word.

Let the music speak first.

Vanessa’s phone buzzed once. She didn’t even flinch. Buzzed again. This time she sighed.

"I'm sorry, this is- it's about a venue drop." She stood, pressing her palms into the edge of the booth as if grounding herself. “Just talk music. I’ll be five, ten minutes, max.”

You give her a small nod, watching her sleek black heels disappear around the corner of the dimly lit lounge. The booth you're in has navy cushions and gold-rimmed coasters. A candle flickers lazily between you and Isabela. Her silhouette glows like it belongs in a painting- chin in her hand, fingers half-hiding her lips, eyes unreadable.

Your throat feels a little tight. Not the kind of tight that makes you choke, just the kind that makes you remember you’re alive. And maybe a little bit nervous.

You tap the table twice and say, “Henny and Coke.”

Isabela raises a brow. “That bad already?”

You flash her a deadpan stare. “Look, either I drink or I start pacing, and this booth doesn’t come with a panic room.”

She lets out a small chuckle—genuine, even a little surprised. It’s the kind of laugh that doesn't get recorded often.

A server appears. Young, maybe college-aged. Way too invested in the moment.

You nod at him. “Make it two.”

You don’t even look at him.

He glances awkwardly between you both, clearly waiting for some sort of confirmation from the actress-slash-pop-sensation. But she shrugs.

“Guess we’re drinking then.”

He scurries off.

“She likes control,” you note, mostly to yourself.

Isabela tilts her head. “Who?”

“Vanessa.”

She leans back a little, tracing the rim of her water glass with her finger. “She has to. It’s the job.”

“And what’s your job?” you ask.

“To let her.”

You pause at that. You weren't ready for her to match your depth that quickly.

The drinks come. You clink yours to hers without fanfare. No toast, no bullshit. Just the universal language of cheers to existing.

It’s quiet again for a second. The kind of quiet that isn’t uncomfortable. Just hanging there, like an unopened letter.

“So,” you say finally, “concepts.”

Her lips part, but nothing comes out. Her eyes flicker- not to you, but somewhere far off.

“Don’t tell me I lost you already,” you say. “That’d be a new record.”

She blinks, coming back. “Sorry. You didn’t.”

“Then what was that look?”

She shrugs. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Everything I write lately feels like a goodbye letter. I want this album to be about… something more.”

You nod slowly, leaning forward a bit. “What kind of more?”

Isabela crosses one leg over the other. “Heartbreak, sure. That’s the easy part. But also… recovery. Growth. The loneliness that comes after healing. The way love shifts when you’re alone long enough to love yourself. That kind of more.”

You take a slow sip, letting her words settle. There’s something heavy behind them. Not rehearsed. Not press-junket deep. Actual gravity.

“That’s a lot,” you say finally. “But I think we can find the skeleton.”

She raises a brow. “Skeleton?”

“Yeah. Every album has one. A spine. Even the messy ones. We just gotta figure out where the bones are.”

She smirks, genuinely entertained. “Okay, that’s… poetic. In a vaguely forensic way.”

You shrug. “I’ve been worse.”

A few more beats pass. Your anxiety’s softened, replaced by a slow curiosity. There’s something familiar about this moment, even if you’ve never lived it before. Maybe it’s the candlelight. Maybe it’s the way her hair falls just a little into her eyes. Maybe it’s the way you’ve both been trying not to look too long.

“Your tattoos,” she says suddenly.

You stiffen a little, but not enough for her to notice.

“What about them?”

She gestures vaguely. “They’re… detailed. Mythology?”

You nod. “Greek. My whole arm’s a sleeve of gods nobody prays to anymore.”

“Why?”

You swirl the drink once. “Because stories outlive people.”

That answer hangs heavy. She watches you differently now—like she’s tracing lines that haven’t been written yet.

“And the one behind your ear?”

You hesitate. “Treble clef. For my mom.”

That one comes out quieter.

Isabela sits forward, resting her chin on her fist again. “She the reason you got into music?”

“More like the only one who didn’t laugh when I said I could do it.”

Her voice softens. “She passed?”

You nod. “Couple years ago.”

There’s no pity in her face. Just understanding. That’s worse, somehow.

“Sorry,” she says.

You don’t say it’s okay. It isn’t.

She shifts gears, maybe sensing the heat under your collar. “So… ghostwriter who doesn’t ghost. What’s your story?”

You grin. “That was awful.”

She smiles. “I try.”

You rest your glass down. “My story’s not really out there.”

“I noticed. I googled you.”

“Stalker vibes.”

She shrugs. “Curious vibes.”

You sigh, leaning back. “Let’s see. Raised in Dallas. Little sister. Doberman named Hades. Used to write songs under a fake alias online until one of them blew up. Got offered a label deal, turned it down. Started ghostwriting. Pay’s good. Fame’s not.”

“That’s a tagline.”

“You’re welcome to use it. Just credit me.”

She grins. “What was the alias?”

You pause. “Nice try.”

Her eyes glint. “So you’re still lowkey?”

“Like, embarrassingly lowkey. I’m probably in more playlists than pictures.”

“I like that,” she says. “Keeps you human.”

You tilt your head. “And you?”

She rolls her eyes. “Over-exposed. Managed since I was fifteen. Told to smile even when I hated what I was singing. Everyone assumes they know me. They don’t.”

“That’s gotta suck.”

“Yeah,” she says. “It does.”

You both sit with that for a moment. Two people on opposite sides of a camera flash. One hiding. One trapped.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been sitting like this—talking like this—until Vanessa’s heels click back into earshot.

She slides into the booth with a sigh and a power-suit apology. “Crisis averted.”

Isabela leans back like nothing happened. You sit up straighter, reaching into your bag for your notebook.

Vanessa claps her hands once. “Alright, let’s get back to work.”

But when you glance at Isabela again, something’s changed. Just a flicker. The way she looks at you now—it’s like she’s storing your face in a song.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t want to disappear.

[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

Say my Name and Everything Just Stops

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Summary: If Bob and you were only platonic, absolutely no other feelings… Then why do you feel sick to your stomach when he looks at her like that?

WC: 3.K

*Might have to remake this with more specifics to the song because I added the song after writing it because it lowkey fit the storyline a bit*

⸻

You weren’t sure when it happened.

One day, you were just another warm body at a mission briefing, nodding through tactical discussions, biting your tongue through Alexei’s grating pep talks and Valentia’s obligatory press training. You showed up, suited up, cleaned up, and tried not to get killed. That was the job. That was the team.

Then, somehow, somewhere along the line… you and Bob Reynolds got attached at the hip.

Not officially. Not romantically. Not even consciously, really. You didn’t talk about it. There were no glances across the room filled with meaning, no loaded conversations behind closed doors. It was never dramatic.

It was something quieter. Subtler. Like gravity.

If you were in the kitchen making coffee in the morning, hair tied back, hoodie halfway off your shoulder, still trying to blink the sleep from your eyes, Bob was always there, standing beside you like he’d been summoned. Making tea. Or at least pretending to. Half the time his mug stayed empty, forgotten on the counter while he hovered behind you, offering sugar before you even asked, or opening the fridge before you could.

He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t even particularly expressive. But he was there. His presence made the sterile, metal and glass Tower kitchen feel less like a military bunker and more like home. It was in the little things. The way he shifted when you reached past him. The way he knew how you liked your coffee and made sure no one else drank from your favorite mug. The way he stood just close enough that you could feel his heat at your back.

Game nights made it worse.

Or better, depending on who you asked.

Every week, like clockwork, someone would suggest it usually Alexei or Yelena, high on boredom and low on impulse control. Uno, Jenga, some Russian board game that none of you understood but that Alexei insisted was “better than Monopoly.”

No matter the game, no matter the teams, somehow you and Bob always ended up on the same side. It wasn’t on purpose. No one assigned you to him. It just… happened. You’d be sitting on opposite couches, and by the time the game began, you’d be side by side. Synced up. Aligned.

Charades became a blood sport. You and Bob didn’t even need words. One raised eyebrow from you, and he was guessing the entire plot of The Matrix. He mimed a single motion, and you blurted out Jaws before anyone else even understood it was a movie.

“I don’t even know how they’re communicating,” John muttered one night, tossing a card at Bucky. “They didn’t say a word. Are they cheating? They’re probably cheating.”

“Y/N and Bob have their own frequency,” Ava mumbled from the corner, arms folded but the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth.

Then came the promo events.

Photoshoots. Talk shows. Those absurd staged press moments where Valentina shoved you all into matching black tactical gear and called it “branding.”

You and Bob migrated toward each other like it was coded into your DNA. Unconscious. Effortless.

Cameras flashed and you were already beside him your shoulder brushing his arm, his hand resting just near the small of your back, not touching, but almost. Always almost. And somehow, no matter how stiff or awkward he looked beside the rest of the team, when he stood next to you, Bob’s shoulders loosened just enough. His eyes softened. His lips curved, barely.

Protective. Steady. Yours.

That’s how it felt.

And still, you told yourself it wasn’t anything.

Just comfort. Just familiarity.

But at night when the compound dimmed, and the war room was dark, and the wind whispered against the windows you started to hear it.

The softest knock. A pause. Then the door creaking open.

He never needed to ask.

He stepped inside like he didn’t want to make a sound, curls still damp from a rushed shower, wearing the same old hoodie that hung loose on his tall frame. Sometimes he’d say your name like a question. Most nights, he just climbed into your bed with a sigh so deep it curled in your chest.

He never reached for you. Not at first.

He just drifted closer, closer until his forehead was resting on your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin, his body folding around you like ivy.

And you’d always find your fingers in his hair. Threading, soothing, grounding. Like they were meant to be there. Like you’d done it a thousand times.

He always fell asleep that way. The Sentry. The most powerful being on Earth. Curled up around you, clinging to the quiet, tucked in by your heartbeat.

And you thought you were subtle. You thought it was private.

You thought no one knew.

Until the night John Walker walked in.

You’d been half asleep, humming something soft while combing your fingers through Bob’s tangled curls. He was a deadweight against you, long limbs twisted around yours, chest rising in the steady rhythm of someone deep, deep asleep.

The door slammed open.

“Y/N! You gotta see the new tech—I finished the—”

He froze.

You cracked an eye open.

Bob didn’t even stir.

And John… just stood there, blinking. Processing. His mouth opened and closed twice before he backed out like he’d walked in on a hostage negotiation.

“…I’ll come back later,” he muttered, nearly tripping over your laundry basket on the way out.

That was the end of the secret.

The next morning at breakfast, the teasing came with knives.

Yelena leaned across the table with a smug little grin. “So… Bob. Y/N. How long has the co-sleeping initiative been active?”

You choked on your coffee. Nearly died.

Bob flushed so red his ears matched his hoodie.

Ava didn’t even try to hide her smirk. “Please. We’ve all seen it. They’re like cats. Always draped over each other. It’s gross. It’s adorable. I hate it.”

“Just don’t bring it on the jet,” John muttered into his eggs. “Some of us like to fly without PDA-induced nausea.”

You didn’t answer. Neither did Bob.

You didn’t have to.

It wasn’t like that, you told yourself.

It was just Bob. It was just you.

But when your eyes met across the kitchen when his hand brushed yours reaching for the honey, and his fingertips lingered just a little longer than necessary, you wondered if maybe it wasn’t just anything.

Maybe it was everything.

And you’d just been too scared to name it.

⸻

Until the charity gala.

You’d pulled out all the stops.

The gown was custom silk that hugged every curve like it was made for you (because it was), with a low, sloping back that shimmered under the chandelier light like molten metal. The color was blood-red, deliberate. You wore it with graceful confidence . Your hair was swept into soft waves that kissed your collarbones. And your eyes, lined lit with something vulnerable and electric, scanned the ballroom for one person.

Bob Reynolds.

He arrived late.

Tugging awkwardly at the cuffs of a tailored suit that fit too well for how uncomfortable he looked in it. Hair combed, clean shaven, tall as hell and radiating nervous energy. You turned the moment he walked in.

He stopped in the doorway when he saw you.

And for the briefest second, everything else in the glittering, champagne soaked ballroom dimmed. His eyes locked on yours across the crowd and something passed between you. Something that hit you low in the chest, unspoken and sharp. You almost smiled.

But then he looked away.

Fast. Like it burned. And he didn’t approach. Not even close. In fact, every time you started to drift toward his side of the room, champagne in hand, casual and hopeful he moved. Ducking away under the guise of conversation or needing air. It was obvious. Painfully so. He was avoiding you.

By the time everyone was seated and smiling for cameras at the table, your chest ached from it.

Had you misunderstood everything?

The closeness, the late nights, the way he always reached for you without thinking, was that just friendship? Just comfort? Had you embarrassed yourself in front of the whole team?

And then came the woman.

An older socialite, jeweled and charming, grabbed Bob by the elbow with a too-knowing smile. She gestured to a girl in satin blue, pretty, long-limbed, her laugh high and flirtatious. Bob looked panicked for a split second. Then he smiled. Small. Polite. He let the woman lead him away.

From across the ballroom, you watched.

The girl touched his arm. He leaned in to hear her. Laughed at something she said. All the alcohol he downed making his eye contact extremely well, didn’t matter that he looked a little stiff. A little out of place. From where you were standing, it looked like he could love her.

And it broke you.

You didn’t say goodbye. Just slipped your clutch under your arm and moved. Valentina caught your elbow at the door.

“Where are you going? You haven’t even spoken to—”

“I don’t feel well,” you said, voice brittle.

“Y/N—”

But you were already gone.

⸻

The Tower was silent when you returned.

You didn’t turn on the lights. Didn’t go to your room. Just stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the roof like muscle memory.

The city stretched below you in a haze of gold and glass. Cold wind bit at your shoulders through the fabric of your dress, but you didn’t care. You needed the air. The silence. The distance from the noise in your head.

Why had he avoided you? Did you look bad? Did he regret all those nights he spent in your bed not with you, but beside you? Holding onto you like you were his only anchor?

You blinked hard against the tears stinging your lashes.

Don’t cry. Don’t be stupid. You’re not sixteen.

The door creaked behind you.

You didn’t move. But your heart knew.

Bob.

He stepped out slow, breath ragged, suit jacket flapping slightly in the wind. His tie was crooked. His hair was messy. He looked like he’d been running.

“You left,” he said quietly, almost breathless.

“I did,” you murmured, arms crossed against the chill.

“I couldn’t find you.”

“I saw you,” you replied, voice sharper than you meant. “You were busy.”

A pause.

“Y/N…” His voice cracked. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

“I’m not stupid,” you snapped. “She was gorgeous. Polished. Exactly the kind of girl a mother would want for her son-in-law.”

He flinched. “That’s not what I want.”

“No?” You turned now, eyes shining in the low rooftop light. “Because you looked like you were having a great time. Like you were relieved not to be around me.”

“I was avoiding you.”

That stopped you cold.

“I know.”

Bob took a step closer, then another. “You walked into that room and I forgot how to breathe. You were… radiant. Like something out of a dream I wasn’t supposed to be having. And all I could think was, Don’t ruin this. Don’t touch her. Don’t make it weird. So I panicked.”

You stared, wind whipping your hair around your face.

“You avoided me because I looked nice?”

“I avoided you,” he said, stepping right into your space, “because if I didn’t, I was going to tell you I loved you. In front of Valentina. And three senators. And six photographers.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

He laughed, but it was soft. Raw.

“You don’t know what you do to me, Y/N. I can’t think straight when you’re near me. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep unless I’m next to you. You touch me just, like, hand on my arm or fingers in my hair and the world goes quiet. You make me feel like I’m not broken.”

“Bob…” you whispered, tears threatening again.

He took your hands gently. “I don’t know when it happened. I just know I’m in love with you. And if I messed this up tonight… I’m sorry. But I had to tell you.”

You let out a laugh. Choked and wet and unbelieving.

“You idiot,” you said, pressing your forehead to his. “You beautiful, stupid, sweet idiot. I’ve been in love with you since the first time you handed me coffee without asking how I take it.”

His breath hitched. “You have?”

“Obviously.”

The kiss came easy.

Soft, like first light. Like every moment between you had been leading to this, every brush of hands, every shared blanket, every look across the table when no one else was watching. He cupped your face like it was sacred. You buried your hands in his curls like they belonged there. Because they did.

The city sparkled below. And in the quiet, with the wind, and the stars above, the noise finally stopped.

⸻

You woke up in his arms the next morning. Again.

Only this time, your lipstick was smudged on his jaw. His tie was still on your bedroom floor. And when Bucky walked in to grab the TV remote, he paused at the sight of you two curled up, a sleepy smile tugging at his mouth.

“About damn time,” he muttered, shutting the door again.

Neither of you moved.

You were too busy holding onto everything you’d been scared to lose.

—

A/N: PLEASE I NEED MORE IDEAS OR LIKE SONGS TO WRITE THINGS BASED OFF 💔

[abbyslovergirlxo]

Same Damn Time

Caitlyn Kiramman x Reader x Ambessa Medarda

tw; Dom!Ambessa, Dom!Caitlyn, sub!reader, rough sex but they’re not so mean towards the end, wlw, sadism (cait/bessa), choking, slapping (everywhere lol), knife usage, blood kink??,masochism (you🫵) , crying, reader has a mouth on her and then folds (typical😒), idk why i made cait psychotic but oh well, oral, degradation, crumbs of praise lmao, ALL SEXUAL INTERACTION IS CONSENSUAL, I am not someone who writes noncon

Word count: 7.8k

… = time skip

a/n; whewww! like what can I even say, this fic is crazy asl. Like I actually think they’re gonna bring back stoning people just for this. Lowkey deserved. But I know there’s someone out there who’s gonna match my freak 😭 i had tooo much fun writing this while listening to the song, made me think of them 😩lots of tw!! so plz read that before scrolling!!! I feel like this is something you’re either really going to love or really going to hate sooo idk. Also I was literally fixated on Sevika/Ambessa and one edit drove me to madness so here we are, getting double teamed by Commander Kiramman and General Merdarda 😩 They’re both evil twins in this but Caitlyn is the more evil twin but no seriously read the tw…. anyways enough of my my rumbling, this fic is long enough lol.

Your ear shot up, body reacting involuntarily to the large grey door opening. Heavy echoing footsteps, hushed whispers, and then a closed door.

“ This is the one?”

The judgemental tone would’ve sent you spiralling, had you been anywhere else. But menacing glares and sharp words would do little for you here. The lights were dim, unfavorably so, only illuminating distinctly right above your chair that you sat in.

Their voices held unyielding authority. Everyone from topside did to be fair but something about these two gave away their status. Their faces were shielded slightly, your eyes squinting in an attempt to see who they were. That attempt was shot down, the small space of darkness they stood in protecting them.

You cursed yourself for not having been smarter that day, faster. For if you had been, you’d never know what the inside of Stillwater’s interrogation room looked like.

“ Yes, General. My enforcers found her near one of Jinx’s old hideouts. From the items that were taken from her we can safely say this one knows something. She knows Jinx. My men attempted to speak to her a couple of days ago but nothing came of it.”

You thought back to the ‘men’ who questioned you, hammered you with prompts that you refused to answer. The bruises on your back proved how badly they wanted to know but you never relented.

“ I don’t know anything.” A lie. A clear one. Both of the women ignored you, tossing back and forth bits of information. You tugged at the shiny metal cuffs, now wishing you’d taken Vi up on those lock picking lessons. I’m so fucked, you thought to yourself. The room was a bit cold and you weren’t exactly dressed for the occasion when they snatched you. So, somberly you shook a little, giving up on listening to whatever they were saying.

You weren’t going to rat. You knew that much.

Your head was hung when you heard them get closer to you. Not bothering to look up, you heard two chairs groan from being pulled, until they sat down from what you assumed.

“ Name?”

Finally you peered up. Your expression faltered for a second, not expecting the sight in front of you. Their outfits clashed and blended seamlessly all at once. One sat in an all black attire, her long blue hair hanging down. The other was engrossed in clads of gold and red.

Sitting right across from you, they both had menacing glares. Well, the glares you expected. Not quite the faces. Shamefully you imagined seeing them somewhere else, maybe in The Last Drop? The younger, sharp features and pinched eyes, looked at you with a particularly hateful look. That didn’t bother you though, she was as intimidating as the drunk men you’d fought with in the undercity. Pretty though, you thought. The other one was a different story entirely.

She was tall, you could tell from how she towered even sitting down. Something about her was elegant. But she looked dangerous. Growing up it was quite necessary to assess who you could and couldn’t take on, and the moment your eyes locked with hers, you knew. The scars on her face also gave way to what she was capable of. She was a problem, even if her stare wasn’t as heinous as the woman beside her.

“ Name?” She pressed. Her voice was calm but she didn’t look like someone who didn’t know how to raise it.

“ I don’t know anything. I don’t even know who Jinx is.”

The blue haired girl scoffed, clearly unimpressed. Her companion remained analytical of you.

“ You’re a terrible liar.” Her voice came off unforgiving and brutal. You’d be lying (again) if you said you weren’t slightly offended. But you kept a neutral face, ignoring her.

“Listen, this doesn’t have to be rough. How this goes depends entirely on you, you choose. We know you know Jinx. We know that you know something. The information you have is quite important to me,”

The older woman paused for a split second, her stare unwavering and promising. She looked over to the younger one before looking back at you.

“ to us. So we’re leaving this room with something, I can assure you that. But I can also assure you that if you help us, we will help you.”

Her voice was smooth, like wine. Well according to what people say about wine, you’d never had it. She was firm in her words, almost as if she herself knew the power behind her promise. That would’ve reassured you had it not been for the fact that she was after your fucking friends.

You looked between the two of them again, assessing the scene in front of you over and over. You were unimpressed, if you were being honest, something you hadn’t been since these cuffs first touched your wrist. Sure, you could tell they meant business but this was futile as an interrogation tactic.

Good cop, bad cop?

While the older wasn’t exactly nice, you expected a missing eye, pulled nails and burnt skin. What you weren’t expecting was two, unfortunately attractive, topside pigs to do a century old method. If anything they should’ve switched, you thought to yourself.

Maybe then they’d get somewhere.

“ Still don’t know who Jinx is or why I’m here.”

“ You’re lying, again. And protecting a known fanatic and criminal. Tell us where we can find Jinx.”

You furrowed your brows, annoyed with her insults and claims. Who is she to tell you that were lying? Well, you were of course. But regardless, the tone in the blue eyed woman before you made you unsettled.

“ I’m not lying.” You gritted out. “ I’ve been detained wrongfully. You’re wasting your time. I don’t know anything.”

“ Yes, you do.” Her voice was firm, final. You scowled at her, but it was nothing in comparison to how she looked at you. Constantly her jaw flexed, on edge and angry. But she had no right to be angry in your mind, after all you were the one chained to a table being talked at rather than talked to. Secretly you wished for the older woman to speak again, at least she wasn’t such a bitch.

“ Are they your friends? Is that it? Because I promise you that we will find Jinx, it will just be a whole lot messier without your help. I don’t mind that. But I’m sure you will.”

You fought the urge to wipe that domineering tone and look off her face. You’re never going to find Jinx! You’re nothing but a power hungry topsider who doesn’t know the first thing about friends! I’m not telling you shit. Was what you wanted to say. But instead,

“ I don’t know Jinx or whatever else you people plan on asking me. Like I said, you. are. wasting. your. time.”

You put emphasis on each word, tired of repeating yourself. But to your un-satisfaction she rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

“ Look… I shouldn’t be here. I can’t give you anything because I don’t kno—“

“ Right.” She cut you off, so obviously tired of your insistent lying, even in the short minutes. “And you’re not an undercity animal.”

“ And you’re not a topside pig.”

In all fairness it came out before you could stop it. You weren’t used to being talked to like this and keeping quiet, it almost came out of pure instinct. But if you were surprised by your words you didn’t show it one bit, a small smile almost playing on your lips.

Her nostrils flared slightly, her breathing elevating. For a moment you thought she’d explode before the other woman spoke.

“ Kiramman.”

You memorized the name, not sure if it’d be useful later once you escaped but just in case. She simply collected herself, nodding at the woman who she called ‘General’. Maybe this is where you went wrong, your natural element slipping out, your ego on its way to arriving.

“ You should learn to control yourself, ya know… during interrogations and such.”

“ Shut your mouth.” It was harsh and whispered. This is when you should’ve stopped but you didn’t.

“ You must be new, since you need a supervisor to help you.”

“ Shut it.”

“ You guys have nothing on me. You’re fucking desperate. I’m n—“

Mistakenly you were so focused on Kiramman that you hadn’t been prepared for the harsh grab of your chin. It was quick, unbelievably fast and that scared you more than anything. The strength of which she used to crush your face also attributed to the pit in your stomach.

“ You’ve chosen miserably.”

Her voice was meaner now, she talked as if you were nothing. Like you were stupid. Instantly you regretted wishing for her presence.

Embarrassingly you struggled against her trying to pry away but it was useless. She effortlessly held you there, your cheeks red with humiliation and anger. You tried to ignore the victorious face planted on Kiramman.

“ She said shut your mouth so you shouldn’t be doing anything but that.”

“ Thought you w-wanted me to talk, which one is it?”

You half expected her to break your jaw or lash out like the woman beside her. Instead she remained calm, eerily calm. Anyone with such strength and patience was someone who got what they wanted. But, you weren’t going to talk, you reminded yourself.

She pulled you closer, not without the rebellious tug from you. Silently she analyzed you, staring into your eyes painstakingly long. You squirmed and averted your gaze. She let you go with a ‘hmph’.

“ She won’t talk, not like this.”

The blue haired girl whipped her head towards her, then back to you, a blue fire blazing in her eyes. From the short time they’d been in the room it was clear the older woman held a higher position, authority oozing from her undoubtedly. But now you noticed something dark about the Kiramman that you should have picked up on before.

She was angry, unreasonably so. There was something constantly threatening to set off inside of her.

“ Everyone talks. There has to be something that’ll make her.”

The General hummed. “ I agree, but not like this. She’s loyal to them and she’s prepared for a cell if not this. She’s attempting to use our anger to distract us. She needs something else.”

The goosebumps from the cold air became accompanied by ones born from anxiety. Your mind went into a dark place, worried you’d never leave Stillwater. What if they starved you? Kept you locked in some cell as your body slowly decayed while you still lived? True fear found its way to you for the first time, the unknown overwhelming.

Kiramman seemed to hold back a sigh, instead taking a moment to actually listen to her superior's words. You couldn’t tell what she was thinking but from the firm nod she let off to the General, you knew it wasn’t in your favor. The grey haired woman stood now, making your heart race. Desperately you tugged at the chain once more, attempting to repeat your overdone line.

“ Look, I really don’t know anything.” Ignored.

The blue haired girl remained seated, leaned back slightly, watching silently as the older woman walked around the table. She walked to you with a certain prowess about her. She was taller than you’d expected, to your dismay. You refused to look at her when she was finally standing beside you, face aimed at the grey table.

You pinched your eyes waiting to be hit, choked maybe, or stabbed if they didn’t mind the mess. Your breathing raised as you tried to silently comfort yourself through whatever pain soon awaited. You held back a flinch when you felt large hands pulling at your chains.

It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. Fuck.

*clink*

You snapped your eyes open, seeing your handcuffs now undone.

“ Stand up.”

You took in a breath, silently grateful that you hadn’t been harmed. You stood now, relieved. At least whatever they were going to do wasn’t happening in the now you thought. You looked towards the giant closed metal door, expecting your arm to be snatched as she led you to your dark cell. But to your surprise she simply spoke again.

“ On the table.”

You looked between the two of them.

You shook your head, not even at them, it just shook. No way in hell were you going to lay down on some metal table while these two psychopaths did whatever they wanted to you. You weren’t exactly happy about the bruises that already resided there, definitely not hoping for extras.

“ …No.”

You hadn’t wished to say it but you couldn’t bring yourself to willingly place your body on that table before they hurt you.

“ You misunderstand the situation. You’ve chosen already. So get on the table.”

You didn’t choose shit. That’s what you wanted to shout, to scream at them until your bones betrayed you. A million emotions rushed through your head, clenching and unclenching your hands. Instead you remained silent and unmoving, your refusal to acknowledge was saying ‘no’ in its own way.

“ Fucking impossible…”

You didn’t even have a moment to react to the words before you were pulled. A grunt left your mouth as your hair was gripped painfully. Anger coursed through you upon seeing the black uniform in your peripheral. You used your now free hands to try and pry her hands from you but she only gripped impossibly tighter, your scalp beginning to burn. She was swifter than you’d imagined she’d be, strong too, grabbing both of your hands with one, pinning them. This somehow was worse than cuffs.

“ Fucki— let me go!”

Ignored. Why did they ignore everything?

“ Where do you want her?”

Her General's eyebrows raised, but you didn’t see surprise. Not even disappointment. Content, maybe? You didn’t put it past her.

“ Let's put her on her back to start.”

She moved without question or affirmation. Irritation was clear across your face now, upset at the stinging that wasn’t letting up on your scalp. But clearly the woman behind you didn’t care, roughly forcing you onto the table. She wasn’t as tall as her companion but she was taller than you and it wasn’t an advantage on your part. The force behind her movements were unsettling, you hadn’t thought she was powerless at first glance, but her grip on you was unnerving compared to what you thought she was capable of.

The cold metal wasn’t welcoming. It felt like a million needles were puncturing your skin causing you to shudder. Your tank top strap had fallen off your shoulder amidst the struggle, close enough to slipping down making you wish your hands were free.

“ Give me her wrist.”

They swiftly transferred your hands, the Generals grip matching hers but you could tell there was more strength to be given behind it. You didn’t want to imagine her really trying to squeeze you. The cuffs you were free from moments ago encased you again, and you didn't miss the two extra notches she clicked causing your bone to shift uncomfortably with the metal. You scowled.

“ It’s too fucking tight.”

Not even a pitied glance, nothing. Ignored. Again. You shifted your wrist again, overwhelmed and upset. And this bitch is still gripping my hair, using her other hand to keep your shoulder on the table casually. So easily, and that made you feel vulnerable, helpless. And your now restrained hands weren’t helping, the slight burn making something in your throat want to creep up but you wouldn’t dare allow it, deciding to instead take it out on them.

“ Let go of my hair, you bi–”

You hissed, the stinging sensation pulsating across your cheek. It wouldn’t leave a bruise but you damn sure felt it.

“ Mind your tongue.”

The General ignored the glare you sent her straight from hell, instead taking off her jacket revealing a dark sleeveless sort of top. You couldn’t begin to imagine or decipher the detailing of it, topsiders always dressed too flashy in your opinion, too stuck up. Her arms were as big as you'd thought. Both being ridiculed with scars.

Then, another sharp crack resounded through the dark room, a quick punishing tug to your scalp. This one would unfortunately leave a bruise. You could tell. You didn’t hiss this time, too stunned, on the verge of groaning from the way she used your hair as a plaything.

“ What she said.”

Kiramman finally let go of your hair, the residue of her strength still pounding through your head. You tried to sit up but she instead used both of her hands to hold you down. With only your legs to move, you kicked but the General shut that down as soon as it started. Effortlessly she used only one hand to keep them pinned down, now looking over you and at Kiramman.

What now? You thought. Cut my skin until I fess up? Break my bones until I don’t have any? Beat me bloody while I lie on this cold table? Are they going to kill me when this is all over, when I don’t say anything? I’m going to die here, aren’t I? I’m going to die and nobody’s gonna know.

It’ll be ok. It’ll be ok. It’ll be ok. I can take it. I can take it.

Eyes suddenly squeezed shut, recited echoes of wishful thinking, a scratchy throat. You braced yourself.

“ Last chance. Tell us where we can find Jinx and I’ll send you back to your cell. Untouched.”

Your voice came out a little exasperated, anxiety and anger laced into it. You kept your eyes shut.

“ I don’t know who Jinx is so I can’t tell you that. I don’t know anything.”

Your shoulder crushed more into the table, pale hands squeezing.

“ You continue to choose stupidity, insolence. No more of that.”

Suddenly the grip on your legs were let go and you opened your eyes. She was still at the head of the table staring down at you. For a moment you considered kicking again but as if she read your mind…

“ Kick me and I will break every bone in your knee.”

Her tone wasn’t intimidating, demeaning absolutely, but not intimidating. The certainty in her voice made you throw away any ideas of using your legs. You liked your knees to say the least. You peered straight up to see an upside version of Kiramman, her long blue hair creating a shadow around her neck, her jawline distinct. Even without seeing her face, only the outline of lips and nose, the anger radiated off her body.

“ What now?”

The General looked over you, straight at her.

“ We’ll need to take her pants off for the next part.”

You and Kiramman spoke at the same time.

“ Wait, what? My pants?” “ Her pants?”

The older woman simply gave a one word reply, meant to supply both of you with a firm answer, ‘yes’.

“ Wait, wait.”

She looked down at you, eyebrows raised.

“ Do you remember something about Jinx? Something you’d like to tell us?”

You listened to the flickering sound coming from the light above you. One by one you let them pop into your head. Jinx, long blue hair and wild face as she hugged you. Vi, stuffing her favorite foodsin your face. Isha, making paper airplanes with you. For a moment you thought a tear might slip but it didn’t. You drew in a shaky breath, ignoring the sting on your wrist.

“ No. I don’t know anything. I just…”

You averted your gaze.

“ Is it going to hurt?”

A stupid question in your mind. No doubt torture hurts. But something in you needed to ask, needing some sort of certainty in what was to come.

“ That depends on you entirely. I’ll give you pain when you give me insolence. But when you give me answers, I’ll give you… ”

She suddenly ghosted a hand over your calf.

“ Relief.”

You shuddered a little, her graze unexpected. But you didn’t dare move your leg, not wanting to test what qualified as a kick to her. You didn’t want to imagine what she meant by relief, because it couldn’t mean that. It couldn’t mean that.

“ How does that sound?”

“ It sounds like I have nothing else to say to you.”

She hummed. Without another word she slipped her large hands in your waistband, pulling them down to your ankles. You wanted them back the second your bare thigh touched the cold metal. A click echoed and you looked to see a blade in her hand, small in size but formidable in design. Gold snakes seemed to embroider its handle. You sucked in a harsh breath at the sight, your eyes locked on it.

Your eyes flicked up at the blue haired woman, her position now changed so that you could see her face again. Her eyes almost beamed? For the first time an expression other than anger displayed itself on her features. Now she looked almost… pleased. Excited.

It’ll be ok. It’ll be ok. I can take it. I can take it. I can take it. Hopefully.

You ignored the last words, watching as the General kept her eyes trained on your plump thighs. Opening them, she traced it right on the inside of it. Immediately you could tell it was sharp. Too sharp. It was cold against your skin, not as harsh as the table but unforgiving nonetheless. Anticipation rushed through you. Hands clenched within its restraints, the light flickering and flickering, her soft hands on your shoulder, icy metal on your skin, her hand slipping onto your thigh and then….

“ Ngnh!”

Your head pressed into the metal slightly. You’d have been embarrassed by your whimper if it wasn’t for the sudden warm drip down your thigh. Blood, you assumed. You’d been through worse but you still squirmed at the cut now adorned on your skin. She pushed down on your thigh, not fond of your squirming. Then she continued, tracing the blade across your thigh, waiting until your body finally relaxed, stopping itself from that state of bracing. And right when you did, she’d swipe a quick line across your shaky, burning legs. Always between your thighs, always.

It felt like electricity was rushing through you, it was all so overwhelming. You felt like you were being swallowed alive and they had barely done anything. The cuts burned and sent a rush of pain through your nerves and skin. Everytime you looked at Kiramman her face was becoming alive with intoxication. It’s like she couldn’t pull her eyes away, trained on the way your leg wobbled under her General’s hand, how you whimpered lowly, the light trace of blood on the expensive blade. You jolted again, particularly harder this time.

“ Relax. It's just a little cut, you're a big girl.”

It continued like this. You tried your best to stifle the whimpers coming from your mouth. The last thing you wanted was for them to hear what they were doing to you. Over and over she painted your thighs with your own crimson, and it hurt. It hurt, it did. And that's all it should be.

But your stomach kept getting that feeling. It burned, like the surface level cuts she gave you. It burned every time her calloused finger swiped across your sliced skin, collecting blood. It burned when she smiled suddenly, as if proud of her work. And it was scalding when you looked up and saw those blue eyes entranced. But it wasn’t pain. It wasn’t…anger. It was something else. Something that made you want to release that feeling in your throat, made you wish she meant something ungodly when she offered relief.

“ What's this?”

Your skin was hot to the touch now, sweaty. Trembling slightly, you looked up at her. For a moment you couldn’t begin to imagine what she was referring to until you traced her eyes. You silently prayed that it wasn’t what you thought. But from the way she asked, you knew.

“ What is it?”

Kiramman asked, curiosity clear in her voice. The older woman smirked, staring down at the wet spot in your panties.

“ It seems her body is more honest than she is. I think our little prisoner likes this. Her panties say so at least.”

Your face burned so hot that it rivaled the sun itself. You considered saying something, protesting and denying it. But what was the point? It did feel good, the burn felt good. And she had the evidence right in front of her. You couldn’t meet either of their gazes, looking to the side in shame. Kiramman laughed, the vibrations reaching you through her touch.

“ I knew it, she was whimpering like a dog. Isn’t that right?”

You shook your head, still refusing to look. But she wasn’t having it, using one of her hands to pull your chin. Even upside down, she looked menacing. She forced eye contact. Her face was rampant with mocking undertones, sadistic glares.

“ Is that why you’ve been so rude? You wanted us to give you a little pain, show you a good time? You really are pathetic.”

“ That’s not tr– n-ngh!”

A stinging pain after a quick slap to your clothed cunt made you whimper louder than anytime the blade touched you. It felt like a live wire tapping your skin, your legs snapping shut. The wet spot in your panties grew, your breathing uneven.

“ Insolence. Tell the truth.”

I can’t. You thought. Telling them that you’d enjoyed it, even a tiny bit, seemed more daunting suddenly than ratting.

“ I’m not ly– f-fuck…”

You weren’t sure if you’d ever be allowed to finish a sentence, her hand opening your legs followed by another slap coming down. Your eyes fluttered for a moment, your face squeezing with pain and pleasure. Kiramman used the hand she never removed to guide you. A smile was now on her lips, wide with genuine amusement.

“ Oh god, did you just… moan? You really are something aren’t you? Is that what it’s going to take? A few more slaps to your cunt and you’ll be blabbering? Or maybe…”

She lowered herself, close enough that her hair brushed against your face. You whined again, another unsuspecting smack from the older woman. You hadn’t even done anything, she just liked the way your panties got damper with each hit. Kiramman almost thanked her for it, relishing in hearing the noise even closer. She whispered to you.

“ If I make you cum enough times you’ll remember something. I bet you’d like that, letting a… what was it that you called me…a topside pig make your cunt cry?”

Finally, you gave way to the ache in your throat. A tear fell down your face suddenly. Another burning sensation forming in your stomach at the feeling of the General toying with the rim of your panties.

“ Please…”

It was quiet, almost matching the decibels of the wind. But you knew she’d heard it. It was obvious from how her grin widened, her eyes looking like ones of a deranged woman.

“ Please what? Please…make me cum? Please…let me go? Please fucking what?”

In this small moment of time, you almost felt like you were watching your dignity physically leave your body. You imagined telling her to let you go, that you didn’t know anything and a few cuts to your legs wasn’t going to change that. And you considered it, over and over. Then something played in your mind, a sick fantasy woven in desperation. In it, you asked her what you really wanted to. And in it they kissed you until you couldn’t breathe, made you finish until you didn’t know how to walk. You considered both. But only one of them made your core ache with desire. Your eyes were even glossier now. Suddenly you were working yourself up for a new kind of courage.

I can take it. I can take it. I can take it.

“ Make me cum please.”

“ Please who?”

I can take it.

“ Please, Kiramman.”

“ That’s it. Finally something coming out of your mouth other than horseshit. But you still need some manners…”

The grip that had left your ears ringing suddenly came back, her pale fingers peeking through your hair. She pulled your head up, forcing you to look at the General. You groaned, arms thrashing slightly, the sting of the metal never relenting.

“ I’m not the only one here. Go ahead, ask General Merdarda too.”

You gritted your teeth. This was already humiliating, and she was just reveling in it. Your legs were already spread, panties damp, dried crimson on your skin, hands bound above your stomach. You’d already asked, multiple times. And now you had to say it again, with a death-like grip on your hair and those hazel eyes peering at you, awaiting.

“ …but I already asked y—“

The slap was even stronger this time , the force of it driving your body insane. Merdarda grinned at you, even laughing a little at the noise you made. Another tear fell down your cheek but Kiramman was quick to wipe it. Right before she licked her finger.

“ But you didn’t ask me.”

If she slapped your cunt again you’d probably start grinding against the table, somehow making you look more pathetic than you do right now. So you gave in.

“ P-Please General Merdarda, will…”

I’m never speaking about this if I get out of here.

“…Will you please make me cum?”

“ Well would you look at that, that’s all you had to say little one. But what do we get in return? Surely you can’t expect us to make you cum with nothing given back.”

“ …But…I already said I don’t know anything.”

Kiramman scoffed.

“ Even after you soak your panties from a little cut, you still have the ability to lie. I’m almost impressed.”

She let your head drop back onto the table.

“ Almost.”

….

For a second you thought she’d kiss them.

At first glance it seemed so, her soft lips trailed over the red raised wounds, her nose spilling cold air on them. You reveled in it, an ember threatening to go a blaze within you. That was until she nipped at it, a hiss leaving your mouth. You couldn’t see her smile but you felt it sweeping across the throbbing skin. You cursed under your breath, the force behind her bite growing more rabid. She slapped the thigh she wasn’t ravaging, quick and harsh.

“ You like that, don’t you?”

There that voice was again, smooth and sultry. You weren’t sure if she was referencing the strike on your leg or her roaming fingers but murmured yes anyway. Yes to all of it. She had your shirt hitched up, breast exposed. Every once and awhile she’d toy with them, trace an outline around your nipple, wait and then pinch. So often though she found herself distracted, your features giving away how desperate you were.

Merdarda found enjoyment in watching your contort every time Kiramman did something to you, anything to you really. You were like a tight coiled spring, threatening to snap at any given moment. It's like every touch has you ready to risk everything. And you learned quickly they were into this a little more than you, mania clear across their faces. You were trembling, Kiramman taking advantage of how sensitive your legs were.

“ C’mere.”

You felt a little dizzy, seeing her lift her head up from between your legs. She grabbed your cuffed hands, pulling you up to meet her face. It all happened so fast and you winced from the strain in your shoulders. She was closer now and it was just now that you noticed the traces of blood on her lips. You hadn’t expected a kiss this time around, but it happened. It wasn’t gentle, if anything it felt like she was trying to cannibalize you with her tongue. Shamefully you pushed against her, sick to your stomach at how good she tasted. Hints of copper on your tastebuds, her wandering hands. She pulled back, being sure to bite your lip before doing so.

“ You taste that? It’s you.”

She dropped her eyes to your thighs, licking over her lips once more. A trance almost seemed to describe the hunger behind her stare, but you couldn’t be sure. You didn’t care either way, you just wanted her to do whatever was on her mind to you and soon.

“ fucking delicious.”

The whispered lust in her voice rivaled the reaction brought out from Medardas heavy hands.

“ You should taste her General. She’s sweeter than that filthy mouth of hers.”

Wordlessly, she captured your lips next. Her movements were more experienced, methodical and you felt as though you melted into her due to it. Ruby lipstick smeared onto you, a groan slipping from her as she made sure to taste everything you had to offer. The metallic tinge on her tongue made her pull in deeper. You whimpered, dizzy from lack of breath and insatiable roaming hands.By the time she pulled away your eyes were low, an unfocused look about you.

“ I wonder if her cunt tastes even better.”

Kiramman smiled sickly to herself, her gapped teeth giving you a warm tinge to your cheek.

“ We’ll know soon enough.”

….

Your wrist were nearly rubbed raw with all the thrashing you were doing. Time and time again you made attempts to close those abused legs of yours, in hopes of protecting your cunt. Unfortunately, Kiramman wasn’t pleased and she slapped it raw until you cried enough apologies. She mumbled something along the lines of ‘can’t be stupid and greedy’. But you somehow continued to be prove to be both, whining endlessly about the torture of her tongue. She never let up though, only unlatching from you to say obscene things or mark up your poor legs.

It seemed the pair held similar views, sick desires. Medarda would litter your neck and breast with purple marks shamelessly. She smelled of some expensive plant you’d never heard of, all you knew was that it made you whimper everytime her skin was pressed onto yours. She’d whisper siren-like words to you, etched in sin, rough kisses between them all. And yet you drank them into your ears like milk and honey.

“ You just came, didn’t you? Nasty girl.”

“ Do you remember anything now, hm?”

“ Don’t be so dramatic, keep your legs open for her.”

“ You must spread yourself open often. You’re a natural.”

“ Your cunts almost as noisy as you, dear.”

And when her tongue wasn’t making you drip onto the table, Kirammans words were just as wicked, if not more. Her posh accent was a coverup for all the nefarious things laced into it. A very, very poor coverup.

“ I said— keep. them. open. Unless you need a second pair of cuffs? … No? Then fucking listen.”

“ Go on, you can cry. I know it feels good. Yes filthy girl…just like that. ”

“ You’ve made a mess. Say you're sorry.”

“ Quit it, you can get a break when you remember something.”

“ Don’t act so sweet now— had quite a lot to say earlier. Isn’t that right?”

This was wrong, every bit of it. There was nothing exactly right about two high ranking officers of Piltover and Noxus eating you alive in the depths of Stillwater. The thought alone should send you running. It should have you drinking hot flashes of anger, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. But it didn’t. It only made you spread your legs wider and beg shamefully for more kisses.

It all felt so good. They felt so good and a redeemable, rational part of you hated that. But every time rationality tried to sink itself into you, Commander Kiramman and General Merdarda were right there to sink into you faster. And by god, they made you feel more full than any morale.

You were so sure you were going to die before. And that thought that hadn’t been removed just yet, except now you thought you’d pass away from all the onslaught orgasms caused by the ravenous women beside and inside you.

“ a—angh! oh god…pl–please”

Kiramman held back a sly smile, seeing the way you twitched, body so sensitive. Her fingers were drenched with you, now gloveless. Initially her signature black gloves dug inside of you but the minute she tasted you she knew she didn’t want it anywhere but on her skin. Quite roughly, she had pulled three orgasms, somehow each one more intense than the last. But that wasn’t enough, not to them. Nothing was enough until those pretty lips whimpered something they could actually report back. And even then she wasn’t sure she’d want to stop.

“ Are you going to make a mess again for us?”

Pathetically, you fought back the white of your eyes before looking down at her. She couldn’t help but grip your thighs tighter at your teary face, nodding exhaustingly down at her. Medarda kept you slightly upright, your back arching into her bicep while she sucked on your breast. Honestly she hadn’t a clue how long she’d been at it but by the rate she was going you’d look a fucked out mosaic by the time they were done. She laughed to herself but you knew it was at you. And that fact only made you rut against the table more.

“ This is going to be your fourth one dear. We’re never going to leave this room if you keep being so stubborn.”

She trailed her kisses up your chest. A peck here and a peck there. The slow ascend of her affections compared to the rapid thrust of the others fingers made you bite your lip, the skin pulling between your teeth. By the time she was up to your ear you were practically panting.

“ Or is that what you want? For us to keep making you cry until you can’t anymore?”

They’d never know it and thank god for that but you almost whispered a yes.

Kiramman couldn’t hear what was spoken but she definitely felt it. You clenched around her even harder, a long mewl spilling from you. She creased her blue brows slightly as she sped up her fingers, making sure to never be gentle with that special spot, secretly itching to hear just how loud you could get whenever you came. Her counterpart was just as wanting for it out of you, a more balanced desire about her. Even in spite of the way she pulled you in for another kiss when she heard you sob, “ ‘m s-so close..”

This time Kiramman both felt and heard it, her fingers happily accepting the tight squeeze of you. She latched back onto your clit which was practically begging to be consumed again, if you asked her. Immediately you tensed, using every ounce of self restraint to not slam her cheeks with your legs. It also got devastatingly hard to keep up with Medarda’s mouth, she pressed into you like she forgot you needed air, like you only needed them. And as the coil in your belly grew and the sloppy sounds of her eating away filled the room, you did need them.

A muffled moan ricocheted into Merdarda and she invited it wholeheartedly. When she finally pulled away, you used your bound hands to grab at her hand groping you. You squeezed it the second you felt Kiramman offer a grunt inside of your cunt. She licked you like she was rabid, lost in whatever drugs your pussy clearly had laced in it. Merdarda found it all so nasty, so amusing. Seeing the renowned Caitlyn Kiramman so cruel but so feral, and you with your slick mouth gone and lips swollen, made her clench around nothing.

Even if nobody in the room spoke it, you were all enjoying this ‘interrogation’ a little too much. That manic laughter that constantly filled Kirammans head, those stupid pigtails and flashy gadgets, had even subsided for a moment. She still wanted nothing more than to rip that smile off her face, but the way the tears journeyed down your face so easily made her want something more.

Right now all she wanted was for you to cum on her face, and she nearly keeled over when she finally heard you sing that song for her. A moan that could only be replicated in the best whorehouses of Zaun left you. The pair both smiled the moment they heard you whimper what they already knew.

“ i th—‘m gonn—“

You could barely manage a single word, back practically ingraining itself in her arm the way you arched over it.

“ Let it out, make a mess.”

Your body truly was more honest than you and clearly obedient because the second she said it you did. Your self restraint abandoned you, left you on that table shaking and crying. Your bruised legs kissed her cheeks (not so gently) as she ate and thrusted at the same pace she did before, never letting up. Even with your legs shaking and around her she just drove in deeper. The pleasure slipped into overdrive making you shake your head, trying your best to pull away, use your hands, anything to make her stop. But Merdarda snatched your cuffed hands.

“ kira—kirammannn!”

Wow, that’s the only time she’s heard her last name and wanted to hear it more. But she ignored you, knowing you were begging for her to stop. By now your legs had dropped, too weak to hold up. Your whole body practically vibrated as you lost your breath. Maybe it was the burning sensation ripping through you or the cotton in your head but you stupidly turned your head to look up at Medarda.

“ help…me…gonna fu— die!”

First she looked at you, toyed with your nipple as your hands fought against hers. So pretty and so pathetic, she thought. Then looked down at Kiramman, whose eyes now opened and met hers. An amused glint was in her blue tinted stare and suddenly Medarda couldn’t think of a single reason she’d help you.

“ She’s eating child, don’t be so rude. Have some manners.”

She was looking at you when she said it, but from the mockery in her tone you knew it was meant for more than just you. And it was confirmed when a smile traced itself onto your throbbing cunt. But it quickly went away. She was eating after all.

“ i canttt! pleasee!”

Kiramman didn’t stop until you went silent, unable to speak, inconsistent babbles of nonsense here and there. You weren’t even shaking now, just twitching and breathing like the oxygen in the room had been sucked out. When she finally got up from between your legs she couldn’t help herself and gave two quick bites. A strangle mix of a hiss and moan could be heard as you watched her stand. She lifted her fingers to your mouth, shoving them inside.

You expected her to be rough and jam them down your throat but to your surprise she simply swirled them around your mouth. Despite that voice in your head you sucked at them tiredly hoping to please them. And pleased they were. They both watched as you weakly licked her fingers clean. By the time she pulled away they both knew that previous orgasm just couldn’t be the last.

“ Do you remember anything now?”

You were fucked out, but not that fucked out.

“…no”

Thank god, they both thought in unison.

“ I guess it’s my turn then.”

…

BONUS

Kiramman walked with pure candor on her face. She heard the whispers as she walked past but she ignored them. What was the point in entertaining fools? Besides, the moment her eyes met theirs they always went silent. Always. Today hadn’t been the best day for her. Most days weren’t, hunting for that psycho and her friends wasn’t an easy job or a fun one. But she wouldn’t rather be doing anything else. Well…maybe someone else…

“ Don’t let anyone in.”

The guard nodded dutifully.

By the time she reached the room, she was already imagining her sweet song. She didn’t have to wait long to hear it in person because it was practically blasting throughout the room the moment the door opened. She closed the door behind her, smiling deviously as she placed her heavy cape onto the chair.

“ She’s even wetter today, if you can believe it.”

She laughed softly, “ Oh I can believe it. How many has she got so far?”

“ Just two. Don’t worry, you didn’t take too long.”

“ God, I know. I got caught up with that fool Salo.”

Medarda laughed now, knowing all too well how annoying he could be.

“ medardaaa”

Your toes curled, struggling to handle the two large fingers inside of you. Both were devastatingly skilled with their fingers but hers were undoubtedly bigger. Way bigger. And if the size wasn’t agonizing enough, she was hitting that spot over and over. This time your hands were free, and you used them to grip her bicep.

Suddenly your throat had a new necklace. Not a very nice one. She squeezed her free hand around your throat, speeding her fingers. Clearly she wasn’t a fan of your interruption, despite the way her cunt ached when she heard her name in such a filthy way.

“ Can’t you see us talking? And you didn’t even greet your Commander. She came all this way to see you.”

You thought you were going to pass out, the squelching sounds and sultry insults becoming distant. Your mind and body gave into her once the resisting clearly wasn’t doing anything. And you loved it. Each filthy posh coated word, lingering touch, rushed collided lips left you undone. The strength behind their hands made you want to never be without it. And for the past two weeks it continued to, leaving you right here in this room on this desk, unable to breath, only able to cry and spread your legs wider.

Medarda let go, allowing Kiramman to finally slip beside you. As much as she loved the song you offered, she wanted your lips. You gasped into her, them giving you no time to actually catch a breath between the transfer. Lightheaded, you still pushed against her, wetness dripping from your face to hers. She pulled away, licked the rogue tear from the corner of your mouth.

By the time she was looking at you, you were heaving, clasping onto her bicep instead of Medardas now. She watched with such marvel as your face contorted into those beautiful expressions, such a drastic difference from the stupid girl she interrogated. Logically she knew she couldn’t call what all of you were doing an interrogation. So she opted to saying ‘some investigating work’ the few times someone inquired about her abrupt departures. It wasn’t a complete lie, her and Medarda were investigating something every couple of days. your cunt

Her gaze traced to the brown fingers moving in and out of you, then to glisten on her General's hand and finally to your thighs. They were healing nicely. Unfortunately for her they wouldn’t leave a scar according to the doctor she took you to. She almost frowned at the thought.

But then she heard you whisper a quick, “ h-hi Kiramman…”

She smiled at you, a warm thought coming to her.

“ Hi, filthy girl.”

We’ll make sure they scar next time.

P.s. They had the officers who beat you killed 😜

[supernovafics]

𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐀

pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x actress!reader

word count: 5.9k words

summary: in which, after knowing of him for a while, you finally meet eddie munson at a movie premiere

warnings: explicit language, some fluff, smut (18+), fingering (f!receiving)

author’s note: yes this is very much inspired by the harry styles song. i had this idea like a year ago and then i left it unfinished for months upon months but it’s finally finally done now so enjoy<333

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“Aside from Steve, is there anyone else I’m going to know at this premiere?”  

Maybe you should’ve asked Melissa that question before you were on your way to the theater in West Hollywood where the movie premiere was taking place. That would’ve given you more time to mentally prepare if your publicist’s answer was no; which would mean that you’d have to have a fake smile plastered on your face during most of the night. 

You slightly shifted in the backseat of the car you sat in with Melissa on your left. You were trying not to move too much or even get comfortable in your seat during the drive for fear of somehow messing up the simple black dress you were wearing. Tonight didn’t even really matter for you, you knew that. You were only going to this premiere to support a friend, and the red carpet walk you’d have to do would be a quick and very unimportant one, but you still felt the need to make sure that you were perfect.

Melissa started listing names you quickly recognized, people you’d worked with before or had a handful of passing conversations with. “Oh, and Eddie Munson is gonna be there as well.” 

“Oh,” You said, looking down at your dress and smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle. You cleared your throat and attempted to act as nonchalant about it as possible. “Oh, cool. Why is he going to a movie premiere?” 

“His band worked on the soundtrack for the movie.”

You nodded at that. “Oh, okay.” 

“You two should try to get a picture together. That would be really great,” She said, taking a quick glance at you before going back to look at her phone. “After the interview thing, people would love seeing this.” 

You more so saw that whole situation as “the interview incident” instead of simply “the interview thing.” It was only a few months ago when you had to do some promotional interviews for a movie you filmed earlier in the year, and you had been randomly asked about your favorite music. You talked about Corroded Coffin’s latest album and you specifically mentioned Eddie’s great songwriting and voice. You went on something close to a ramble about him and his band and then regretted it immediately when you were done because you knew that you probably sounded something equivalent to an obsessed fangirl. And, of course, none of it got cut out of the video. 

And then, about a month later, Melissa sent you an article about an interview Eddie did where he mentioned one of your movies and also said that you were one of his favorite actresses. You felt entirely indifferent about the article because it just seemed way too coincidental to you. You knew that his publicist and Melissa were a part of the same firm, so it made sense that they would wanna do something to potentially “stir” something up. 

You let out a sigh. “I know that you told his publicist to have him mention me in his next interview.” 

Melissa only shrugged in response. “He and his band have gotten so big in the last year, and you’re getting really big right now too. This could be a great moment.” She took another look at you and smiled. “Just saying.”

You knew that in the grand scheme of things, she only wanted what was best for you, and you appreciated that; it was why she’d been your publicist since you had started your career in your teens. But, that didn’t mean that you liked these kinds of curated moments, pretending and staging friendships or even relationships— it all just felt so dumb to you, and it was your least favorite part of your job. But, you still always found yourself listening. 

“I’ll try,” You ultimately told her. “No promises, though.”

When you made it to the theater, it was a sea of people and cameras, loud voices and bright flashes; none of which necessarily fazed you anymore. In the beginning, you had loved this kind of thing because it all just felt so magical and surreal. You’d get excited and nervous jitters at the “glamour” of it all. Now going to any event only felt like putting on a show; it somehow felt like more of a performance than actually doing a scene in front of a whole production crew of people. 

You followed Melissa and listened to her tell you what the plan of action would be for the next half an hour until the actual premiere started— you’d take some quick pictures, and then she’d introduce you to “a few very important people that you should build some sort of a rapport with;” the director of the movie and a few of the executive producers. You nodded along to her words, understanding that you’d need to turn on your charm during those brief introductions, while your eyes were focused on the red carpet just like almost everyone else’s was— looking at Steve and the female lead of the movie, walking the carpet separately and then also taking a few pictures together.  

You smiled a bit at seeing Steve because, more often than not, it was nice to see him. The first big movie you did was with him; a romantic comedy that you now saw as way too cheesy, but you still had the fondest memories of it. The two of you didn’t talk or see each other as often as you did back then during filming and during all of the press that was done for the movie, but you’d still always consider him a good friend. One of your first real friends in the industry, even though everyone had always tried to say that it was more.  

You then noticed Eddie and his bandmates. He looked nice— a simple black suit with a white button-up underneath, a bowtie that you couldn’t help but think was insanely cute, and his long curly hair mildly tamed in a way that looked effortless. 

Almost too abruptly his eyes met yours. Instead of immediately looking away and avoiding his gaze, you gave him a small smile and nod, and he did the same; that was the extent of the nonverbal interaction. Seconds later, you were being ushered along by Melissa and you pulled your eyes away from Eddie and focused on what she was telling you. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

In your mind, an entire hour was more than enough time spent at the after-party. 

You’d been in enough conversations with unfamiliar faces, introducing yourself and attempting to make new “connections” with people, as per Melissa’s request. And you also talked to a few old friends, accepting invitations to get lunch sometime soon and “catch up about life.”

You were ready to finally head home for the night, and you tried to spot Melissa among the small crowd of people to tell her just that. Maybe you’d even say a quick goodbye to Steve and congratulate him one more time on the movie; which you had actually really enjoyed. 

A tap on your shoulder grabbed your attention and you turned your head. You weren’t entirely sure who you were expecting to see, but it definitely wasn’t Eddie Munson. 

“Hey, I’m Eddie,” He said and extended his hand toward you, which you took after only a millisecond of awkward hesitation. 

“Hi,” You responded softly, suddenly feeling so nervous for some reason, and then said your name as well. 

You had come to the conclusion early on in your career that you shouldn’t meet people that you admired or were fond of because nine times out of ten they actually turned out to be assholes. You only knew about Eddie from afar and you honestly wouldn’t have minded keeping it that way. But, that wasn’t the current set of circumstances you were in, so you had to completely throw that mindset away.  

“I didn’t know your band worked on the soundtrack until tonight. The songs you guys had in the movie were great,” You told him, voice coming back to life. “I really love all of your music, honestly.”

“Thanks,” He smiled at you. “I love your stuff too.”

You gave him a small shy smile as you shook your head. “It’s okay, you don’t have to do that.”

“No, I’m serious,” He told you, and he actually sounded like he was being honest. “That Indie film you did last year was really great.”

It was hard to hide the immediate shock you felt at his words. “Oh, okay, wow, thank you…” You shook your head again. “Sorry, I was just so sure that your publicist told you to say that in your next interview or something after the interview I did came out.”  

“Oh, yeah, she did, but it didn’t feel right saying that without seeing anything of yours, so I watched a bunch of your stuff.”

Hearing him say that warmed your heart a bit and you had to pull your eyes away from his in response at first— he saw your movies and actually liked them. And then you thought about something. 

“Oh god, I hope you didn’t go too far back in my filmography.”

He smirked at your sudden shyness. “Don’t worry, I didn’t watch that Disney Channel Halloween movie you did when you were, like, seventeen.”

“Good,” You told him, laughing a bit. 

Before either of you could say anything else, a photographer was walking up and grabbing your attention. 

“Hi, can I get a quick picture of you two?”

You both nodded and stepped closer to one another; Eddie placed an arm around your waist and you did the same to him. You told yourself that everything about this moment was completely and utterly innocent and friendly, even though having him this close to you felt too nice. 

When the photographer walked away after saying a quick “Thanks,” you pulled away from each other and you pretended that you didn’t immediately miss his warmth. 

“Can’t wait to see that circulating everywhere tomorrow,” You said. 

Eddie laughed a bit. “Our publicists would be very proud.” 

“This just might be able to get me out of going to this annoying event tomorrow,” You responded and then noticed his eyes becoming fixated on something behind you. You tilted your head at him. “What’s wrong?”

His gaze met yours again. “Do you wanna meet the other guys? They keep gesturing to me.”

You glanced behind you and noticed his two bandmates standing maybe fifteen feet away from you both. They were waving wildly at Eddie and then immediately stopped and attempted to look as normal as possible when you looked at them. You laughed as you turned back to Eddie. “Yeah, sure, I’d love to meet them.”

He waved them over and then looked at you. “I should probably warn you that they still get starstruck over almost any celebrity they see, so yeah… They might be a little intense, at first.”

“That’s how I was in the beginning too. Until I realized that most people you meet suck anyway,” You said with a shrug, and then realized your words and immediately felt like an idiot. “Oh, um, not you, though, you’re cool.”

He let out a quiet laugh at how flustered you became. “You’re cool too.”  

Instead of responding with an awkward “Thank you,” you turned your attention to the pair now walking over to you both. 

“This is Gareth and Jeff,” Eddie said, pointing out each of them, but you already knew who was who. That was probably the funniest part about meeting other “celebrities;” introductions felt unnecessary but they still always just seemed like the normal thing to do. 

You smiled. “Hi, I’m–”

“Oh, we definitely know who you are,” Jeff interrupted, which made you laugh a little. “That movie you did last year was so good. We watched it a bunch of times when we were on tour a couple of months ago. It’s awesome to meet you.”

“Thanks so much,” You said. “It’s great to meet you guys too. I love your guys’ band.” 

“My personal favorite of yours is that romcom you did with Steve Harrington. I forced them to watch it at least three times,” Gareth jumped in. “Oh, we also just met him too. He invited us to his house for the after-party he’s having. You’re coming, right, Eds?”

He nodded at the question. “Yeah, sure.” You then felt his eyes land on you. “Are you going?”  

If it had been anyone else asking you that, it would’ve probably felt easier to say your initially honest answer of “No.”��

Steve found any and every reason to have a party, but you had to admit, at least tonight’s made sense. When you talked to him earlier in the night, he mentioned it to you, like he always did— invitations were always extended to you when he saw you or knew you were in town— but you hadn’t actually been to one of his parties in what felt like forever. It just had never truly been your thing. 

Now that you knew Eddie was going, though, you actually wanted to say yes to the invitation for the first time in a long time. And right then you decided not to think about what exactly that meant. 

Ultimately, you nodded. “Yeah, I was planning on going to it. At least, for a little bit.” 

It almost felt funny how much things had shifted in the past ten minutes. You had been so ready to leave and head home for the night, and in a way you still were, but now you also wanted to do something different— something you hadn’t done in a while.  

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“You actually came for once,” Steve said in your ear when he pulled you in for a hug; it was the only way to be heard over the loud music. He squeezed you tight and you could practically hear the smile in his voice. “See, and this is why I always invite you to everything, because I knew you’d eventually say yes again.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s how probability works,” You told him with a laugh before pulling away and moving to the side a bit so that he could greet Gareth, Jeff, and Eddie. 

Everything moved quickly after it was decided that you’d be going to the party too. You finally found Melissa because she had your phone and small purse that couldn’t hold anything more than just your wallet. She didn’t question you on the fact that you were going with Eddie and his band, but you could tell that she knew that you were going because of him; she had known you long enough to read you pretty well. You had a feeling that you’d get a phone call from her in the morning, asking all of the questions that she couldn’t right then. 

The four of you left the party together and made the near-hour-long Uber ride to Steve’s huge home in Malibu. In your eyes, it was a classic celebrity house party— loud music, varying degrees of famous people, and the faint smell of weed. You were almost too easily reminded of the last time you’d gone to one of his parties; the abrupt offer of something much stronger than weed from a random guy and your immediate no, and you left after saying quick “Hi’s” and having brief conversations with a few people you knew. 

This was not at all your scene and it never entirely had been; not even when you had been a teenager that was abruptly thrust into this world. You were scared of doing something to ruin everything that you’d worked so hard to have. Everything you did was judged, no matter what, so you always felt that there was no room for you to not be perfect.

This moment was different, though. You were pushing yourself out of your typical comfort zone, and right then you didn’t want to even inwardly admit why you were doing it.

“So, what are you like at this kind of thing?” You asked Eddie as you both watched Gareth and Jeff immediately join the hordes of people in the living room. 

“Depends on the party,” He answered. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to ‘Hollywood parties,’ but the guys love dragging me to them.”

“All of these parties are basically the same; equal parts mundane and very ridiculous,” You shrugged, and then realizing he was like you when it came to parties made you think of something. “Is it okay if I show you something that’s away from all of this?”

Eddie nodded. “I’d love that, actually.”

Without thinking too much, you grabbed one of his hands and led him away from the living room. 

You knew Steve’s house pretty much like the back of your hand; it was too nice not to. One of the first few times you’d been there— at a different party of his that you had forced yourself to go to before you realized that he wouldn’t feel offended if you said no— you walked around for an hour simply exploring all of the spots you hadn’t been to before. 

There were a few guest rooms that had balconies with such nice views of the ocean in the distance and a game room that had a pool table in the center and some vintage arcade-type games tucked into the corner. 

And then there was your favorite spot in the house; the theater room, where a few sets of couches faced a huge projector screen that at most times was playing random cartoons instead of movies. 

When you found the remote hidden within a heap of blankets, you turned on the projector, which brought some light to the room. A random episode of Tom & Jerry started playing, and you decided to leave it going, but just turned down the volume a bit. You offered one of the blankets to Eddie, which he accepted, and then you grabbed another and wrapped it around your shoulders. You two made the silent decision to sit on the couch all the way in the back. 

It was quiet for a moment and then Eddie was saying, “So, you and Steve dated, right?”

That question didn’t necessarily surprise you, but it still made you a little annoyed; more so at yourself than at Eddie. 

This wouldn’t even be a question on anyone’s mind if you had done things a little differently five years ago when you and Steve did that infamous romcom. Pretty much everyone thought that you and him were dating during that time and rumors circulated because of that. And since they were never outwardly denied— a decision that Melissa and Steve’s publicist thought was the best— they continued to circulate until a year later when Steve actually did get a girlfriend. 

You shook your head at his question. “No, we’ve always just been good friends.”

Eddie nodded understandingly and a silence lingered between you two for a moment, and then you felt the need to explain further. 

“He was kinda my first friend in this ‘world,’ actually,” You continued. “Before the movie I did with him, I had just been in a bunch of small things that didn’t really matter. But, after that romcom came out, that was what kinda really pushed me into all of this. There were so many more eyes on me so suddenly, and it was really fucking weird at first. He grew up in all of this, so he knows ‘how it works,’ I guess, and aside from Melissa, he was the only person that checked in about how all of this fame shit was treating me.”

“That’s really nice,” Eddie said softly. “I couldn’t imagine going into all of this alone. I don’t think I’d be able to do any of this shit without Gareth and Jeff. Don’t tell them I said that, though.”

You laughed a little. “Your secret’s safe with me. You guys grew up together, right?”

“Yeah, this small town in Indiana,” He answered. “We met in middle school.”

“That’s really nice too. I wish I still had friends from that long ago,” You told him. At this point, it was even hard to remember the friends you had in middle school and high school before you moved to California in the middle of your Sophomore year with your parents. It honestly felt like an entirely different life you had lived. 

“When did you move here?”

“When I was sixteen. It was kinda my birthday present actually. I had been begging and pleading to do this since I was thirteen, but my parents weren’t fully on board until I got a little older,” You answered, shifting slightly and adjusting your blanket. “It was kinda like how a kid begs for a puppy for Christmas.”

“Your puppy was Hollywood,” Eddie concluded, giving you a small smile. 

“Exactly,” You nodded and then stopped abruptly. “That probably sounds stupid.”

He shook his head. “No, it doesn’t. You knew what you wanted. I think that’s pretty fucking cool.”

“A lot of people thought it was the opposite of cool,” You said, thinking about the things that the kids in your grade and old friends had said to you. “I was always so quiet and kinda shy, still am sometimes, so nobody understood why I wanted to get into acting.”

“Why did you?”

There was a long-winded explanation you could’ve given him, but it felt like too much for this moment. 

“I could just see it,” You ultimately answered with a brief upturn of your shoulders. “Weirdly enough, the thought of acting never once scared me. It always just made sense.”

You wondered if you were being too vague, if you should’ve just told him about those times in the mirror where you would recite monologues from your favorite movies and then eventually ventured out to random ones that you found online. 

You didn’t need to explain further, though, because Eddie nodded. “I get that. There was this moment when me and the guys performed at our eighth-grade talent show. It was terrible, I’m honestly glad there’s no video proof of it circling the internet right now. But still, after that night, I just knew that that was where I always wanted to be. Onstage. Performing. I felt it.” 

“Exactly,” You said as you nodded at his words. “It’s a feeling. And I have no idea how to fully explain it because it feels so hard to put it all into actual words, but yeah, it’s a feeling.” 

It felt so refreshing having this conversation with him. You couldn’t remember the last time you had talked so easily with someone you just met— you’d had conversations like this with Steve before, even though he couldn’t fully get it because he was quite literally born into this industry, and you’d even had this kind of conversation with Melissa, but she could never fully understand what you meant either. 

Eddie was different, though, obviously so, and it didn’t even matter that you two were in different parts of this fast-paced industry��� music on one side and acting on the other. It felt like two sides of the same coin; different, but somehow you two could so easily relate to one another. Any and all initial awkwardness you had felt when you first talked to him back at the after-party had so effortlessly faded away as you learned just how similar you two were. 

“Okay, I have a stupid question,” Eddie said after a moment. 

You had no idea what he was about to ask, but you couldn’t help but smile anyway. “I love those.”

“Feel free not to answer and tell me how much of an idiot I am for asking this,” He started and even in the semi-darkness you could see the redness starting to tint his cheeks, which only further intrigued you about what he was going to say. “Are, um, doing sex scenes weird?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at first; a soft one that surprised you as much as it made Eddie’s cheek turn an even deeper shade of red. 

“Nevermind, nevermind.”

“No, no, it’s okay. Honestly, that’s not a stupid question,” You told him and then thought about how to answer it. “They definitely intimidated me at first. The first time I had to just kiss someone I thought I would immediately fall in love with them on the spot.” You remembered the first on-camera kiss you ever had to do. It was for a stupidly bad teen movie and kissing the guy felt awkward until it didn’t, and then it simply felt like what it was— acting. “But, it’s really not like that at all. Everything just feels so fake and staged and you do so many takes of that one thing from a bunch of different angles, usually, that it all really seems like nothing after a while. And it’s pretty much the same way with sex scenes.”

Eddie nodded. “Okay. That makes sense.”

“Sorry, am I ruining movies for you?” You asked, mainly joking with your words. Once you had learned the logistics behind everything, it did slightly make things feel less “magical” to you. It was hard to watch movies now and not think about how certain shots were set up and what specific angles meant.  

“No, I’m loving this peek behind the curtain,” Eddie said, playfully smiling at you, and that made you want to tell him more. 

“Okay, so it’s all just so mechanical. Like, choreography pretty much.” You shifted so that you were a lot closer to him. You let your blanket fall off your shoulders as you reached out to grab Eddie’s hand and place it on your waist. “So, they’d tell you to put your hand there and I’d put my hand on your cheek.” You moved to do exactly that. “But not too high because then the camera wouldn’t be able to catch your expression. And then I’d lean in, tilting my head in a slightly awkward position, and we’d kiss.” You didn’t move to do that, even though you were surprised by how much you found yourself suddenly wanting to. “It, um, feels so unnatural, but it looks great on camera. And then with a sex scene, it’s kind of the same thing, except more… movement, obviously. And more directions to make sure everything looks okay on camera too.” 

Eddie nodded understandingly again as his hand on your waist mindlessly moved down and settled in a much more comfortable position on your hip. In turn, your hand dropped from his cheek to the curve where his neck met his shoulder, pressing softly into the collar of his white shirt. You didn’t realize it at first, but you were practically in his lap now, and surprisingly enough, it didn’t feel weird or awkward; it felt okay, comfortable even. 

With your explanation over, it would’ve made sense for you and Eddie to pull away from each other, but something had silently shifted in the past minute. For some reason, it didn’t feel right to go back to sitting on your different parts of the couch, wrapped up in separate blankets, after being this close to one another. 

The warmth radiating from the hand on your hip and the rest of his body felt a thousand times more comforting than the blanket had. You pushed yourself closer to Eddie, settling in his lap completely, straddling his waist, and smiling at the soft sound he let out as you did so. Both of his hands took hold of your hips and gave a light squeeze that made a warm feeling settle in the pit of your stomach. 

A part of you could recognize that this entire moment, this entire night, didn’t make sense. But then, at the same time, it definitely did— all of this simply felt inevitable. Something equivalent to this moment had been building from the moment you mentioned him and his band in that stupid interview all those months ago and when he then returned the compliment weeks later in his own interview.  

So what was there really to do aside from lean into the inevitable? 

And you also didn’t want to think too much at all. 

What you wanted to do was kiss him. Honestly, you found yourself wanting to be as close as you possibly could be to him in this huge but quiet room. 

Instead, though, for the time being, you softly said, “I have a stupid question too.”

Your hands resting on his shoulders moved to the nape of his neck. The thought of his music was suddenly on your mind too and it was the one thought that you didn’t want to push away. 

Eddie smiled a little. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “That one song you have.” You didn’t even have to say the name for him to know which one you were talking about. “Is it really about…”

You trailed off with your question and Eddie finished it for you. “Cumming?”

You gave him another quick nod. “Yeah.”

If he could ask you about sex scenes, then you could ask about something somewhat equivalent. 

The speculations about what the song was about were there the second it came out, but like most musicians, Eddie never outwardly confirmed nor denied song theories to pretty much any of his songs. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” He said, another teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Anyone can see it how they want to. Everything’s up for interpretation.”

You playfully rolled your eyes at him. “Thank you for that interview answer.”

Your gaze settled back on him and you got the sudden urge to run your fingers through his hair, his mop of curls that still looked so effortlessly perfect, so you did. His sigh in contentment was immediate as your fingers twisted in his curls, not at all tugging or pulling, although you were fairly certain he wouldn’t have minded that either. 

“Can I please get a real answer now?” You asked softly and Eddie didn’t hesitate to nod. 

“Yes, it’s about that. But, more specifically it’s about the girl. Making her come,” He told you as a hand pulled away from your hip and instead slipped beneath your dress, traveling upward along the outer part of your thigh. 

“Oh, really?” You said, trying your hardest to feign innocence and nonchalance, even though his words made you want to explode and you could feel something stir deep inside your stomach. You slowly shifted in his lap, spreading your legs a little further and silently telling him where you really wanted his hand to be.  

Eddie picked up on your not-so-subtle hint and his hand finished its journey up your thigh and settled at the waistband of your underwear. “Mhm.”

Silently, he slipped past the thin barrier and you sucked in a quick breath when his middle finger started teasing your already slick folds. 

“Shit, you’re soaked,” He whispered, and all you could do was hum in response. 

One of his fingers slipped inside of you and your eyes squeezed shut and then you couldn’t hold back your loud moan when he immediately added another.

“Eddie…” Was all you could manage to say in the quietest voice as your eyes slipped shut and you focused on the feeling of his fingers inside of you, somehow quickly finding and hitting the most perfect spots. 

“God, you feel so good. You’re squeezing my fingers so tight,” He said, voice low as his thumb found your clit. 

Your head tipped back as another soft moan fell from your lips and Eddie’s mouth immediately went to your now-exposed neck. He nipped and pecked at the soft skin, leaving marks that you were certain would be there later and would be a bitch to cover up, but in that moment you couldn’t find it in you to care in the slightest. 

You couldn’t even find it in you to feel embarrassed about how quickly and easily he was able to bring you so close to coming on his fingers. Your heart hammered in your chest and your stomach twisted up in knots as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. 

Slowly, you grinded down against him so that you could meet every thrust of his fingers. You started practically riding his hand and the low sound Eddie let out as he watched you made a small smile tug at your lips. 

“Fuck,” He groaned, his other hand squeezing your hip and slightly guiding you. “You’re so perfect.” 

You let out the softest sound. “I'm so close.”

“Yeah, you’re doing so well for me, sweetheart. Come on. Come for me,” Eddie whispered, pulling away from your neck because he wanted to watch you come undone on his fingers. 

And you did. With his thumb expertly circling your clit along with one particularly rough thrust of his fingers, hitting a spot that made you see stars, you were pushed over the edge. Your eyes screwed shut and you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from screaming. 

Eddie continued fingering you through your orgasm, waiting until your soft moans faded out and your quick breathing became a little more steady before slowly pulling his fingers out. It was hard not to whimper at the loss of contact as your eyes opened again and you looked at him. 

“Yeah, that’s exactly what the song’s about,” He said with a teasing smile on his face as he licked his fingers clean, which was quite literally the hottest thing you’d ever seen.

And it was then that you realized that you hadn’t even kissed him yet, and you further realized that you needed to change that immediately. 

You leaned in and met his lips in the messiest kiss. Tongues clashed and when you tasted yourself on his mouth, you couldn’t bite back your moan. 

Eddie’s hands went to your hips and then circled your back to pull you impossibly closer to him. You wished there were no layers separating the two of you; not your dress and not his suit, nothing. 

“I need you,” You said the three words in between quick kisses. 

“Here?” Eddie whispered against your lips, which made you remember exactly where you two were and pulled you out of the lust-driven haze you were in. 

You parted from Eddie, leaning back a bit and meeting his eyes. “I’m friends with Steve, but I don’t know if our friendship is on that kind of level, so no definitely not here.”

He laughed a little at the playfulness in your tone. “We can go to my place. I’m only like thirty minutes from here.”

“That sounds perfect,” You smiled at him and then kissed him one more time before shifting off of his lap and then standing up to readjust your dress on slightly wobbly legs.

The party was still in full swing when you and Eddie emerged from the theater room and headed back into the living room, so no one took notice of you and him slipping out the front door.  

Eddie’s hand found yours as you two waited for the car to come and he didn’t drop it once you two were settled in the backseat, sitting as close as you possibly could be.  

The smallest part of you wondered when some sort of logical thinking was going to settle in. You never did things like this; it was rare that you simply even kissed someone that you just met, let alone did anything more. However, you realized that you couldn’t remember the last time you felt this comfortable and okay with someone new either, and that made you understand that this was the logical thing to do. Everything about this moment simply felt right. 

“What are you thinking about?” Eddie whispered to you, mouth right at your ear. 

“You,” You answered, voice matching his soft tone, and the smile he gave you in response was probably the sweetest thing you’d ever seen. 

[mingiswow]

Little flower | Song Mingi

Pairing: vampire!Mingi x afab!reader

Genre: modern fantasy, romance, smut (MINORS DNI)

Word Count: 12,6k

Summary: Mingi has lived almost 500 years yet he never felt anything like he felt for you, the innocent kind barista he met at a charity event.

Content Warning: mentions of blood, mentions of food, feeding from humans, mentions of killing/hunting humans, reader suffers attempt robbery with physical attack, Mingi call reader my dear an insane ammount of times

Smut warning: porn with plot, tit sucking, oral (reader recieving), piv, unprotected sex (don't do that kiddos), creampie, Mingi big dick agenda

⚠️ English is not my first language, so sorry in advance if there’s any mistakes

The beep of your wristwatch and the bell of the door rang at the same time, announcing it was 3 pm and your regular customer was right on time. Again. 

He entered the shop and the whole atmosphere seemed to change, the few people that were there looking at the mysterious man that seemed to come out straight out of a period movie. He was tall, handsome, his hair was on the longer side, always slicked back perfectly, except for a single strand that fell on his forehead, he always dressed in long black clothes, even if it was spring or summer, the clothes seemed tailored for him, customized for his lean body. He always wore a pair of red sunglasses that hung low on his nose so his dark eyes could look at you like he was staring into your soul.

“Welcome back, sir? Your usual?” you asked behind the counter, the smile Mingi grew to be obsessed with on your soft lips. He nodded.

Mingi hated the taste of coffee, yet he found himself going to your little coffee shop everyday at 3 pm, asking for the same decaffeinated espresso just so he could interact with you even for a few seconds and stare at you. 

The man met you for the first time at a charity event he and his friends were sponsoring, and you were there with your little booth distributing coffee and baked goods for the people, always with that sweet smile of yours. He couldn’t help but be captivated by your innocence, by the way you’d move so smoothly around as you belonged to the place, by the way you were so kind to everyone, by how skin looked so smooth and soft and your neck seemed to call for his name exposed by your tied up hair. So he made his little ritual after that day to pay a visit to you in the coffee shop you worked at just so he could admire you.

“Here you go, sir” you handed him the little mug.

“I already told you to call me Mingi” you felt your cheeks heat up at his intense stare, his lips curved slightly upwards in a hint of a smile. You just nodded, not really sure what else to do, he always broke you with his eyes.

He sat at the same table he always sat, the one slightly beside the counter where he had a perfect view of you. You were so delicate, so precious, a flower in the bloom. You looked so beautiful even with the large shirt of your uniform and the apron over it, your hair tied up in a ponytail, and that beautiful smile of yours always on your lips. He admired you from afar as you laughed at something silly your coworker said, the bitter taste of the drink contrasting to the sweet view of you.

“He’s looking at you again” Jaemin, your coworker, commented as he cleaned the espresso machine. “I’m telling you, he’s obsessed” you shook your head.

“I think you are seeing things” you leaned on the counter looking at your friend. “I just think he’s a very meticulous man” you shrugged.

It has been a while since Mingi started to go to the shop, he wasn’t your only regular, but he was definitely the most amusing one. You thought you were getting delusional when you started to think he was staring at you one day, but Jaemin also noticed, and since that day you started to notice a pattern in his behaviour. He always came by the same time, always sat at the same table and would stay looking at the counter, more specifically, you. 

You tried to shake those thoughts, but your coworker kept bugging you that he was indeed going to the shop to watch you. He even tried to convince you to have a conversation bigger than the usual ones, but the man always broke you, especially the way he would look at you through his tinted sunglasses. 

When Mingi finished his coffee, he lingered a little longer, playing with the mug, before getting on his feet to leave. As always, he went to you to give his tip, he would always give the tip later just so he could say his goodbye to you, and left. But as soon as he left the shop he felt something, a tingle in his head, an omen. 

As the night fell and the last customers left the shop, you decided to finally let Jaemin go, since he was already late for his date, and closed to shop alone. When you were locking the last lock you felt something hit your head and all went black.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The smell of melted candle invaded your nostrils as you slowly woke up, your eyes gradually opening. As soon as your sight was fully focused, you took a look around where you were and did not recognize it, that definitely wasn’t your room. The room was dimly lit, the main lamp turned off, just a lampshade turned on by your side shining an indirect shade of warm yellow and a few candles by the desk in front of the bed. The bed was bigger than king size, you seemed so little in the middle of it, the soft covers in a dark shade of burgundy, the pillowcases in a matching tone of silk. The big windows by the side were closed by the thick black curtains, covering any sign of sunlight. 

You tried to move but the pain in your body was big, and the events of the night before came back to you. 

You heard footsteps coming by and watched attentively at the open door. 

“I see you woke up” it was Mingi, and he was smiling.

You almost didn’t recognized the man, he was wearing a more casual attire, with dark blue dress pants and a white button up shirt with only half of the buttons buttoned, leaving part of his chest to show, his hair was left natural, falling into his forehead, his usual dark and hidden eyes held a soft and warm gaze, almost caring. You couldn’t help but stare at him for a little, he was certainly gorgeous.

“Does it still hurt?” he calmly entered the room, hands in his pockets. You nodded. “They hit you pretty hard, huh?”

“What happened after they hit me?” you asked, now sat on the bed.

“You fainted, gladly I was passing by and saw and, well, now you’re in my house”

“Thank you, really” you bowed to him. 

“No need to thank me, I’m glad you’re safe and well” he came closer and suddenly you felt too aware of yourself. “Now let me see that bruise” he gently grabbed your head, turning to the side, you hissed a little out of pain when he passed his fingers over the spot the man hit you. “Let me put some pomade for you here, okay?” his long fingers were gentle, delicate, featherlike.

“Truly, I don’t know how to thank you enough” you shied. “You saved my life and probably the shop. If there’s any way I can thank you, please, let me know”.

Mingi pondered for a while, should he? It was dangerous, yet, he would love to have such an exquisite thing like you as his companion. If he wanted to get closer to you more than admiring you from afar, to get to know you, it was the perfect opportunity. His friends would call him nuts, but it was his chance to have his way with you.

“If you want a way to thank me” he started, “I know a way” you turned to look at him, your innocent eyes expectant. Oh how he wanted to corrupt you. “Next week a friend of mine will host a party, a ball if you will, and I’d love you to have you as my companion” you blinked a few times, was he asking you on a date? “Only if you feel comfortable… obviously” he added. “It’s a way for you to thank me and also help me”

“Help you?” you cocked your head at him.

“You see, I’m getting at an age where you are expected a few things of, and having you with me would shut the annoying questions” 

“How old are you? I think you’re still young to be pressured into marrying” he laughed humorously and you smiled, his laugh was adorable.

“Let’s keep my age a secret for now, dear” he lifted from the bed. “But I’ll give you time to think, no rush” he started to leave the room, but turned around one more time “also, feel free to stay as much as you need, I’ll be at the living room down the hallway if you need me, rest well”

You muse over his invite. It is tempting. Mingi is a very handsome young man, you can’t deny that, and he also saved your life, so helping him to handle annoying acquaintances wouldn’t hurt you. Sure, he was a very refined man, he seemed to come from a very wealthy background, you didn’t even know if you’d have a proper outfit for the occasion, but helping him could be fun, you’d go to a fancy event, a ball even! 

You got out of the bed, body still hurting a bit, and slowly walked down the corridor, admiring the beautiful architecture and decoration of the place, he was for sure a wealthy man. 

Mingi was sitting in a big armchair by the window, even though it was closed, his eyeglasses hanging on the tip of his nose and he read a book, a cup of wine on a coffee table by his side. He looked so peaceful, so beautiful, ethereal even, yet there was something about his aura that lurked in the corners of his soul. And that intrigued you. 

He slowly raised his gaze from the book to you, a playful smile on his lips as if he knew you were looking at him for longer than you should. You suddenly felt shy under his strong stare, cheeks warm, your fingers playing with each other like you were some kid. 

“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone playful, almost provocative. 

“I’ll go” you blurted out, shier by the minute he kept his stare at you.

“Go where?” he provoked, he knew what you meant, but he was loving seeing this side of you, you were indeed an innocent flower. 

“I’ll go with you to the ball” you said lowly, voice above a whisper. He smiled.

“I’m glad to hear that” he grabbed his wine and took a sip out of it, his Adam apple bobbing beautifully. “I’ll tell you the details later this week. Also, don’t worry about outfits, I’ll have my tailor making something for you. And yes, that is needed” he added when you were about to question him. “I invited you, so only fair I provide the things for you” you nodded, holding a silly happy smile to appear on your lips.

»»——��—-　⚜　————-««

The week seemed to pass slower than ever, maybe it was because you were excited, nervous, anxious. Mingi appeared at the shop everyday at 3 pm, asked for his usual coffee and sat at the same table. His routine didn’t change, but your interactions were longer, more friendly, more intimate. 

“You guys seem to be getting along pretty well” Jaemin noted as he wiped a table, a smirk on his lips.

You just shrugged. You told him about the incident but not about the invitation knowing pretty well he was going to tease the hell out of you if you told him. 

“I think he likes you” he stated, putting the cloth he was cleaning back inside his apron’s pocket and walked over to you at the counter. “Like likes you” you felt a heat crawl up to your cheeks at the thought.

“No way a man like Mingi would like me” you observed, suddenly aware of the fact that, yes, he invited you to his event, but only because of convenience. 

“What do you mean? He comes here everyday just so he can look at you” he rolled his eyes at your innocence. “I bet he’s just cautious and it’s waiting for the right time to attack. Listen to the voice of experience” you laughed and shook your head. 

As if the man himself was listening to your conversation, he sent you a message, the first time since you exchanged numbers that day at his house. 

Mingi: Hi, hope I’m not bothering you at work Mingi: But my tailor said your outfit is ready Mingi: Do you feel more comfortable for me to send it to your work or to your house? 

You smiled childishly at your screen, feeling your stomach take a few turns but you blamed your anxiety to see the garment he prepared for you. 

You: Hii You: not bothering at all today’s quite slow after you left You: you can send it to my house, no problemo You: here’s my address You: thank you so much again, you didn’t had to Mingi: No need to thank me Mingi: You deserve it Mingi: Hope you like it

With that you put your phone back in your pocket, a silly smile never leaving your lips, what had he prepared for you? To say you were excited and anxious was an understatement. Jaemin noticed the shift in your behaviour and he was sure it had to do with a certain mysterious costumer, your smile whenever you talked to or about him was unmistakable. He was curious but he didn’t want to chime into your business, so he let it be, waiting for you to tell him your secrets on your own time.

The afternoon seemed to drag on, your anxiety eating you alive. You looked at the clock on the wall every fifteen minutes, the time slower than the normal. When it was finally time for you to close the shop, you rushed, cleaning everything in record time, leaving Jaemin impressed. 

Your friend insisted on walking you home every day since the attack, so the two of you walked side by side. It was actually really helpful for your mind to have Jaemin talking your ears off all the way home, easing your anxiety a bit, making your mind leave Mingi and his surprises. 

You and the boy said your goodbyes and you entered the building, the doorman greeting you.

“You have a few packages for you, they were delivered this afternoon” you nodded excitedly. “I think you’ll be needing help to take all this to your apartment” when you looked over to the desk there were three enormous boxes and a bag. Mingi was nuts!

“If you don’t mind, I’d love help” you chuckled shyly.

The man grabbed two of the biggest boxes while you grabbed the smallest box and the bag and headed to your apartment. You left it all at your coffee table in the center of the room and inspected the packages. The boxes looked fancy, out of a sturdy cardboard covered in dark green suede paper with a black satin ribbon. The bag was painfully white, it could almost reflect light, with a matching black satin ribbon. 

The anxiety was eating you up, yet you felt nervous to open those boxes. You took a deep breath and decided to open the biggest one first, assuming it was the garment. And you were right.

Your eyes couldn’t believe the sight in front of you. When he said it was a ball you did not imagine you’d dress for such. The dress was absolutely stunning, breathtaking, you have never seen something so beautiful in your life. It was a long red dress, the bodice and part of the skirt were hand embroidered with silver beads, the chest had a net that connected the collar to the rest of the dress, a red cross hanging from the collar. The skirt had a high slit where a black embroidered lace was seen underneath, making part of your leg see through. The back was even more beautiful, the bodice had a low cut, almost reaching your bum, and tied up with a satin ribbon of the same shade of red. The net had more embroideries in it. 

You looked at it in complete awe. It was more than you could ask, more than you could imagine. You were shy at the thought of Mingi buying these expensive things for you. 

You grabbed the next box, not knowing what to expect, and opened. Inside laid a gorgeous high heeled pair of shoes. Black with the red soles, matching your dress perfectly. The leather shining on the light of your apartment. He was really going to buy you the entire outfit? Answer was yes. When you opened the last box you surprised yourself. It was a tiara, a crown almost, studded with white, black and red gems. It was exquisite, the gems going up in teardrops shape, some silver spikes in between them giving a gothic vibe to it. It matched Mingi’s style. 

Lastly, there was the bag. You gently opened it, not wanting to ruin it, and inside there were a few makeup items such as eyeshadow palettes, highlights, blushes and lipsticks. You were going insane. He went all the way to even buying you makeup. How were you going to make it up for all of this? How were you going to pay for all of this? 

You decided to send a message to Mingi to thank him for everything, still shocked, shy at his generosity. 

You: I just received the packages You: I don’t even know what to say Mingi: Did you like it? You: I LOVED You: thank you so much You: you didn’t had to go all this way tho Mingi: Only the best for my girl

My girl. You giggled like a teenager and threw yourself on the sofa, legs bouncing. You were his girl. You liked this. You could be used to this.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The rest of the days were odd, Mingi didn’t appear at the shop the whole week. You didn’t want to admit it, but you missed his eyes on you. You longed for him every day at 3 pm. You pondered sending him a message but decided not to, not wanting to seem annoying or nosy. The day of the event was due and he didn't give you any heads up anymore. You were getting nervous.

“You seem uneasy” Jaemin acknowledged, his hands cleaning a cup. “Is it because your man hasn’t shown up this week?”

“He’s not my man” you responded, not really paying much attention to him. Your mind wandering from Mingi to the ball to the dress carefully kept in your house. 

“Yet” you rolled your eyes to him, but deep down you were wondering if he meant it when he called you his girl. If he intended to make you his. Because truth be told, you'd give yourself to him if he asked for.

You and Jaemin were closing the shop when you felt a sudden cold breeze, you looked to the side and a dark shadow lurked in the corner as if it was watching you. You tried to not pay much attention to it, it was probably just some shadow formed by some boxes and stuff. But as soon as you and your friend started to walk towards your house, you felt as if the shadow was following you every step, a growing tightness in your chest.

“Min…” you called your friend, who seemed unbothered by it all. “Have you noticed something following us?” he looked behind you, scanning the perimeter.

“I see nothing. Are you okay?” you looked around you two too, the shadow seemed to disappear, a deep breath leaving your lungs. “That day really left scars on you, huh?” he hugged you by your side, keeping you close to him.

But you couldn't shake the feeling of the shadow that followed you was still there. Watching you every step. 

You threw yourself in your bed as soon as you arrived home, your heart racing, legs shaking, you were at the edge of something you didn't know how to name. You closed your eyes, doing your breathing exercises and trying your best to remain calm. you were home, nothing could reach you there. 

Deciding not to let those feelings win, you opened your favorite playlist, put it on the maximum volume and went on to take a shower. You felt your whole body relax when the warm water hit your scalp and fell down your back. You imagined all the bad thoughts, all the bad feelings and sensations leaving your body as if they were a black paint being washed by the water. You carefully soaped your skin with the soap, the lovely smell of lavender invading your senses and helping you calm even more.

At the corner of your eye you saw it again, the black shadow, but when you turned to look at it, it wasn't there anymore. “It's just your imagination” you kept repeating to yourself, but the sudden cold breeze that invaded your bathroom and the feeling of being watched wasn't helping at all.

Resuming your shower quicker than you intended, you decided you didn't want to spend the night alone, you were going to call Jaemin or any other of your friends. You left the shower, dried yourself quickly and put on a robe, ready to send a message to your friend when your doorbell rang. 

When you opened the door you saw Mingi in his usual attire, a long black coat covering his body. His complexion seemed more pale than the usual and his lips were a crimson shade of red, plumper than his normal shape. His eyes looked like they weren't there, looked lost. He appeared distressed. 

“Mingi, hi, are you alright?” you asked, analyzing him.

“Yes, I am alright. Thank you for asking” he smiled, a faint one. There was a moment of silence of you two just standing at the door before he spoke. “Aren't you going to invite me to come in?” 

“Oh my God, my bad, yes, come on in, how rude of me” you gave space for him to pass and he graciously did. “How can I help you tonight? Do you want something? Water? Coffee? Tea?”

“Just water it's okay” you went to the kitchen to grab a cup of water for each one of you. “I'm sorry I was absent this week, I was busy with… work and couldn't see you” he said, his words measured. 

“No need to apologize, it's your life after all” you smiled and gave the cup to him. You looked over at his hand and noticed blood in there. “Mingi, you're bleeding!” you almost shouted, and grabbed his hands to look at it, but it wasn't hurt, it was just blood, no signs of cuts or wounds.

“Oh I must have forgotten to clean it properly” he said embarrassed, retracting his hand from you and rubbing the already dry blood with a napkin he had in his pocket. “I had a case of a boy who have fallen of his bike, it must be his” 

“Oh, so you're a doctor?” you mused, never really having thought about his profession.

“You could say so, yes” you nodded with a smile and he smiled back at your innocence, he felt bad at lying to you but at least until the ball it was necessary. “So I came to discuss the matters of the party, if you remember, and I hope you do, it is tomorrow” you nodded, finally taking a seat at his side on the sofa, your body heat radiating to him. “You need to be ready by six, that’s the time I'll be picking you up, not a minute earlier not a minute later” you took a sip of your water and for a moment he lost his train of thought looking at your plump lips. “And I need to give you a bit of fair warnings about the people at the party. Some of those people are not trustable, not around people like you, so be near me at all times, do not leave my side, if you need anything please let me know that I'll get it for you with you, ok?” you nodded.

“Where are you taking me? you laughed a little, a bit nervous, a bit anxious, a bit to better the mood, but Mingi was being serious, his expression not softening. 

“I really want you with me tomorrow, but you need to be careful, soon you'll understand” you slowly nodded, his eyes staring at you.

His eyes always broke you. They could make you do anything with just one look, would that be blush or trust him undoubtedly. You felt your heart race not only at the way he was staring deeply into your soul but at the sudden feeling of being a small mouse entering the lion's cage. There was a sudden air of danger hovering in the air. Not you in danger in his presence but what was about to happen in the next 24 hours. Your skin prickled at the thought, suddenly the shadow in the corner didn't seem so bad. 

“I'll be there to protect you, no harm will be caused to you, my dear, you are my protected now” the way he spoke sent shivers down your spine. His protected. His dear. His.  You felt a warmth in your belly you haven't felt in years at his words. He always spoke so articulately. Like a gentleman of a secret high society. It made you melt. 

“I’m sure you will, Mingi. I don't doubt you” you said genuinely, a hand gently being placed on top of his, and it was his turn to have his belly warm. The things you made him feel he couldn't remember the last he felt. Dead or alive. 

»»————-　⚜　————-««

You took the day off from the coffee shop so you could really take your time to relax and be ready. That if you could even relax. You were anxious to the max. You spent your entire morning deep cleaning your apartment, trying to keep yourself busy from remembering Mingi words from the night before. All the wait making you even more anxious.

It was little past 3 pm when you started to get ready, taking a long shower, adding extra steps into your normal routine. You were really going all the way to look extra good not only for Mingi but for the event as well. Since the outfit and the accessories already were showstopping, you decided on going for a classic soft smokey eye, trying not to go too heavy on it. 

When the clock hit 6 pm, you were going down the last stairs from the hall of your building when the big black car parked, and your stomach twisted even more if that was possible. The car, in opposition to Mingi's style, was big and modern. Then he left the car and you swore your heart stopped for a moment. Mingi looked even more refined than ever. He wore black fitted dress pants, red shiny shoes, his white blouse was fancy, puffy sleeves and a ruffled collar that was adorned with a ruby brooch, he wore a tight red vest that matched your dress, also embroidered with silver beads, and had two long tails hanging from behind his back. You couldn't even start to describe how handsome he was.

When he saw you coming from your building he couldn't believe his eyes. You were the most beautiful creature he ever laid eyes on. The way the dress hugged your body highlighting all your beautiful curves, the way the soft of your leg was half hidden underneath the black lace left his mind wandering to dangerous places. Or how your neck was hidden by the collar, eliciting his desire even more. He was definitely going to be the luckiest man in the party.

“Good night” he said, offering his hand for you to grab, which you gladly accepted. He kissed your knuckles, a blush creeping up your cheeks. “I think I don't even need to tell you how absolutely stunning you are looking tonight” you suppressed your high-schooler giggle.

“Thank you. You look absolutely amazing too, Mingi” if he didn't lack blood in his system he was sure he would have blushed too.

He helped you onto the car and sat by your side, telling the driver to finally go. The drive was pleasant, you two talked about how your day, how your past week was, how work was. It was a great way to break the ice and also help ease the tension. But the closer you got to a giant gothic mansion, the more your anxiety seemed to come back. Mingi, sensing your crippling anxiety, held your bouncing leg and squeezed softly the skin there.

“Hey, we can go back if you want” you denied with your head. “Remember, I'll be by your side at all times” you nodded. He left your leg and grabbed your hand, his cold ones helping reduce the temperature of your clammy ones. 

The car came to a halt, announcing you had finally arrived, and a man dressed like he was a royal guard opened the door for the two of you. Mingi was the first one to leave the car, once again helping you out.

Suddenly all eyes seemed to be on you, and you became too aware of everything around you, the place, the people, the aura. Everything felt too surreal, too much. You didn't belong there. And it wasn’t just a social class matter. It was a deeper thing that you couldn't quite pinpoint yet.

“Stay by my side” Mingi remembered you, his hand still holding you, grounding you. 

You walked past some people, their heads turning to look at you. Mingi guided you to a group of a few equally ravishing men, some of them were alone, others had companions as well. They all seemed pretty enthusiastic when the man showed up, making loud noises and greeting each other, grabbing attention from some people around. 

“Ah, Mingo, I see you finally you brought your rare flower” one of them spoke, shamelessly looking at you up and down. “I'm San, my love” he offered his hand, you accepted and he kissed your knuckles for longer than necessary. 

“We thought you'd never gather the guts to ask them out” another one spoke, taking a sip of wine while his other hand was around the waist of his companion. 

“Perhaps it was them who asked him first” they all laughed and you saw Mingi shake his head, a shy smile play on his lips, so he talked about you to his friends? How long was he trying to call you out? You found it absolutely adorable.

You squeezed his hand, that was still holding yours, and he looked over at you, his eyes a different shade of dark, you never saw it like that, and smiled at him. He could die right then and there, you were the most adorable thing to step on this Earth. Your innocence was something he cherished yet he wanted to corrupt and break you so bad. 

He excused himself from his friends and went to show the mansion to you, show you the architecture, the design, the history behind every brick. 

“You are the talk of the party today, my dear” he whispered to you when you stopped by a table to grab some wine for the both of you. You noticed he grabbed a different wine for him, but decided to let it slide. “I bet everyone is talking about your ravishing beauty” you felt your cheeks heat at his words.

“I feel like everyone here looks at me like they want to eat me or something” you chuckled at your joke.

“They might” Mingi whispered into your ear. “And I might want it too” you were so lucky there was no one around to see the way your body trembled at his words, the heat that was on your cheeks going dangerously low.

He pulled you once again back to where his friends were and engaged in a conversation with them, leaving you just listening to them while enjoying your wine. You looked down where your hands intertwined, where he still held you close to him, secured, safe. The heat was back at your cheeks at the thought of how you felt with him. Even though he had that mysterious aura, the atmosphere of secrets that surrounded him, somehow you felt like you could trust him, you could feel at ease with him, feel safe.

The chat suddenly stopped and you looked over from your hands, where your eyes were still glued, to the group of people and noticed a man walking over there. He wasn't old, but older than the boys, but he held an aura of power, of prestige. He was very well dressed and he held a cane in his hand, the dark wood carved into intricate designs, the tip golden. 

“My boys! Good to see you all here!” he greeted them with arms open and a wide smile, with was inviting but held a wicked vibe to it. He looked over at you, a smirk playing at his lips as he walked ever so smoothly to where you stand next to Mingi. “I see we have a new guest today, what an honour” he grabbed your hand that was holding Mingi's and kissed the knuckles delicately, featherlike. “Nice to meet you, young flower, I'm the host of this event” you bowed respectfully.

“Nice to meet you, sir. You have such a nice house and the event is esplendid” you answered trying to sound as polite as him, he made you nervous. 

“Thank you, dear, but you see, I think my house is missing some… flowers” he smirked, looking at Mingi, who pulled you by your waist in a possessive way.

“I'm sorry, Taegyu, this one is mine” the older man laughed at Mingi's reaction and swayed his hands saying it was a joke, but you didn't feel it was simply a joke. 

The way the Taegyu guy looked at you was weird to say the least, like he was about to devour you, you noticed that when he kissed your knuckles he took a sniff of your hands and his eyes fluttered as if you were a delicious piece of grilled meat. The entire conversation between him and the boys you noticed his stolen stares at you, the little smirks, the tap of his gloved fingers on the cane. He was making you feel uneasy, and Mingi noticed. 

Mingi knew he couldn't hide his secret for longer, not with the way your scent was especially strong that night, making him feral. And probably everyone else in the party. He should have given you the perfume but he forgot. He noticed how Taegyu was looking at you, desperate. But this time he knew you wouldn't exchange him for the man like the others did, with you it wasn't a question of status or power, he was sure of that. You weren't simply another blood bag, for him, you were more, and he wished he was more for you too. 

He didn't know how to approach you and tell you his secret, how to touch the subject without you running away from him forever, he didn't want to lose you, he couldn't afford to lose you, not now that he was so attached to you, so close to having you for him. In all his almost 500 years of life he never felt so lost, you did things to him that not even his first love had and he honestly didn't know how to react. You were too pure, too innocent, too sweet for him, yet he couldn't afford to let you go, he was a selfish man, he wanted you all for him, and for him only. 

“Mingi” you called him, making him wake up from his daydreams of you. “Can we talk? In private” you added when he nodded. 

He led you two to the second floor of the house and it was even more beautiful than the first one, if it was possible. All the walls were covered in a soft green wallpaper, many art pieces on top of that, expensive ones that looked like they came straight out of museums. Mingi took you to a more secluded balcony where you could listen to yourselves better. Under your feet you could see the party happening, the people looking tiny under you.

You watched the man in front of you, something about him was different that night, darker, more mysterious, everything about that night felt odd. 

“There is something you might want to tell me?” you started, heavy chest, breathing uneven. You honestly didn’t know what to expect. 

He looked at you trying to hide his astonishment at you, his hand casually in his pants’ pockets as he cocked his head at you, while deep down he knew this moment was coming, he just didn’t know it would be so soon.

“What do you mean, my dear?” Mingi tried to sound composed.

“I don’t know, you tell me” you started, voice a little bit higher than your usual tone, a sign you were nervous. “Everything about this place feels… weird, like it came out of a movie, like it is stuck in time. Everyone here spent the night looking like they wanted to devour me, like I was a prey being hunted. You and I drank different drinks, and yours smelt very odd to say the least” you stated, words coming out of your mouth fast. “Not to mention that when you were talking to your friends some of their companions asked me if I was your blood bag. What in the hell did they mean?” Mingi sighed and you saw the defeated look in his face. “You’re not a doctor are you, right?” he denied, his head hanging low.

“Look, I was meant to tell you but I didn’t even know how to start” you nodded, signaling for him to continue. “I’m not a doctor, not anything related, I actually don’t work, I don’t need to”.

“So you’re filthy rich? That’s it?” 

“Yes. And no” it was your turn to cock your head at him. “I am filthy rich, I accumulated a lot during my life. You see, I’m older than I look”

“How old? You don’t look that old, Mingi. Stop taking turns, and go straight to the point, please” he sighed.

“I’m 487 years old” you looked at him incredulously, eyes blinking before letting a loud and humorous laugh out, head hanging back. You looked at him again but he wasn’t laughing. Or smiling. 

“Mingi, c’mon, if you want to lie to me or mislead me so I can leave you alone, at least say something believable” you crossed your arms.

“I’m being serious. I’m 487 years old and I’m a vampire. All my friends are vampires, Taegyu is a vampire, most of the guests here tonight are vampires” you started to laugh again.

“Mingi, please, I’m not a teenager anymore, I might like twilight but I don’t believe in vampires or werewolves or any other magical creature. I don’t know what you are trying to do, if that’s a fetish of yours, but it ain’t working” you turned to leave but he held your wrist, an annoyed huff leaving you, he was wearing your patience thin. “Mingi, please, I…” you turned around to look at him and he had his fangs out. You rolled your eyes. “Nice little costume you have, can I go now?” he retracted his fangs back to his normal teeth and you blinked a few times. “How did you do that?” You went to his mouth and started searching for signs of dentures or any prosthetics.

“Because they are real fangs, I can do that all the time” he made the fangs appear and disappear again. “I know it’s crazy, I know it sounds stupid, but we are real. I don’t know about werewolves, unicorns or whatever, but we have been existing among humans for centuries now” you didn’t know what to believe, his fangs looked too real and he seemed too serious about it all. “This week, when I disappeared, I was weak, I needed blood, I was postponing because getting a blood bag felt like betraying you, but I couldn’t handle anymore, I was getting angry, dangerous, vicious without blood, and if I got too close from you I knew I wouldn’t contain myself” he explained to you in hope that you could understand and believe him. “You humans have a different smell, an intoxicating one for us, and the longer we are without blood, the stronger the smell gets” he came closer but you didn’t back up. “And your smell is rather special to me. You know why?” you denied, your head perched up so you could look him in his eyes, his dark eyes. “Because when we fall in love the smell changes, the scent gets sweeter, specific, and you, my dear, smell like coffee, freshly baked cookies and daisies, and only I can smell that” you couldn’t answer anything, he just admitted to be in love with you while also admitting to wanting to suck your blood. “That’s why I didn’t offer you to be my blood bag from the beginning, because ever since I saw you that day at the charity event I knew I had to have you for me entirely” he laced his arms around your waist and pulled you flush to his chest. Your heart was racing, you didn’t know what to think, he was alluring, absurdly handsome, charming, he had you in the palm of his hand. The way his dark eyes would stare at you, deep into your soul seemed as if he was hypnotizing you. “The way you are so innocent, so pure, so delicate makes me want to corrupt you, to show you things no man has ever shown. Makes me want to bite the delicate and soft skin of your neck and mark you mine. Forever. I want to make you addicted to the feeling of me feeding from you while you give yourself to me entirely, body and soul” his words felt like daggers in your body, hitting all the right spots, and whenever they hit you a warmth would spread at the place. Your whole body was hot, you were sweating from his words only.

Mingi moved slowly, testing your reaction, but you didn’t retreat, instead, you waited for him with your lips half open. He gently touched your lips with his and when you accepted he started to kiss you, moving his mouth with yours. You had thought about kissing this man so many nights and now that it was happening it felt so surreal. His lips were soft, plump and cold. His hands held your waist strongly, squeezing the flesh underneath the dress and pressing your body impossibly close to his. Your hands were messing with the hairs in the back of his neck, fingers intertwining with the long locks to pull his face close to yours as he deepened the kiss. You could feel not only his tongue in your mouth but his fangs too, the sharp tip deliciously scraping the inside of your lips but not enough to draw blood. He was a good kisser, a very good one. You didn’t want to stop, no, for you, you could have stayed kissing the whole night on the balcony. 

But air was still something you needed, so you had to break the kiss. You were panting a little, a silly smile on your face. You looked over at Mingi and his dark eyes were a dark shade of red. He looked divine with his hair disheveled from your kiss, clothes all scrunched up from moving and holding you. And he could say the same from you, you looked absolutely divine with your hair messed up, face tinted from the lack of air, lips swollen from action. He wanted to bite you so bad right then and there. 

“I don’t know if you believe me, but I hope that this was enough proof about my endearment for you, about my feelings for you” he caressed your hair, slightly fixing the strands that were out of place. “And I hope one day you can return them”.

Your heart ached in indecision. On one hand you did like Mingi, you adored him, he showed himself to be a gentleman, a kind being, and he grew into your heart each day more. The days he was away were longer because he wasn’t there, you missed him. On the other hand you didn’t know how to feel about the whole vampire thing, you needed more proof to believe him, more than fangs or blood bag talks. You were going insane, vampires did not exist, right? 

“I think I need some time to process it all, Mingi” he nodded, he knew that would come. “I still don’t know if I believe in you and that you are a vampire, but I like you, I really do” he felt relieved listening to your words, you liked him back, at least one step was taken.

“If you need more proof, when you are ready, come to my place, I can show you things that maybe can help”

“You're not gonna show me a coffin that you sleep in, will you?” you chuckled and he laughed, appreciating your sense of humour at times like these.

“We haven't slept in coffins for centuries now, that’s something that Hollywood gets wrong about us. But I do have some proofs about the centuries and places I lived in, if you’re interested in seeing them” you nodded. “I’ll give you all the time you need, when you’re ready just look out for me”.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Three weeks. It has been three weeks since the party at Taegyu’s house and the canonic event that changed your life forever. And was about to change even more. Since that day Mingi never went to the coffee shop again, earning Jaemin a million questions of why was that? Did you do something to him? Did you reject him? You wish you could tell him what happened but he would call the hospital on you, admit you into a mental facility. And to be honest, you were almost admitting yourself. 

You couldn’t take Mingi out of your mind, you dreamt of him almost every night. Some nights it’s him feeding from you, his long sharp fangs buried deep down your arm as he sucks the life out of you. Other nights it’s you and him having a domestic life together, a bubblegum sweet relationship as you share your lives together. And there are even other nights where you had wet dreams with him, his long body laid on top of you as he claimed you his, him buried deep down your walls as he bit the junction between your shoulder and neck, marking you as his forever. 

There were nights you swore you could see his silhouette in the corner of your room, or when you were going back home from work and you’d feel a presence behind you, the dark shadow that lurked in the corners seemingly following you. At that point you swore you were going crazy, but there was a little itch in your brain that told you that those shadows and silhouettes were real and they were Mingi watching you. Taking care of you from afar. 

You developed a little routine for not becoming crazier than you already were. You’d go to work early in the morning, spend the day at the cafe and, after work, you’d either go to the library to do your research on vampires. Searching on old books, late magazines, on the internet, podcasts, videos where people claimed to have encountered vampires before. You even contacted some of the people from the internet to see if they could help you but they all seemed a bunch of weirdos, some of them even admitting to have lied for views. You were losing your mind, really. 

One night, while in the library, you saw a man that you recognized as one of Mingi friends from the Party. You saw him talk to the librarian and both of them disappeared behind the shelves. Curious, you decided to follow them. Something telling you that your answer could be there. Carefully, you followed the two until what seemed like a storage. All of sudden, the man showed his fangs and bit the librarian’s arm. You had to cover your mouth to not let a gasp come out when you saw the scene. The man was doing exactly what you have dreamt of Mingi doing to you. You didn’t know how to react. Should you call someone? Should you intervene? A little while after, he stopped sucking the poor woman and sensually licked the place where seconds ago were his fangs, his eyes connected to hers. She was smiling, she seemed happy, satisfied, almost blissed. 

You left the place fast before they could see you and sat back at your table, heart racing, breath irregular. You grabbed your stuff and went fast home, not caring if the lurking shadow was following you or not.

That night you couldn’t sleep, all your thoughts surrounding the scene you saw and how would it feel if Mingi did that to you. 

The next day you found yourself walking a different path, automatically your feet took you to somewhere you only have been once but your heart has been ever since. The front of his house was as refined as him, the walls very white like they have been recently painted, and various flowers and plants adorning the garden. You rang the doorbell before you could run away.

After a few seconds a casual Mingi appeared, his face seemed to brighten when he saw you, a smile dancing on his lips.

“You came” he stated and opened the door for you to enter. “I was starting to lose my hope you’d appear” he admitted, his hand scratching the back of his neck, the muscles of his arm flexing under the t-shirt he wore. 

It was the first time you saw him wearing a t-shirt and he couldn’t look more ravishing. The way the fabric stuck to his muscles, outlining them and leaving you almost drooling at the sight in front of you. So he was hiding all of this under those frilly and thick clothes? You couldn’t help but feel a heat take over your body. 

And he felt it too. Your smell increasing as soon as you entered the house, your scent taking over the entirety of the room you were in, intoxicating him. He noticed the way you ogled him, at his body, your body heat rising. He felt his ego inflate a little.

He led you to his living room, pointing to one of his armchairs so you could sit comfortably. 

“Can I offer you anything? Coffee, tea, water? Wine?” 

“Tea is fine, thank you” 

He went to the kitchen for a while before coming back with a tray with a cup of tea. You took a sip feeling the soothing taste of lemon.

“How can I help you today?” he asked, sitting in front of you and crossing his legs. You took a deep breath.

“I think… I think I believe you” you stated and signaled for you to keep talking. “I did my research, even though they weren’t conclusive- why are you laughing?” you asked when you saw Mingi hold his laughter.

“You researched over vampires?” you nodded, embarrassed. “You’re painfully cute, you know that? Continue”

“Anyways, one night, at the library, I saw your friend, I think his name is San, and the librarian. And he was… feeding off of her. I followed them and saw it all, I know I shouldn’t but I felt like my answer would be there” you admitted.

“And how did you feel about it?” you looked over from your tea to him. Heat crawling up your cheek at your naughty thoughts about him. 

“I was shocked at first” you assumed. “But after I… I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About the feeling of it” you confessed shyly.

Mingi would have died if he wasn’t already dead. You looked so cute admitting that to him, like you had just admitted committing a crime. Your innocence would always be something he would cherish until the day he would break. And he was hoping that day would be the day.

“Wanna know how it is?” you looked at him with widened eyes as if he had asked you the filthiest of the questions. “I can show you how it feels if you allow me”. 

“I…” your words were caught in your throat. You were torn between wanting to fulfill your dirtiest desires and fear.

“Why don’t I show you my collection of memories? If you’re nice enough I can show you my old coffin” he laughed and you nodded.

He guided you through the house, leading you to the third floor, which was more of an attic than an actual floor. It was full of things over the place, things that indeed seemed from centuries away. Some of them even were inside glass domes and boxes, protected from dust and anything that could ruin them. 

Mingi saw your eyes shine at the sight of his things and swelled with pride, he knew that at some point keeping so much stuff would be useful, even if it was to impress a woman. 

The man showed things one by one, explaining where and when it came from, telling you stories from that period he lived, how it was living in that period, how it was being a vampire during that time in history. 

“Did you guys hunt back then?” you asked, eyes fixated on a windchime from the Joseon Dynasty. 

“Yes, animal blood tastes terrible and vampires weren’t seen as magical creatures that people write romances about” you laughed at him and nodded. “Blood bags became common only in the late 20th century”.

“Must be terrible to hunt for humans” 

“It was, but sometimes I miss the thrill of it” he admitted with a chuckle. “There’s not much to do nowadays, we don’t need to work and we can’t work because of our need for blood and weakness for the human smell. If we stay in a place with too many humans, the smell becomes unbearable and we can’t control our instincts. So we just stay under the radar”

“If walking like you came out of Interview with a Vampire is under the radar for you I have some news to tell you” you joked, laughing, and he accompanied your laugh. 

“Maybe one day you can take me shopping so I can dress more accordingly to the time” you nodded eagerly.

“I’d love that”. A heavy silence fell upon you. Suddenly none of you saying anything. “So… are you hungry?” you asked to break the silence.

“I don’t eat” he answered. “But I can do something for you if you-”

“I wasn’t talking about food” you said, cutting him. It was his turn to look at you with widened eyes, his dark eyes gleaming with hope. You maintained his eye contact.

“Are you sure?” you nodded.

“I believe in you, Mingi” you got closer to him, your hands going to his chest. “More than that, I trust you”.

He took advantage of your already close proximity and leaned down to kiss your lips. The kiss was gentle, soft, slow, as if he was savouring you before actually tasting you. His hands held your waist gentler than the night at the party but you could still feel the possessiveness in him. Your hands were spread out on his chest, feeling his muscles tense under your touch and under your spell on him. 

“Let’s go back to the living room” he told after breaking the kiss, you nodded, following him back to the room. 

He led you to the bigger couch so you could be at a comfortable position and he could be sure you wouldn’t faint. You sat very close to him, your knee touching his. You gave your arm to him, still a bit hesitant. Mingi gently grabbed your arm and started peppering kisses all over the soft skin, going up your arm until he reached your face again. He kissed your lips again, making you melt on his touch. You discovered that not only his eyes broke you, but also his lips, everytime the soft muscles touched yours you felt like you could live there. He broke the kiss after a while and kissed your forehead, joining them after.

“Are you sure about this?” he whispered against your lips and you nodded. You were a little scared but you truly trusted him. And the adrenaline, the rush of excitement, you were feeling from anticipation told you that there was more than just curiosity. “I need you to say with all your words, my dear, I need your consent”

“I want this, Mingi, I want you to feed from me” the words came a little shaken but you managed to say it, earning a last peck on your lips.

Mingi, ever so delicately, kissed a spot on your pulse, his nose deep inhaling your sweet scent. His fangs appeared and you held a gasp. He grasped the fangs slowly through your skin, the thin points tickling and making you shiver wherever they passed. He locked his eyes with yours one last time before sinking his fangs on your pulse. The sound that came from you wasn’t a scream or a gasp, it was borderline a whine. The sensation striking, painful, yet sensual, soothing. 

You felt your whole body weaken as if it had melted. And then it started, right when he started to suck your blood out of you, the heat spread in your whole body like you were with a fever, your legs starting to squeeze together, your mind cloudy and dizzy, your only thought was him, all you could think was the dirty dreams you had with Mingi, the things he would do with your body, the things you would do to his body. The more he sucked you, the more aroused you’d get, your lips agape, whines escaping from them with each suck. You managed to look to the side and the view was something to behold, Mingi with his eyes rolled back, his plump lips attached to your pulse while his hands grasped at your forearm as if his life depended on it.

And it did. You tasted like something he never had before. They always said that the taste of lovers' blood is different but now that he tasted you he couldn’t stop, no, he couldn’t let you escape from his grasp. And he could feel every emotion, every thought from you into your blood, he could feel how aroused you were, how much you were enjoying this, how hot and bothered you were by minute. 

Mingi didn’t want to stop, no, if he could he would feed from you until you were dry. But he had better plans for you. He wanted you by his side, well and healthy. So he stopped, with difficulty, but he did. Licking the place where he bit so his saliva would heal the wounds faster and stop the bleeding. 

Your breath was rapid, erratic, you didn’t know what to focus on. You noticed the sharpness of his fangs and the hardness of his suction were gone and you looked to the side, seeing a satisfied Mingi. His skin seemed fresher, glowing, almost as if you could see a pink tint to his cheeks. You wondered if it was all your imagination, he was dead after all. 

The man left the room and came back with a damp cloth and a drink. He started to clean your sweaty face, always ever so gentle with his touch as if you were a porcelain doll. And, to him, you were his doll.

“Drink this” he handed you the bottle of a pinkish drink. It tasted sour with a subtle aftertaste of peaches. “It’s a special drink for after we drink your blood, it will give your strength back in no time” he kissed your forehead and went to discard the cloth back in its place. 

When he came back he sat by your side, circling your body with his arm and bringing it to lay on his chest. You laid there, enjoying the silence as you watched the faint wound in your pulse, a mark of your trust, of your belief. He kissed the top of your head, caressing your arm delicately. You sighed.

“What that head of yours is thinking?” Mingi asked, head lowering to look at you.

“Just… How’s everything is so crazy right now” you turned to look back at him. “The man I like is a vampire who just sucked my blood, and more than that I enjoyed all of that”

“I could tell you enjoyed it, dear” he caressed your head. You looked at him puzzled. “I can taste everything through your blood, every sensation, every feeling, every thought” you widened your eyes. “It’s a blood connection after all”.

“You could see… everything? Even my t-thoughts?” he nodded slowly. 

You hid your face in your hands and he chuckled, grabbing your hands to take away from your beautiful face. He kissed your lips, his tongue easily entering your mouth and dominating you, his fangs scraping your skin, this time to draw blood just so he could lick it and kiss it. He pulled your lower lip to break the kiss.

“Why be shy, my dear? I can fulfill all your fantasies, only if you allow me” the way he spoke, his deep husky voice fanning air into your mouth, making the heat come back to your body, your legs squeezing together again. He looked at your legs and chuckled. “And by the way your body is reacting, I think you want me to, don’t you?” you nodded eagerly. “You know I work with words, darling”

“I want you, Mingi, I want you to make me yours” you whined, the need for him already clouding your mind.

“Good girl” he attacked your lips, but time was different, it was hungry, desperate, like he was going to eat you whole. “Let’s go to my room” you nodded and he grabbed you like you weighed nothing, taking you to his room.

His room matched him, it was dark, dimly lit, the windows covered by the same thick curtain that was in the room you stayed in the time he took you there. The bed was enormous, round, covered in a red silk sheet. He gently laid your body on top of the bed and hovered it with his big one. His eyes were darker than usual, if that was ever possible. 

Mingi started to kiss you again, his left hand holding his weight and his right one exploring your body. He was bold, you got to admit that. You, on the other hand, was a bothered mess underneath him, your body hot, whines escaping your lips between the kisses and shivers running down whenever he would touch even on top of the clothes.

But you wanted more. You needed more. Your hands started to enter underneath his shirt, feeling his cold skin under your palm, his muscles tensing under your touch. He understood your silent message and unlinked your lips, staying on his knees so he could take his shirt off. You shamelessly watched as he undressed, biting your lower lip as you saw his muscular torso.

“Like what you see?” you nodded, pulling him back to kiss you.

In a rush of confidence, you turned your bodies over, staying on top of him. You could feel his volume even underneath the layers of clothing and without much thought, you started to grind yourself on top of his crotch, earning a soft groan from him. 

His hands slid from your thighs to your hips to the hem of your shirt, playing a little with the fabric before starting to pull it up, taking off of your body, leaving you only with your bra in full display to him. You grabbed his hands and put them on top of your boobs, which he more than gladly did, squeezing and feeling the softness of them. Expertly, he unclasped your bra, tossing to the ground and looked at you, asking for permission. You nodded, throwing your head back and enjoying it all.

Mingi attacked your breasts with his mouth, sucking, licking, biting them. His fangs appearing to graze over the skin and make you shiver under his touch. He gave special attention to them, enjoying how your body was reacting to him, your little noises, your little wriggles, your grinding on him. Everything about you was perfect and he was addicted to your perfection.

After his assault to your chest, the man turned your position again, so he could enjoy his meal better. He started unbuttoning your pants and taking them off your body along with your cute pink panties, leaving you bare in front of him. If he wasn’t already dead he could die just at the plain sight of your naked body. You were the most magnificent thing he laid eyes on, he was sure of that before, but seeing you naked, rendered to him was the nail in the coffin he needed. The view of you alongside your intoxicating smell was driving him crazy. He was addicted, obsessed, he wanted you all for him, just for him. He wanted to have you everyday all day, and he was sure that the moment he tasted your nectar it would be more than over for him. 

Mingi looked at you searching for any sign of regret or withdrawal but no, you were sprawled on the bed, legs open waiting for him. And for him only. 

He started to kiss your legs, your pores bristling down the trail he passed by, going up until he reached your inner thighs. You wriggled in his touch, trying to close your legs, but he was stronger and kept them open. He wasn’t in the mood of teasing, not when he was starving. He planted a little kiss in your vulva, then another, then a lick, and then another. You whined at the feeling, fuelling Mingi to do more. He started to lick your vulva from bottom to top spreading your wetness along with his saliva. He started to suck your clit, moans starting to fly past your lips freely. The tip of his tongue drawing circles and figures eight from time to time, alternating between sucking and licking at your clit. All you could do was moan and moan, his name faintly a mantra coming from your lips. 

Mingi kept his assault on your clit for a while, your high building so fast. Until his tongue slid from your clit to your entrance, his tip started to fuck your hole, his nose hitting your clit deliciously. Everything too much for you. And you snapped, a high moan leaving your lips as your legs trembled on top of his shoulders. 

But he didn’t stop, no, he kept going. He drank up all your juices before bringing his fingers to join the fun. His index finger easily entering you, your walls hugging the finger deliciously, like a vice. He started to move it, slow at first, and speeding with time. Soon he added a second one, the stretch feeling so good you almost didn’t handle it. Mingi started to fuck you with his finger, his mouth back to your clit. His fingers curling deliciously, hitting that oh so sweet spot that was making you see stars. 

It didn’t take long enough for your second orgasm to hit you like a wave, your back arching, your eyes rolling and his name coming out of your mouth like a prayer, a promise. Again, he lapped at you nectar as if his life depended on it before you started to wriggle of overstimulation. 

He was satisfied, you were already a mess underneath him and he didn’t even had the chance to fuck you, his pride and ego swelling. The man hovered over your body again, his hand gently caressing your face, fixing the hairs that had stuck to your sweaty face. 

“Are you okay, my dear?” you slowly nodded. “Do you think you can keep going?” you pulled him for a kiss, you could taste yourself on his tongue, on his lips. 

“Make me yours, Mingi” the words seemed to waken up something darker inside him, something feral, as he went back to kiss you, teeth clashing, tongues fighting, the weight of his body on top of yours, but you couldn’t care less. 

You lowered your hand to the waistband of his pants, fumbling to try to open while still kissing, to no success. He lifted from the bed and took his own pants and underwear in one go, his member springing free from its confines. Your eyes widened at the size, but your walls squeezed onto nothing of excitement. You bit your lips, looking at it, thinking about the weight of it on your tongue. 

“You can taste it another day, my dear, today I’m too eager to be inside you” as if he could see right through you, he spoke, walking slowly towards you, like a hunter to its prey.

With your legs open, you welcomed him back to where he was on top of your body, his new home. He kissed you again, slowly, deeply, savouring you. Gently he started to enter you, just his tip stretching you deliciously, a crooked moan leaving your lips while a low growl left his. He knew he wouldn’t last long if your walls hugged him like that. Slowly he moved, entering more, shushing you, kissing all over your face to try to soothe the pain. 

Mingi was so gentle, caring, making sure you were okay all the time, waiting for you to give him the green light to move until he bottomed all, his whole length inside of you. Your both dreams coming true. He took more time for you to get used to the size and girth, to the feeling of being so full.

“Mo-move” your voice above a whisper, you were far gone, your mind hazy with lust and pleasure and him. 

He did as you asked, moving slowly, taking a little before putting back. Your mouth hanging open, no sound coming out of it. Little by little he started to take more and more before putting back in, his hips moving slow but deep, a delicious addicting dance.

The man started to move faster after a while, your body moving up and down with the strength he’d move. You wouldn’t last longer, your walls starting to squeeze around him more viciously, more strongly. Your moans louder, you weren’t holding anymore.

“Mingi! Make me yours” you managed to say between moans. “Mark me yours” a rush of adrenaline going through both of your bodies. 

Mingi felt like he was dreaming and he was hearing things.

“Don’t play with me, flower. Don’t make promises you can’t keep” he warned, his voice octaves deeper than usual.

“I’m not playing- God!” he gave a rather strong thrust. “Please, Mingi, I’m all yours, I wanna be yours forever” you pulled his face closer to yours so you could look right in his eyes. “Please” you pleaded like your life depended on it.

Mingi felt his dick twitch inside of you, the way your broken innocent eyes were looking at him with intent. You meant it. You wanted it. And he knew that. He could feel that. He could see through your eyes. He was about to break you forever, to fulfill his filthiest desires. 

His hand held your face, his lips planting a sweet kiss over your lips, his nose rubbing over yours. His mouth moved to the junction where your neck and shoulder met and left a few butterfly kisses there before looking at you again. You nodded, a smile dancing in your worn out face.

The man let his fangs out, and rubbed them over the sweet spot, he could smell your anticipation, your adrenaline, your need for him. And the he bit. The fangs sinking down the soft plush skin as a moan escaped your lips, the sensation of his dick fucking you and the bite stinging your body was something you couldn’t describe. You felt so full, so relieved, so happy, hazy, dizzy. 

He felt his dick twitch and he knew he would come, all the feeling of being complete was too much for him. He sucked a bit of your blood to seal the pact before licking the wound close. His hips haltering their movement as he came, his white ropes of cum filling you up to the brim, some of it spilling out as he kept fucking you until you came too, your walls squeezing him inside of you. 

Mingi laid by your side and brought you to nestle on his chest, your whole body molten, weak, fragile, happy, full, complete. Your breathings erratic from the action. He started to mindlessly play with your hair, while you draw abstract shapes on his chest. 

It took a while for you to get back to a seemingly normal state. Mingi left the room and suddenly you felt lonely, cold. But soon he was back with a damp cloth, a water bottle and another bottle of the pinkish drink from earlier. He cleaned you gently, taking care to not be too harsh to your delicate parts, the damp cloth cooling down your body temperature. You drank a bit of the water before drinking the juice, you definitely needed your energy back. 

The man discarded the cloth, the dirty sheet and got back at your side. 

“Fuck” you exclaimed. “I guess I’m yours now”

“Are you regretting it?” you denied.

“Not at all, I love being yours” you kissed his lips before nesting yourself in his chest again, a yawn leaving your lips.

“Rest, little flower, you need” he kissed the top of your head and with that you fell asleep.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The beep of your wristwatch and the bell of the door rang at the same time, announcing it was 3 pm and your regular customer was right on time. Again. 

Mingi entered the door and you smiled widely upon seeing him. He waved at you and came to the counter, landing a soft kiss on your lips. 

“How can I serve you today, sir?” you said with a smile.

“How about… my girlfriend’s juice?” he provoked, his voice low, a smirk on his lips.

“You guys are utterly disgusting, you know that?” Jaemin blurted, a disgusted face on before leaving to clean some tables.

“Good thing he doesn’t know I’m talking about your blood” you hit his arm as he laughed and you accompanied him. 

Masterlist Requests

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Four

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: post-apocalyptic au, swearing, dubcon elements, touching, kissing, dirty talk, sexual content, jealousy, possessive behavior, manipulation, mild degradation, oral sex (female receiving)

Word Count: 4.5k

You make yourself an offering. You and Ghost give into your base urges. Soap comes knocking.

Chapter Three // Chapter Five

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

Warmth at your back. Solidness against your thigh. A comforting halo of safety.

Home.

Where there is a hammock on the porch. Where the garden calls your name. Where you sit amongst your archive, losing yourself in the endless books.

Inhaling through your nostrils, you exhale through your mouth, yawning slightly as you stretch your leg muscles, the tension melting away, feeding into the moment of peace.

You’re floating. Content.

There are no marauders. No gunshots. No skull-faced lieutenant dressed in black.

A dream is all it is—a distant nightmare that has passed into memory. It will no longer plague you like an itch. Freedom is in your hands. Vast. Open. A field of endless flowers.

Beside you, something moves, and all that peace is yanked from behind your eyelids.

One eye opens, searching. As you turn your head, a sliver of sunlight cuts through your vision. With an annoyed groan, you retreat from the light. You sniff, and the place smells wrong. It doesn’t smell of home.

“You’re moving too much,” grumbles a male voice.

British. Gruff. Familiar.

We’re taking her with us.

You don’t belong to me.

Your eyes snap open. The wall is an off-white with a hint of yellow, not the florals you’re used to. Above you, the ceiling is the same. This is not your bedroom. This is not your space.

Not a dream, then. Which means—

Ben.

The blood and bullets return, creeping in until it consumes, forcing you back to a moment you long to forget. Unable to contain the pain, you release a little whimper, sounding like a kicked dog.

A large hand gently grasps your upper arm. It’s warm—a little rough. “What’s wrong, love?”

Lieutenant Riley. Ghost. Captor.

A wave rises—laced with grief. Last night, Ghost insisted he could not take you home. That he would not take you back. Home has been ripped from you. By him.

The hand upon your upper arm squeezes in reassurance, urging you to turn toward him. Part of you resists. Refuses. But the pull of comfort is a siren’s song, and there is a man here willing to give it.

You roll onto your back, only for Ghost to push up onto his elbow, leaning over you. The middle of his brow is creased with concern, his whiskey-brown gaze roaming over your face before checking the parts of you above the sheets.

“Are you hurt?”

The tenderness in which Ghost asks surprises you. His grip shifts, cradling your cheek, thumb gently brushing back-and-forth across your skin.

Ghost’s head tilts, gaze roaming over you with an assessing look. “I was rough with you.”

You swallow, saliva sticking in your throat. “You were,” you agree.

His fingers curl slightly, catching on the small hairs on the back of your neck. It’s just a light tug—a redirection, but you surrender to him, allowing Ghost to draw you in.

“Are you in pain?” Ghost’s thumb brushes over your bottom lip.

You shake your head. “Not the physical kind.”

The corners of Ghost’s mouth slightly turn downward. “I can’t take you home.”

“I know,” you reply, voice cracking. Your eyes burn, tears threatening to claw themselves up to the surface. “You said that.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and it sounds like he means it.

The future is uncertain, laced with the unknown probability that you will likely never return to the life you knew. But this new world shaped you—made you understand that you don’t always have a choice.

Whatever happens—whatever life you’re about to be handed—you will survive.

You always do.

“I want to believe you. But I don’t trust you.”

Ghost leans in further, the tip of his nose nearly brushing yours. “You shouldn’t.”

Piercing. Sharp. A hollow point on impact. The pain runs deep through your veins, seizing your blood.

This man is no savior—no sanctuary. But he is all you have now.

What will you do after processing, when you’re reintegrated into society? Will they dump you onto the street? Force you to fend for yourself?

Your answer is cradling your cheek, asking if you’re all right.

Survival. Always survival.

“What do you need?” asks Ghost, a husky bite in his voice.

The pain will swallow you up if you allow it, shredding your resolve until you waste away from despair. Dust. Smaller than dust. A scattering of atoms. A small drop in a large ocean. Yet a life raft floats in front of you, asking you what you need, inviting you to grab hold.

Placing your hand flat against Ghost’s chest, you splay your fingers wide, gently caressing. Ghost groans low in his throat—the sound nearly a growl.

“I want to forget for a bit,” you whisper. “To not be afraid.”

Ghost shifts closer, his grip tightening to a possessive hold. “Do I frighten you?”

“Yes,” you gasp as Ghost’s lips linger just shy of your own, teasing the promise of a kiss.

“Do you know what you’re asking for? With me?”

No.

“I don’t care,” you reply, sounding more desperate than you mean to be.

This is a power play, a way to draw him in, to want you enough that you’ll be protected once you make it to the safe zone. Nothing about Lieutenant Riley’s behavior says that he’ll force himself on you, but his actions haven’t entirely been pure. He might be a bad man, but he isn’t the worst of them.

“Won’t lie,” he growls. “You’re a bloody tempting thing.” Ghost’s thumb drops to your throat, pressing lightly against the pulse point.

You press yourself into him, showing interest. A low groan escapes him, his pupils dilating with arousal. Showing a bit of vulnerability with Ghost might result in nothing. Give him your body for the morning, allow him to rut and fuck to his contentment, only to toss you aside once you arrive at the safe zone. It’s a real possibility. A true fear.

Yet there is hesitation speaking in your ear—whispering.

He comforted you during the executions.

He placed Ben somewhere Zac and the others will find him.

No one tried to take advantage of you with him around.

Small acts of kindness. Moments of gentleness. Each is a confusing justification for how you’re feeling. Ghost is not to be trusted, but you might be able to rely on him in this unknown world.

But you also remember his boot on your back, the way he shoved you against the armored truck, how he joined you in the shower uninvited. They negate the good, and you’re left with a neutral reservation of how to approach this man to your advantage.

So you fall into what you know.

“Then take the offer,” you sigh, offering your mouth.

Ghost lingers in the moment, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips. Thumb sliding up your neck, Ghost presses it to your bottom lip, dragging it down to admire your teeth. Releasing, it pops back into place.

“And what are you offering, hm?” he muses, snuggling closer to you.

The boxer briefs he wears hide nothing, outlining every inch of what he has to offer. There is no mistaking his interest.

“Me,” you answer, all breathy and soft. “You can have me.”

“And I make you forget for a bit?”

You nod, and Ghost shakes his head. “Do you really want this?”

The answer is unclear like swamp water. Ghost isn’t shoving you down into the bed. He’s not forcing your legs open to slot himself between. But he isn’t pushing away or denying you. Either would be preferable. At least you’d know where you stand.

This back and forth is worse.

“Don’t you want to kiss me?” you entice, tilting your chin.

“Yes,” he replies automatically. “Badly.”

Badly is a growl, bordering on desperation.

Oh, fuck.

Ghost’s grip on the back of your neck tightens—almost hurts. You attempt to move and find that you cannot. “You called me a selfish bastard last night. Now you want to have it off with me?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” you counter.

Ghost smirks. “No.”

“You’re familiar with a woman hate-fucking you?”

His smirk becomes a knowing grin. “A good hate-fuck is my specialty, love.”

You roll your eyes, the palm against his chest no longer a caress but a barrier. Pushing at him, you attempt to scoot closer to the wall—to create some distance.

“No,” he says, the singular word full of authority. Ghost surges forward, rolling you beneath him, trapping you against the bed.

“Get off me,” you snarl.

“Thought you wanted to forget?” he chides. Ghost’s knee slots between your legs, forcing them open a bit.

The only thing between your bodies is the shirt you wear. Nothing else. Can Ghost sense your arousal even though you deny it yourself?

“I do,” you answer. Ghost arches a single eyebrow. “I did,” you correct.

“I don’t believe you,” he teases, brushing the tip of his nose against yours, lips dangerously close to falling upon you.

Like a flint strike, a spark snaps into existence. Ghost’s hand delves downward, fingers featherlight as they skim over your bare thigh, only to curl under your knee. He urges your left leg out and then up against his waist. Through his boxer briefs, Ghost’s erection settles where your pelvis and hip meet.

“What would I find if I touched you?” asks Ghost, his hand sliding higher. “Would you be wet for me?”

“No,” you lie.

Ghost clucks his tongue like he knows the truth. His hand moves higher. Higher. Higher. With a roughness that makes you moan, Ghost squeezes your upper thigh, fingers digging into your skin.

“Should we find out, love?”

That large hand of his shifts to your inner thigh, creeping closer to your exposed sex. There is no underwear to create a barrier, and the shirt you wear is bunched around your stomach. As his thumb brushes over your labia, your hips involuntarily rock into his touch. Ghost’s response is an answering groan, his eyelids fluttering slightly as he nuzzles the side of your face.

“Are you wet for me?” he asks, voice a whiskey-bite of a caress.

Breath heavy, chest heaving, you open your leg wider, giving Ghost complete access. It’s just a touch, brief and tentative.

“You are wet for me,” he sighs, thumb pressing to the entrance of your pussy.

You can no longer deny—no longer pretend that his closeness isn’t affecting you. You hate this man. You want to push him away, to claw out his fucking eyes, to scream and curse him with all your energy. But he smells nice, his touch gentle, and the intimacy in which he holds himself over you speaks to a desire within him that seems to go beyond the bonds of simple arousal.

It makes no sense. It’s absurd. Infuriating. Confusing.

You are breaking. Fracturing. Is this even survival anymore? Are you simply giving in?

Just a small twist of his wrist and Ghost’s thumb ascends to gently circle your clit. You gasp with pleasure, head falling back to expose your neck. Ghost dives in, running his tongue along your throat.

Fuck. Oh, fuck.

“A hate-fuck doesn’t have to be rough,” croons Ghost. “Can take you just like this.” His thumb plays with you, circling and circling until the soft tingle of pleasure becomes a building, pulsing thing that vibrates under your skin. “Make you beg for me,” he breathes.

With his other hand, Ghost grasps your throat, forcing you to look at him. He holds you close, lips just shy of touching.

“I’ll fuck you slow. And you can tell me how much you fucking hate my guts as I rearrange yours.” Ghost presses his thumb directly against your clit, making you shiver. “What do you say, love?”

“I think you talk too much,” you murmur, purposefully goading Ghost to action.

“Then let’s put our mouths to better use.”

He moves first, closing the distance, pressing his lips to yours. Acceptance is all you can do—all you can offer. You’ve started this game, insisted on this, and now there is nothing but to follow through. You need Ghost to want you, to keep wanting you.

Grasping the back of his neck, you meet him with equal need. While you need him on your side, you also need to let go, to release some of this tension and pretend that your life hasn’t been upended.

His hand between your legs gently strokes, slowly building you towards your release. You gasp against Ghost’s mouth, and he chuckles, going in for one more kiss before descending, peppering your neck with affection.

Your hand roams over his muscled back. There is no consistent smoothness to his skin. Scars are present. Some clean and thin and solid. Others jagged. Rigged. And you briefly wonder where he obtained them all.

Ghost’s tongue tastes the hollow of your throat. “This needs to fucking go,” he growls, tugging at your shirt.

He ceases playing with you, both of his hands grasping your shirt, pushing it up your body. A sudden wave of apprehension rises. The shirt is a barrier, an illusion of safety. And there it goes, right over your head, tossed to the floor.

Ghost’s grasps the sides of your ribcage, planting a kiss between your breasts. “Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, turning his head to tease the underside of your left breast with his tongue.

“Lieutenant,” you mewl when he sucks a nipple into his mouth.

You fist his hair, tugging Ghost up your body. He makes a pleased sound as he rises to meet you, seizing your mouth with a kiss that steals your breath. His strength is a powerful thing, yet the way he kisses you—touches you is almost reserved in its intensity. There is no intent to harm, to make you fear him.

Ghost breaks the kiss, easing his weight onto one arm. He reaches between your bodies for his boxer briefs, shoving them down and over his thighs, kicking them away. There is nothing between your bodies, not even the sheets.

Sitting up, Ghost settles between your legs on his knees. Every inch of Lieutenant Riley is on full display. Solid, thick muscles. Criss-crossing scars. Tattoos on his fingers and an entire sleeve down his left arm. Whiskey-brown eyes with pale eyelashes that pierce right through you.

This is a wraith. A Sentinel of Hell. Dangerous. Fierce.

And you’re beneath him, panting with the anticipation of bringing your bodies together.

“Tell me you hate me,” he commands, voice gruff and laced with lust.

“I hate you,” you murmur as Ghost reaches out and caresses your inner thigh.

His hand roams upward, smoothing over your stomach. “Again.”

“I fucking hate you,” you say a bit louder.

Ghost fists his cock and pinches one of your nipples between thumb and index finger. “Again,” he growls. “With more venom.”

“I hate you,” you moan. “You’re a selfish fucking bastard. And I hate you.”

Another pass of his hand, fingers tracing lines down your body, sending little sparks of pleasure through you. It’s blissful agony, and though you do hate Lieutenant Riley and the situation he’s put you in, his touch is welcome.

Your legs fall wider.

“Bloody hell,” breathes Ghost as he slides his hand up and down his cock.

In other situations, like this, when you were simply trying to feed yourself or put a roof over your head, the men would already be on top of you, grunting like feral animals for a few thrusts before finishing. There was never any pleasure in it. Never any desire. They would quickly fall asleep, leaving you hollow like an abandoned burrow.

Predators. Every. One. They all leered—sneered at you like you were filth, as if the only place you belonged was beneath them.

Lieutenant Riley doesn’t gaze at you like that. There is appreciation in the way he takes you in. A longing. A…yearning that makes you question all his motives for taking you in the first place. Under his attention, you feel wanted. Desired.

Another stroke, and a bead of precum blooms. You lock onto it, gaze focusing in as more emerges from his slit. As if sensing your thoughts, Ghost wipes it up with his thumb. Reaching out, he presses his thumb flat against your skin between your breast, drawing a line of cum downward.

“Open your mouth,” he commands.

You comply, and that thumb slides past your lips and over your tongue. A slightly salty flavor flowers. Now you know his taste.

Ghost drags his thumb over your tongue, then your bottom lip, and to your chin. “Grab your thighs. Draw your legs up. Keep yourself open for me.”

Refusing his authority and pushing back is natural at this point, but in this, you submit. And you’re glad to.

Ghost lowers himself, lips finding yours. It’s not a tease of a kiss, but an embrace, surrounding you with lustful need. You’re going to enjoy this. Deep within you, you understand this, and you want to explore this primal intensity.

Another kiss. Lower. Down your neck. Over your breasts. Across your stomach. Descending. Further. Further still.

His tongue teases, and a little cry escapes you.

“LT!” You nearly come off the bed as someone pounds on the door. “You awake, Ghost?”

“Shit,” mutters Ghost, his warm breath brushing against your inner thigh.

Releasing your thighs, you sit up slightly, staring at the door. There’s a stranger here, wanting entrance. The lusty haze over your eyes evaporates, your head clearing like a rainstorm surrendering to the sun. You went too far. Ghost has his head between your thighs and you were holding your legs open for him, enjoying every second of his tongue.

“Fuck,” you whisper as a spike of panic rises.

You start to draw inward. Even your legs are retreating, pulling away from Ghost.

“No,” he growls, large arms hooking under your thighs. He drags you back. “We’re not done.”

The stranger pounds on the door again. “Ghost!”

“Piss off!” he shouts over the top of your thigh.

Whoever is on the other side of the door laughs. “Captain sent me.”

With a deep sigh, Ghost rests his forehead against your stomach. “Stay here,” he murmurs. He lifts his head, lips glossy, and there is so much hunger in his gaze that it momentarily spears you. “I’m not done with you.”

Jesus Christ.

Ghost pushes off from the bed, and you remain the stagnant deer, frozen to the spot. The pounding comes again, the door rattling loudly in its frame. He strides forward, steps purposeful and pounding.

Disengaging the lock, Ghost yanks open the door. Bright sunlight pours in. “What the bloody hell is it, Soap?”

Soap. You know that name. He sat beside Lieutenant Riley in the Humvee.

Without the plain black balaclava on, you have a clear view of Soap’s face. His eyes are a lovely blue, his dark brown hair is styled into a short mohawk, the sides shaved but not bald. In his arms is a stack of neatly folded clothes.

Soap’s eyebrows rise toward his hairline. He whistles, taking in all of Ghost’s nakedness. “Damn, Lt. What a greeting.” He shrugs, smiling like an idiot. “Feel a bit overdressed.”

“You’re taking the piss,” mutters Ghost. “What do you want?”

Soap opens his mouth, clearly intending to deliver a message, but his gaze snags as if caught on a fishing hook.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes as he focuses in on your nude body.

You snatch the bedsheet, covering yourself quickly.

“Eyes on me, Sergeant,” growls Ghost. There’s no kindness in it—only authority.

Soap’s gaze lingers for a few seconds, eventually shifting back to Ghost. “This an open invitation, Lt?”

“No.”

“Sure about that?” asks Soap. He starts to lean to the side, peering at you around Ghost’s shoulder.

Ghost steps into his line of sight, cutting you off from his view. “Put one foot inside this door and I’ll fucking kill you.”

Soap snorts. “Okay, Lt,” he laughs. “I’ll back off.”

Tucking the sheet around you, you scoot down the bed, leaning forward to listen in.

“What’s all this?”

“Clothes,” answers Soap. “Clean uniform for you. Things for her.”

Ghost grunts and extends his arms. Soap surrenders the clothes to him. “Should grab breakfast before it’s all gone.”

“We’ll do that,” mumbles Ghost.

Soap shrugs, and then a wickedly mischievous grin spreads over his face. “Unless this is your breakfast?”

Ghost’s answer is to slam the door in Soap’s face.

There will be no continuation. It’s clear from the heave of Ghost’s shoulders before he turns around to face you. And it’s not like you want to anyway. The fleeting moment of desperation and craving for human connection is shattered. Reality has made a home in your bones, sobering you against the lust you felt only minutes ago.

“What did he bring?” you ask, sliding to the edge of the bed.

Ghost walks up to the bed, dropping the stack on the edge. He starts to sort it, dividing everything into two piles.

“There’s pants and a long-sleeved shirt for you.” He tosses them into your lap. “Socks. A jacket.” Ghost goes through the clothes one more time. “Nothing else.”

No bra or underwear. That’s fine. You can go without for now.

As you start to turn away with the intent to dress yourself, Ghost’s arm rises, his large hand grasping the side your neck. You’re forced back around, staring up at him. He takes a step forward into your space, but you don’t break eye contact. You don’t dare look away.

Everything is falling back into place.

You hate this man even if his mouth made you moan. All you know has been ripped from you, and Ghost is leading you toward a huge unknown without even considering what you want. It’s wrong. It’s fucked up.

It’s a drowning.

In an act of defiance, you attempt to jerk out of his hold, but Ghost remains firm, squeezing until you comply.

“If you want to belong to me, just say the word. I can make it happen.”

You remain mute. Silent.

Fuck him. Fuck all of this.

You are not a toy. Not a piece of property. You are a person, and that should be enough. At home, you were an equal, and no one dared lay hands on you. But this is not home. This is…society. What’s left of it. The very dredges of humanity.

And it’s like scraping the bottom of a shit pot.

Whether Ghost likes your silence or not is unclear. When he releases your neck, he doesn’t ask again, and he doesn’t make conversation. He completely turns away from you, dressing like you’re not even in the room.

Tears form, threatening to spill over, to make you appear weak and frail before him. Angrily wiping at your eyes, you drop the sheet and give Ghost your back. He’s already seen you naked. Fuck—you were holding yourself open while he tongued your pussy. What’s a bit of skin?

You dress quickly, wanting to fix your hair in the mirror before you leave. But as you turn around, you find all your thoughts leaving you. Ghost is a masterpiece of a human, and that ember from earlier sparks again, insisting when it shouldn’t.

His pants are black camo. On his upper body is a long sleeve tactical shirt, solid black in the front and back while the sleeves are black camo. Ghost reaches for his gun, attaching it to his thigh. Next are his knives which he lays out on the small desk nearby. You observe but say nothing as he laces up his boots and slides one of the knives into it.

You expect the skull mask, the eye black. Instead, Ghost slips on a plain black balaclava. On his upper bicep is the flag of the United Kingdom and of the United Nations. Neither of those should exist, and you don’t entirely believe what Ghost said last night. There are still questions lingering in your mind, and though you desperately crave answers, this doesn’t seem like the time.

Ghost clears his throat as he adjusts his belt. “Let’s get some food in you.”

A bit of bite comes to the surface. “As I recall,” you begin. “You were wanting to put something else in me just a few minutes ago.”

Ghost stills, his hands still on his belt. “Are you already on your bullshit today?”

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

Guiding the belt through the loop, Ghost tugs, tightening it. “You said you wouldn’t cause problems.”

“How am I causing problems?” you reply, extending your arms outward as if the problem is a physical thing in the room with you.

Ghost shakes his head, giving the belt one more tug before securing it. “My control is thin right now, love.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your ‘love.’ I’m not anything to you. We’re not friends. Or lovers.”

Ghost chuckles, placing his hands on his hips. “What would you like me to call you?”

“Use my fucking name.”

Just a few steps and Ghost is on you. You stagger backwards, falling onto the bed as he cages you in. “It is taking everything in me not to rip off your clothes and bend you over.”

“Fucking try it,” you snarl.

Ghost is completely calm, unfazed by your outburst. “You’d look so pretty full of me.”

You know he’s goading you. And you fall for it. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“I’d keep you here,” he continues. “Fucking breed you until you’re dripping.” Ghost pushes in, and you have nowhere to go. His face is so close, the fabric of the balaclava scratches your skin. “Put a baby in you. Then you’d truly belong to me.”

No. No.

“You’re no better than those men you killed.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, bird. With me, you’d be protected. Cared for. You’d want for nothing.”

“You don’t even know me,” you reply. “Every word you say is a lie.”

Ghost shakes his head. “I don’t lie.” You scoff, but he continues. “And you can’t take back what happened this morning.”

With both hands on his chest, you shove at him. Ghost doesn’t budge. He is a rock. Immovable.

“You wanted me,” he murmurs.

“Shut up,” you stammer, shoving at him again.

“So wet,” he purrs. “And it was all for me.”

“Stop,” you plead, giving him another shove.

Ghost pushes off from the bed in one fluid movement. Grasping your wrists, he yanks you up and onto your feet.

“I’m not your enemy,” he says like his word alone is enough for you to agree.

It’s all fucked. All of it. You need to survive, to make sure you’re safe for whatever comes to greet you, but you’re afraid. Fearful, like a cornered animal.

Lieutenant Riley is your enemy as much as he is your protector. It’s maddening. Unfair.

I don’t want to go with you. I want to go home.

You lick your lips, trying so desperately hard not to fall apart in front of him. “Then show me,” you plead.

[studioeisa]

first love/late spring 🌸 wonwoo x reader.

humans have four lives. a life of planting seeds, a life of watering seeds, a life of harvesting, and a life of enjoying those harvests.

🌸 pairing. first love!wonwoo x reader. 🌸 word count. 2.5k. 🌸 genres. alternate universe: non-idol, romance, friendship. 🌸 includes. first love/s, feelings realization/denial, reincarnation. prose-heavy. synopsis from goblin: the great and lonely god. title from mitski’s song of the same name. inspired by this wonwoo post i made way back when. 🌸 notes. this was my planned enlistment fic, but it took me a while to polish. much thanks to my dearest, @chugging-antiseptic-dye, for beta-ing and assisting with the final line. this goes out to @gotta-winwin, who i’m fairly sure i would find and adore in all my lives. my masterlist

Every morning at 7:42 A.M., you see him on the train.

He always boards two stops after yours, dressed in earth tones and quiet silences. There's a softness to him—the slope of his shoulders, the way he leans ever so slightly against the pole even when there’s a free seat.

He carries a book some days, a plain black umbrella on others. You’ve never heard him speak, but you’ve built a voice for him in your head anyway: calm, deep, a little rough like he only just woke up.

You don’t know his name. 

You know how he tucks his hair behind his ear when it falls forward, though. You know he reads with his thumb pressed between pages, like he’s holding space in more than just one chapter. You know the way his eyes flicker to the window, then away, like he’s still not used to being seen.

This is your first life: the planting of seeds. 

A glance, a passing thought, a what-if rooted in the mundane. You sit with him in silence, three bodies apart, and imagine what it might be like to bump into him at a coffee shop, to hear him laugh, to say something that earns you a second look.

Once, the train jerks too hard at a stop and he stumbles. Your hand shoots out before your brain catches up, steadying him by the forearm.

He murmurs something—a thank you, you assume— and offers a brief smile. It’s not quite the real thing, but it’s enough to keep you warm the rest of the day.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

You begin to notice the little things. The way his shoes are always a little scuffed. The tiny pin on his tote bag shaped like a cat. The crease between his brows when he reads something particularly intense.

You wonder if he’s single. If he likes rainy days or prefers the sun. If he’d like the sound of your laugh. If he’s ever looked at you and thought, maybe.

You don’t know it yet—you won’t, not for some time—but you’ve already begun loving him. Not in the way that demands. In the way that simply hopes. That soft, shapeless kind of affection that asks for nothing in return.

Your mother calls this phase infatuation. Your friends call it a crush. But it feels deeper than that, doesn’t it? 

Something older. Like a seed you’d forgotten you planted, blooming in the background of your everyday life.

You don’t talk to him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You still show up every morning at 7:42 A.M., and that feels like something sacred.

Some people meet under fireworks. Others, under streetlights. 

You meet under the hum of subway rails, in the hush of early morning.

And even if nothing comes of it, you’ll remember this as the time you first saw Jeon Wonwoo—when your first love took root on a train that always ran late.

Your second life starts with an assigned seat.

It’s the first day of the semester, and the classroom hums with new pens, old anxieties, and the sharp scent of whiteboard markers. The teacher calls out names alphabetically, and when she says “Jeon Wonwoo,” you don’t flinch.

You don’t remember him from the train, of course—not in this life. That’s how these things work.

He slides into the seat beside yours. A quiet presence that feels oddly familiar. You glance over, and he nods politely, lips pressed in a near-smile.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hey,” he replies. His voice is calm, deep, a little rough like he only just woke up.

This is your second life: the watering of seeds.

What started as quiet curiosity now stretches its limbs toward the light. You’re no longer strangers in motion, but classmates. Partners in the second row.

Wonwoo is the kind of student who doesn’t speak unless he has something to say, but when he does, it sticks with you. He lends you a pen on the second day without you asking. He shares a pack of sour candy with you during long lectures.

He passes you a note during a film screening that just says: This movie is terrible.

You laugh, quietly, and write back: You’re just saying that because you have no taste.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You wound me,” he murmurs, the words only for you to hear. A lot of Wonwoo’s words are that— yours and yours alone. 

You get partnered for a project. Your topic is obscure and boring, but somehow, working with him makes it bearable. You bicker. He rolls his eyes at your messy notes. You start staying late after class to finish the presentation.

One night, you’re both hunched over his laptop in the library. It’s raining outside. The air smells like paper and distant thunder.

“Do you believe in past lives?” you ask him out of nowhere.

He looks at you, long and unreadable. “I think we meet the same people over and over. Just in different ways,” he eventually says.

He’s indulging you. You’re not sure why. You push it, as if somehow wheedling an answer out of him might solve the pitter-patter in your chest. “So, maybe we’ve met before?”

“Maybe,” he says. Then, softer: “Feels like I’ve known you longer than a month.”

Your heart does that thing again. A steady lurch, like a train car that turned a corner a little too fast. 

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

He walks you home after. You share his umbrella. He offers the dry side of the sidewalk.

You don’t hold hands. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

But your sleeve brushes his once, twice. He doesn’t pull away.

The seeds are growing. They don’t know what they’ll become. They reach out of the soil and towards the sun anyway.

In your third life, there is yield. Something that bears ripe fruit, enough for you to pick and take a bite of. 

Your mothers meet in the hospital nursery, trading horror stories about labor while you and Wonwoo cry in tandem from two separate cribs. Dual births, dual baby albums, dual high chairs at every party.

The houses share a fence, your families share garden tools and barbecues, and you and Wonwoo—well. You share everything else.

From the moment you could speak, you said his name like a reflex. 

Your first sentence was reportedly, “Where’s Woo-woo?” and his was your name, mispronounced and gummy.

The tapes your moms keep are a blur of toddler feet and wonky camera angles. There’s one where he’s in your kiddie pool wearing a bucket on his head, and you’re laughing like he just invented comedy.

No one ever sat you down to explain your friendship. It just existed, like gravity or rain. And maybe that’s why the feelings sneak up on you. You’ve never known life without Wonwoo—how are you expected to know when the air has started to shift?

The day it happens, you’re sixteen. Lying on the warm roof of the garden shed while he’s reading aloud from some fantasy book you insisted on but couldn’t get through. 

You’re not listening to the words. You’re watching the way his lips move, the way his lashes catch the sun. You’re trying to memorize the curve of his jaw, and then you’re thinking: Oh. Oh no.

You spend weeks pretending it didn’t happen.

“You good?��� he asks once, when you nearly fall off the roof trying to avoid sitting too close.

“I'm fine,” you say, too fast.

He frowns, puts his book down. “You're acting weird.”

You sit up, brush dust off your shorts, make a face. “You’re weird.”

“That’s not a denial.”

“Shut up and read, Wonwoo.”

He does, but the silence between his sentences stretches.

It becomes harder to lie the more he smiles at you, the more he brushes dirt from your cheek or laughs at your jokes. You feel like you’re drowning in something warm and familiar, something you’ve known all your life but never named.

One night, after a school dance you don’t attend, he climbs through your window like always, hoodie slung over his shoulder. You’re sitting on your bed, and he flops beside you like gravity yanked him there.

“You ever think about stuff?” he asks.

You side-eye him. “That’s vague.”

“I mean, like... why some things feel easy. Like how we never had to try to be friends.”

You don’t say anything. The warmth in your chest is unbearable. He’s right there. He’s always been right there.

“Do you ever feel like we’ve known each other longer than we should’ve?” he continues, eyes on your ceiling. “Like, before this?”

You blink. Your heart pounds so loud, you’re sure he hears it.

“Sometimes,” you whisper. “Sometimes I think I’ve been in love with you before I even knew what love was.”

He turns to look at you. And Wonwoo—quiet, steady, unshakable Wonwoo—smiles like he’s been waiting all his lives to hear it.

“Me, too,” he says. 

Your first life—

You wonder about him for years. His quiet demeanor, the books he read, the way he always stood near the door but let everyone pass him when it was his stop.

That was the first version of this feeling: Something sudden, warm, and unearned. Like the sun through a window. 

You never know his name, but you built stories around him on every ride, convinced that maybe, just maybe, he’ll turn around one day and say something. 

He never does. 

And when you graduate, change routes, move cities, you never see him again. He becomes nothing more than that. A story. A seed. A start—for what, you don’t know yet. 

Your second life— 

He had felt like a miracle, like fate circling back to tap you on the shoulder. You thought that love would bloom into something permanent. It felt like it should have. 

But timing is cruel, and the feelings—though mutual—couldn’t survive the storm of adolescence, the fear of messing up something tender. You tell yourself you weren’t meant to be.

You carry him with you anyway, in the songs you send each other, the paper cranes folded during long lectures, the way he once said your name like a secret he didn’t want anyone else to hear.

He walks you home, still, until he can’t. Until a lovely girl takes your place under his umbrella, and you find someone else to share your snacks with. 

At reunions, you exchange polite smiles and aborted nods. Both of you find happiness beyond each other.  

And then, the hardest of them all— 

The one who knew every bad haircut and birthday wish. The one who saw you through braces, heartbreak, and every awkward year in between.

You loved him with the kind of ease that novels try to replicate; for a moment, you thought that might be enough. But when the time came, when the feelings were named and returned, you both pulled back. 

Not out of fear, but reverence. 

Some things are too precious to touch. You’d rather have him forever as your constant, your anchor, than risk a goodbye too painful to bear.

“Maybe in our next life,” he breathes, forehead against yours, breath warm. “Maybe then we’ll be brave.”

You nod, your fingers curling over the front of his shirt like it might somehow keep him in place. “We always find each other, don’t we?”

He smiles. It looks a lot like a promise. 

In that life, you yield. 

At least you get to keep him. He delivers a tearful speech at your wedding. He makes you the godmother of his children. Your love reshapes into something else. One that still matters, even if it’s not the kind that you might have expected. 

Three versions of a first love. 

None of them last. All of them linger.

You don’t regret a single one.

The fourth life begins like the others—quietly, without fanfare.

You meet Wonwoo at a time when everything is finally still. 

No childhoods to tiptoe around, no adolescent crushes that tilt into heartbreak. You aren’t sitting across from him in a classroom or watching him disappear behind the closing doors of a train.

He is simply there—on a late spring afternoon at a mutual friend’s dinner, wearing a gray sweater and a small, uncertain smile.

You don’t know it at the time, but this is the life you get to keep him.

It starts slow. There’s time, now. You learn him from the beginning, with no earlier version to compete with. And yet something familiar pulses beneath it all.

You know how he likes his coffee before he tells you. You can predict the rhythm of his speech, the slope of his laughter. You fall in love with him easily, steadily—like gravity pulling you to the ground.

He is your first love in this life. You don’t tell him. Not yet.

And then one day, you lose him.

The details don’t matter. A job offer. A choice. A goodbye. Whatever it is, you let go. It feels like the end of a story you’ve lived too many times before. You think: This is the harvest, and it was never mine to reap.

But you were promised joy in this life, weren’t you?

Years later, you see him again. A bar, this time. Familiar in a way that makes your throat tighten. He hasn’t changed much—still soft-eyed, still shy with his smiles.

“Wonwoo?” you ask, unsure if you want it to be him or not.

He turns. Freezes. His voice, calm and deep, amused and affectionate, shapes the words in the back of your mind: “I was hoping it’d be you.”

You sit. You drink. You talk.

You tell him, somewhere between the second and third beer, “You were my first love, you know.”

Sure, you’re talking about this life, but a part of you feels like it goes beyond that. You’re not sure how many iterations of this story exist in the book of the universe; all you know is that this simply cannot be the only time you’ve counted Wonwoo’s eyelashes, as if you might be able to make wishes with them. 

He looks at you for a long moment. Studies you. As if, he too, is mapping out the features of your face against versions of you that no longer exist.

“You were mine, too,” he says.

You laugh, disbelieving. “Really?”

“Really.” 

There’s silence. A good one.

And then finally, finally, he kisses you. No fanfare. No salty tears as you resolve to stay friends. It’s not a daydream on the subway, not a fleeting thought in a library. 

It’s just that same, steady gravity of eventuality. 

When his hand finds yours, when your lips press together, when he pulls apart with a half-smile, you know. Jeon Wonwoo is your first love, and this time, he’ll be your last love, too.

In this life, you finally reap what you sowed.

In this life, the love lasts. 

[loganficsonly]

hello!!! hope you're have a great day so far!! I was wondering if could you write something with Logan and an easily flustered! reader?? like they get bashful when he does anything sweet and super embarrassed when he's being flirty or touchy with them?? maybe they're a little insecure that he might still have feelings for Jean or think that he could do way better??

thank you for writing in! this is super cute but i think i ended up writing something so fucking debauched, i'm so sorry. this is just straight up porn lmao

i hope you don't mind me taking jean out of the equation too!

first time writing patch!logan >:)

beneath the mask

patch!logan x f!reader, 3.4k WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI please this is nothing but filthy smut!!!, flirting?, patch is a warning, reader has hair and is able-bodied, dirty talk, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), piv, riding, unprotected sex (please be responsible), pet names, not proofread or edited AUTHOR'S NOTE: writing sexy shit is hard eh. anyway, reader is a singer who looks like she can eat a man up and picks her teeth with his bones but is actually super easily flustered. i think i lost the plot towards the end but at least reader and logan get to bang!

Cherry lips croon from behind the silver microphone. Each syllable forms like the slow drip of nectar, lush and perfect and full of promises for those in the audience who have a thirst to quench.

And indeed one could say you’re a tall glass of water, standing on the stage with your hair framing your face like a painting, delicate nails stroking the mic. But with that deep red dress that shines every time you move under the light, it would be more accurate to call you a tall glass of Madripoor’s finest wine. 

Coveted. Delicious. Expensive.  

The spotlights are blinding, reducing the faces staring up at you into shadowed outlines.

That’s good. Between that darkness and the buzz of a warm drink you had just before the start of your set, nervousness has no place here.

You feel a curl of a smile on your lips. Melancholy melodies from the piano resound beneath your voice. The plucks of a double bass from the back of the stage, in time with soft shuffles of a drum set. The music is slow and languid, and you feel yourself sinking into it as you sing.

There was a boy

A very strange enchanted boy

They said he wandered very far

Very far

Over land and sea…

A figure in white cuts through the bar. There’s no need for words—a drink is placed in front of him swiftly, the caramel-colored liquid refracting in the light, ice clinking against the chilled glass. He sits, facing towards the stage. 

One eye trained on you.

Business held him up more than he’d like. He settles down after a burning sip of whiskey, sufficiently satisfied with how he dealt with the problems that caused him to be late for this.

He’d call it a win-win situation. They paid the price. His suit remains crisp, unsullied. You are still singing. Your last song, evidently—Nature Boy is always your closer—but at least he got to hear you and that beautiful voice. 

A little shy and sad of eye

But very wise was he

From behind the rim of his glass, he drinks in your figure.

Stunning. The dress betrays your curves, hugging them like second skin. He sees the sinful slit on the side of your thigh, only visible when you move enough. Your hair is down tonight, he notices—a different impression compared to that of your usual updo. Relaxed. Free. No doubt inviting visions of what you would look like with your head on a pillow, hair splayed as you sigh a sultrier tune… 

You look like you were destined to doom good men. 

Lucky for him, he isn’t a good man.

And then one day

One magic day he passed my way

And we spoke of many things

Fools and kings

This he said to me 

Something pulls your eye to the bar, the only illuminated spot in the crowd.

He’s here. 

There’s a subtle shiver—your skin reacting to the sight of him. White suit, black bowtie. Always the same colors, always here, watching. The many stares you earn from others don’t stand a chance to the smolder of his single eye. Unlike the rest, you can’t tell what’s on his mind. Maybe that’s why his presence at poker tables is considered a curse.

You thought he wouldn’t show, seeing as he missed almost the entirety of your set. But now that he’s fifty feet away, strong hand wrapped around a glass, you find butterflies in your stomach.

Your eyes meet. 

The greatest thing

You’ll ever learn

Is just to love

And be loved in return

A thunderous applause and fifteen minutes later, he finds you on the other end of the bar, surrounded by admirers. They stand a little too close for his liking, but it’s almost part of your job to smile and laugh at them. 

He watches as your fingers move up to fix a gentleman’s tie, half-lidded eyes focused on your task. The man tenses in a way that looks all too familiar. You move smoothly to hug an older woman, lips puckered for an air kiss on her cheek. There’s a hand on your jaw, thumb stroking affectionately, and you lean in, basking in the attention. 

A hand on your arm. Fingers brushing against yours as they hand you your drink. And eyes, god, eyes that roam over you, barely veiling the wicked thoughts behind them.

You merely give them a small smile. The kind that tells them you know, and that you like it.

If he weren’t any better, he’d be seething, but really he’s the same as they are. Hungry for a drop of you. 

But he isn’t angry, or jealous. Can’t be. Not when you catch his eye and cordially murmur your thanks and ‘excuse me’s before parting the crowd, moving towards his seat at the end of the bar. 

Of course, knowing who he is, they don’t pursue you.

He stands as you arrive in front of him, eye locked on yours while he brings your knuckles up to his lips. He notices your painted nails, elegant and manicured to resemble little claws that remind him of cats. He smiles.

The brush on your skin feels innocent, but the shudder you try to suppress is anything but.

“You look beautiful as always.”

Maybe it’s your proclivity for music that makes you so sensitive to his voice. It’s deep and rumbly, awakening a longing for you to place your hand on his chest to feel it. 

“I didn’t think you’d make it,” you reply back softly. He places a hand on your lower back, guiding you to walk with him, likely to one of the private lounges he has access to. Your stride is in time with his as you walk side by side into the velvet-covered hallway.

You can see a slight quirk on his lips, ornamental sconces bathing dim light on his handsome face as he murmurs words only for you to hear.  

“How could I ever miss your show, honey?” 

It’s always like this with Patch.

A big bouquet of red roses, as if you just made your debut when you’ve in fact done this a hundred times over. They’re placed in a nice vase before he pampers you with the kind of dinner you used to have once every year for a birthday celebration. The conversation that ensues with him is quiet but easy, despite each word hanging heavily with the hidden prospect for more.

Before he leaves, he’d ask you to drink with him. A small amount of something heavy and chilled. Keeping him company. So far you’ve never denied his request—not because you’re intimidated, but because you’re interested.

Tonight is no different, except the two of you are standing, and he’s so close.

He’s as striking as a portrait, white suit cutting a clear silhouette against the dark mahogany walls of the room. Low lights and a thick door grant a sense of isolation while you’re, in fact, still in a public place. He has a hand on your cheek, thumb stroking your skin, and you know the heat that gathers under his touch is not because of the alcohol.

“You know I’m a patient man, don’t you, honey?” he rasps, hungry eyes taking in your face. God, you’re even more perfect up close. 

He feels you nod, the gesture a little timid. Something in his chest blooms at the look in your eyes—when it was steady before, cool under the hot spotlights, he can feel a slight change swirling in it. It’s been there, brewing since he closes the door to this room. Blooming when he pays all of his attention to you while you eat.

Nervous. Just from being with him.  

He takes a step forward, slowly cornering you into the wall. Your eyes widen slightly as you look up at him. He sees you swallow, breath hitched, a hand on his chest ready to push him away.

When you don’t, his blood sings.

“Patch—”

“It’s just us, sweet thing,” he purrs, correcting you. You exhale a little shakily.  

“...Logan.”

He hums, pleased at the sound of your voice calling his name. What he’d do to make you sing it louder, like you’re begging for him—he’s had plenty of dreams where you haunt him with just your voice, cooing, coaxing him to unravel you, to take you—

“Not sure I can be so patient anymore,” he says, his body brushing against yours. A hand rests on your waist, pulling you close. The other that’s on your cheek slides down to your jaw before nestling at the back of your neck, craning your head so you’re looking directly up at him.

“What do you mean?” you whisper, staring at his chin instead. If you looked into his eyes right now, you’d wither.

Lips press against your ear. The touch is undemanding, but firm, warm breath eliciting a gasp from you. Your hand on his chest catches him tensing at the sound.

“Means I want you. Now,” he answers, voice low. His hand on your waist slides down to your hip, tugging you until your breath stops—he’s hard. Your chest heaves. 

Pulling away, he looks at you. You wonder what you look like. You feel feverish.

“Will you let me have you?”

A warm, calloused hand slips onto your naked thigh through the slit of your dress, and your knees are so close to buckling. Heels knock into the wall behind you, but there’s nowhere to run.

…do you even want to?

Madripoor is filth dressed up as a gemstone. The city’s deceitfulness is something Logan is accustomed to. He has seen and studied all the ways people lie.

Except for yours. The moment he takes you to the penthouse of the hotel, kissing you senseless against the locked door before carrying you to the bedroom, he feels it. The unraveling of your own brand of trickery.

Senses it through the way you slot your lips against his, how your hands glide softly down his back. He’s been with enough women to know exactly how different you are just by having you like this, under him on his bed while his mouth devours yours. 

When he pulls away, he doesn’t see the woman on stage. There’s no surety in your half-lidded eyes, already glazed with desire, and certainly not in the way they avoid his own gaze, looking away over his shoulder. 

Hazel eye rakes down your body. Your dress rides up, slit revealing your leg in its entirety. The cowl neck of your outfit reveals a hint of your breasts as you heave with each labored breath.

You are a seductress, just not the kind people think you are.

While you put on your mask, you feed their imaginations with easy smiles and affectionate touches. The picture-perfect illusion of a siren, dangerously alluring.

That same person is crumbling underneath him only after a few deep kisses. Averting your gaze, eyelids fluttering. Blushing. 

It drives him wild.

His mouth waters as he hovers above you, still dressed. An animal wearing human clothes. His deception. He uses his hand, directing your gaze at him, smirking at the lost look on your face.

“So fucking pretty for me.”

A palm presses against your breast, lips latching onto your neck as he gets you out of the dress. As gorgeous as you look with it on, he needs to see you bare. He is slow with it, letting the straps fall first, marking the skin of your shoulders, preening as he feels your hands on his back guiding him close. 

Then Logan tugs the silky fabric down, revealing your breasts. You move your arms to cover it. He doesn’t let you, grabbing them and pinning your wrists with one hand to keep you still.

“Don’t stare,” you whisper, twisting your body away from him, but that only makes you look more delicious, tits bouncing. 

“Oh, honey,” he hums. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you try to shrink.

Makes him want to ruin you even more.

“I’d do whatever you ask me to, but that’s just impossible.”

He leans down, tongue lapping up a hardened peak before he uses his free hand to grab your flesh and sucks. You cry out, writhing beneath him, looking like you’re close to tears. Pleasure floods his veins, making him impatient. Where he was restrained before, he’s all relentless lust now—teeth, tongue, and lips working together to coax more of those gorgeous sounds out of you. He moves to your other breast. God, your moans…

“Logan,” you cry out, and he just about loses it.

“Fuck, you sing amazing, but that sounds even better,” he laughs, letting go of your hands so he can provoke you with both of his. The sight of your tits under his palms, slick with the attention he’s given you, nipples hard… Logan wonders whether this is a special type of heaven.

“Give me more, baby.”

You find yourself doing as you’re told, all kinds of lewd noises escaping your lips. He makes you, playing your body like some kind of instrument he’s long mastered, despite having you for the first time. When the dress comes off you entirely, you squeeze your thighs together, vaguely aware of the sopping mess that’s coalesced in your center. 

Logan’s hand parts you, growling.

“No hiding.” He yanks the side of your underwear down, slipping it down your legs before tossing it. Where it lands, he couldn’t care less. 

He smells you before he sees you, and his cock twitches. His good eye focuses on the glisten at the apex of your thighs, visible even in the dim light of the bedroom.

“She’s so wet already, honey,” he smiles, zeroing in at your pussy as two fingers come up to play with your folds. You arch your back, groaning. “Just from playing with your tits?”

“A-ah…” 

Your thighs clamp together, but his other hand interferes just as quickly, gripping your knee to keep you spread. Fuck, he’s still fully dressed—

“So it’s all just an act? The sensual songstress,” he breathes heavily, slipping his middle finger in, watching you writhe at the sensation. He almost laughs, not out of humor, but from the way your walls clench onto his digit like you don’t want him to ever leave. “Soaked for me—” 

“No, it’s not—”

“When was the last time you had a man, then, honey?” he grits, his middle finger all the way inside of you. His cock strains underneath the tent in his pants, eager to have you.

“I d-don’t remember,” you reply, your voice thin and airy.

Ideas flood his head then and there. All the ways he can make you feel good, how loud he can make you scream for him, how he’ll change you, make you want more, make you greedy—

“You’ll remember me after we’re done,” he rumbles, sliding down until your legs bracket his shoulders, head between them. 

When his tongue slides up your cunt, you part your lips in a silent scream, before whines slip past your throat. He’s almost conceited in the way he eats you out, so sure, and he’s not wrong to be. Lips tease and kiss until you’re certain your lungs are short on air, all while his finger stretches your insides, reaching a part so deep you’re sure it hasn’t been touched in a long time.

Then one finger becomes two and they pump, slick sounds of your leaking cunt echoing in the room. Your hand flies to his hair, tugging needily. He moans against you, vibrations racking your body with goosebumps.

As he closes his mouth around your clit, fingers ruining you, you sob his name, cum soaking his digits.

That’s only the first one.

Logan sinks his fingers into your pussy, two fingers scissoring you. He hovers over you, mouth against your ear saying all kinds of obscenities while he stretches you in preparation for the real thing. 

“Pussy so tight, baby, relax for me,” he growls, feeling you drench his fingers. The slapping sounds of his hand against you grow louder. You moan as he curls inside of you, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. “Wanna make sure my dick fits inside her, yeah?”

“Fuck,” you cry weakly. He grins.

“It’s just my fingers, honey. My cock’s going to fucking ruin you, I know it. Gonna make you feel so fucking good, you won’t even look at any other guy. That right?”

Your response is an unintelligible mewl. A familiar wave crests, the knot at the bottom of your gut tightening.

“Come on, pretty girl, cum for me.”

How on earth he does it, you’re not sure. Your body obeys his command as if he has some kind of control over it, spine arching high as your hips sway, greedy for his digits, and when his thumb flicks that bundle of nerves you collapse. There’s a long drawn-out moan of his name as you spasm and shake, music to his ears.

He doesn’t waste time entering you, jacket shed, pants hanging low on his thighs—far too desperate at this point. Soon, you’re leaking all over his cock. His hand gently directs your gaze to where your bodies join, holding your chin as he feeds you his inches.

“Fuck, honey, look at that. Taking me so well.”

He moves.

A common sense of decency, the songs you sang in the set earlier, the taste of the drink he poured you—all of these things are forgotten, your mind a clean slate with each thrust of his length inside you. The way he moves is designed to make you fall apart quickly, relieving the ache in your core while making you want more, and you feel that sensation build within you again. Hands grip his biceps as you pant, eyelids fluttering up at him, drinking his expression while he spews filth at you. 

“Feels so good, baby, you’re so fucking hot.” His hips snap, a squelching sound between your legs. “Hear that? So wet for me. Want more?”

You mewl a ‘yes, Logan, please’ and he grins in delight, a renewed vigor in his already ruthless pace.

“God, fuck, you’re so tight. Gonna cum on my cock?” 

Nodding, you bury your face in his neck, letting out little gasps every time he sinks into you. You feel so full, like he’s all the way in your stomach—

“Tell me. Use your words, baby.”

“I-I’m so close, Logan,” you cry. 

“That’s right, let go, sweet thing, let me take care of you.”

The third time your orgasm hits, you’re hit by the reality of everything, your senses honing in to register only him. The way his length drags your walls—fuck, he hasn’t stopped—, his breath on your temple, the rumble of his voice as he praises you—“good girl, doing so good,”—the world stops. 

It’s just you, him, and how good it feels.

As the last waves of release begin to simmer down your limbs, electrifying your legs and fingertips, you pant, catching your breath. A gentle hand cups the fat of your cheek. You open your eyes.

Logan looks down at you, studying your utterly ruined countenance. Lips parted, cheeks burning, hair messily splayed on his pillow—the same way he imagined it would when he saw you sing just an hour ago.

That expensive lipstick hasn’t budged, though. He already knows one way he wants to ruin it.

The world spins and you let out a surprised noise as Logan flips the two of you, him on the bed and you sitting on his abs. You whine, feeling the slick smearing his shirt. He all but rips the fabric down the center, yanking it off his skin like it offended him, revealing his bare and hairy chest to you.

Hands are on your hips now, positioning you on top of his length. Your eyes widen. He’s still hard.

Once again, his cock sinks into your heat, and you melt on top of him, hands bracing on his chest, head tilted back.

“Oh my god—”

“Didn’t think I was done with you, huh, honey?” he groans, bottoming out, hand pressing on your stomach. Then his eye snaps up at you, pleased at the hazy look on your face. 

“Come on, ride. Gonna fuck the shyness outta you.”

[ilovemarvel97]

Wrong Timing, Right Song

Elizabeth Olsen x G!P Reader

Summary: How Lizzie and Y/N first met.

Word Count: 9,467

Request: Yes

Warnings: fluff, cute, little jealousy.

A/N: I got some requests about how Lizzie and reader met, so here we go!

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

Los Angeles, Late 2013

Y/N didn’t like these kinds of events.

Too many fake laughs. Too many tight smiles. She felt like a misplaced lyric in an auto-tuned song — polished on the outside, dissonant underneath.

Her assistant, Dani, had shoved the event pass into her hand and practically forced her into a tailored black suit before she could come up with a decent excuse.

“You just hit number two on Billboard,” Dani said, adjusting her collar. “This is your moment. You need to be seen. You need to meet people. It’s all part of the job.”

Y/N had muttered something about rather being home with her guitar and cold pad thai, but no one listened. So now she was here — some upscale West Hollywood event where everyone smelled expensive and talked like they were reading from the same networking script.

She nursed a ginger cocktail near the bar, head slightly ducked, watching the crowd. Most people didn’t notice her, not yet. They recognized her name more than her face — something she was fine with.

And then she saw her.

Elizabeth Olsen.

There was something quiet about her presence — composed, maybe a little detached from the noise. She wasn’t commanding attention, but the way she moved through the room made people notice her anyway. She wore a simple black silk dress, her hair loose and tucked behind one ear. Elegant, but not loud.

Y/N tried not to stare. Really, she did.

But Lizzie caught her eye. Just a glance. Then another. And — against all odds — she made her way over.

“Hey,” Lizzie said when she reached her. Her voice was calm and unassuming. “You’re Y/N, right?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. Wow. I mean—yeah.”

Lizzie gave a polite smile. “I heard your single on the radio the other day. It's been in my head since.”

“Oh,” Y/N said, heart bumping once in surprise. “That’s… thank you. I didn’t think someone like you would’ve heard it.”

Lizzie tilted her head slightly. “Someone like me?”

Y/N gave a sheepish shrug. “Movie star. Red carpet regular. You know… cool.”

That pulled a quiet laugh from Lizzie — a short one, more amused than charmed.

“Well, it’s a good song,” she said simply. “You’ve got a nice voice.”

Y/N smiled, relaxing a little. “Thanks. That really means a lot.”

She hesitated, then decided to go for it — not bold, just honest.

“You’re beautiful, by the way,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “Not just in the obvious way, either. You just… you carry a kind of peace with you.”

Lizzie blinked at that. The compliment didn’t make her blush or smile — not quite. She seemed to absorb it quietly, then offered a gentle, almost apologetic expression.

“I appreciate that,” she said. “But… I have a boyfriend.”

Y/N’s smile faltered for a breath, then steadied.

“Of course. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“You didn’t,” Lizzie said quickly, and her tone made it clear — no anger, no discomfort, just a line drawn with care. “I just thought it was better to say it now.”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah. I get it. I respect it.”

They stood in silence for a beat — not awkward, just brief — and Lizzie glanced toward the crowd again.

“Well… congratulations on the single,” she said, her tone drifting back toward polite.

“Thanks,” Y/N replied. “And, uh… thanks for saying hi.”

Lizzie nodded once, then turned to go, merging back into the sea of agents, actors, and producers.

Y/N watched her leave, a little hollowed out but not bitter. Just… wistful.

She took another sip of her drink and sighed under her breath.

“She feels like a song I’ll write and never finish.”

And somewhere inside her, the melody had already begun.

---

Lizzie’s POV

Lizzie told herself it was nothing.

Just a fleeting conversation at a crowded party. Polite. Complement exchanged, boundary set. It didn’t have to mean anything.

But Y/N had been… different.

Not in that overstated celebrity way, not like the people who tried to make an impression with oversized energy and manufactured charm. No, Y/N had been quieter. More grounded. She spoke like she actually meant what she said. Looked at Lizzie like she saw her — not the actress, not the photoshoots or the headlines, just… her.

And that wasn’t something Lizzie was used to.

Still, she had Boyd.

They’d been together for almost two years. It wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t… good anymore. Conversations had turned thin. Affection had started feeling like routine. She used to feel excited when he touched her — now it felt like remembering something she used to enjoy. Like a melody she couldn’t hum anymore.

But none of that had anything to do with Y/N.

At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

She didn’t mention the singer to Boyd. Didn’t tell her sisters either. It was just a moment. Not worth explaining.

Except…

She kept hearing her voice.

On the radio during a late drive home. On the speakers at a boutique while flipping through clothes she didn’t need. At brunch when her sister queued a playlist she swore was “the best new artist of the year.”

Y/N’s voice was smooth but raw, like silk with a tear running through it. Something about it stayed with Lizzie long after the song ended — low in her chest, just below the ribs.

Then the album dropped.

Lizzie didn’t plan to listen. She told herself she was too busy — press, auditions, appearances. But late one night, after a silent dinner with Boyd and an argument about something she already forgot, she sat in her car in the driveway. Keys still in the ignition. Phone in her hand.

She opened the album. Hit play.

The first few tracks washed over her like rain on a windshield — soft, emotional, honest. But it was track four that split her open.

Met her once, in a room too loud to hear my own breath

She smiled, and I wondered how many galaxies fit in one look

But her hand was held by time I couldn’t reach

So I left her like a song I couldn’t sing.

The lyrics felt like a confession whispered into her neck.

Lizzie’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. She didn’t cry — not exactly — but something inside her fractured in the quiet way heartbreak sometimes does: without noise, just pressure.

Was that about me?

No way. They’d only spoken once. But she wish it was.

And she wanted to hear it again.

Not just the track — the voice. That voice that had looked her in the eye and called her beautiful like it wasn’t rehearsed. That voice that had respected her boundary without pulling away in bitterness. That voice that had walked away, but not unfeeling.

The following weeks were restless.

She scrolled past headlines about Y/N’s album hitting platinum. Saw photos of her performing live, always in her element, always with a slightly sheepish smile like she wasn’t sure she belonged there. And maybe that’s what Lizzie couldn’t forget — the humility under all that talent. The quiet.

Boyd noticed her distance. Asked if she was stressed. She said yes. Let him hold her at night even when it felt more like an obligation than comfort.

But Y/N’s lyrics kept circling back, looping in her mind in moments she should’ve been focused on something else.

The girl from the party wouldn’t go away.

She stayed in the music.

And slowly, so slowly Lizzie barely noticed it, her relationship with Boyd started to feel like the wrong key for a song she used to love.

---

The breakup with Boyd was quiet.

There were no slammed doors, no teary confrontations, no dramatic exits. Just the slow realization — mutual, almost clinical — that they were done. That whatever they used to reach for in each other was now… gone.

He moved his things out on a Tuesday.

Lizzie changed the sheets the next day, not out of spite, but because she needed the symbolism. A fresh start. Something clean.

She told herself she was fine. She’d been busy. Press tours for Oldboy, meetings for upcoming projects, family visits. But even in the noise of it all, Y/N's voice followed her like a thread.

The album stayed on her phone. And track four — that song — became a kind of quiet ritual. She didn’t talk about it. Didn’t mention it when her sister caught her humming the chorus. She just let it live in the background. Private. Personal.

She didn’t expect to see her again.

But then came Grammy week. The pre-parties. The overcrowded, overhyped social calendar that came with being in the industry — one Lizzie rarely enjoyed but always attended, out of some combination of politeness and professional duty.

This one was in the Hollywood Hills. Warm evening air, strings of lights above polished concrete patios, drinks with fruit she couldn’t pronounce. Agents. Artists. Everyone scanning the room behind the person they were talking to.

Lizzie was halfway through a conversation with someone she barely remembered meeting before when her eyes caught a familiar silhouette near the patio edge.

Y/N.

She stood just outside the main crowd, talking to a producer Lizzie vaguely recognized. A glass in one hand, her other thumb tucked into her pocket. Her suit tonight was deep maroon with black satin lapels, slightly open at the collar. Her hair was a bit longer than before, swept back in a way that made her jawline sharper, her energy smoother.

She looked composed. Calm. Confident, even.

Lizzie didn’t think. She just moved.

Not rushed. Not panicked. Just… drawn. She crossed the space between them like someone who’d finally stopped second-guessing.

“Hey,” she said, soft but clear.

Y/N turned — and froze for half a second.

Then came that smile. Like a slow sunrise. “Elizabeth Olsen.”

“Just Lizzie tonight,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Unless you’re mad at me.”

Y/N let out a breath of a laugh, low and warm. “Why would I be? You were honest, and I respect that,” she said genuinely, eyes steady on Lizzie’s.

There was no bitterness. No trace of ego or wounded pride. Just that same quiet grace Lizzie remembered from the first time — the kind that made her feel seen, not sized up.

Still, Lizzie shifted her weight slightly. “Well… I’ve thought about that night.”

Something flickered across Y/N’s face. Surprise, maybe. Curiosity.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you again,” she admitted.

“Same,” Lizzie said. “But then your album came out. Kind of made it hard to forget you.”

Y/N tilted her head, curious. “You listened to it?”

“I memorized it,” Lizzie confessed, her voice dipping just above a whisper. “Especially track four.”

A pause stretched between them, heavier than the last time. Not awkward — just weighted. Charged.

Y/N looked down for a second, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “That one… that one’s personal.”

Lizzie's voice softened. “About anyone I’d know?”

Y/N met her gaze. Steady now. “About a girl I met at an event. Thought she was magnetic. Said she had a boyfriend.”

Lizzie exhaled — a soft, amused sound. “She doesn’t anymore.”

Y/N’s expression shifted again — less guarded now. More open. Her eyes searched Lizzie’s face like she was making sure this wasn’t a game. Like she wanted to believe it, but wouldn’t let herself just yet.

And maybe that was fair.

Because Lizzie had walked away before. With reason. But still — she had.

So this time, she didn’t wait.

“I don’t want red carpets. I don’t want press. I don’t even need it to be a big deal,” Lizzie said, tucking her hands into the pockets of her black trousers, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt. “But if you’d still want to… I’d really like to take that offer on getting drinks.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, that same amused spark flickering behind her eyes. She hummed, dragging the moment out in deliberate, exaggerated thought.

“Hmm…” she said, tapping her chin with theatrical flair. “Let me think. Drinks with the gorgeous Lizzie Olsen… who turned me down once, crushed my fragile singer heart…”

Lizzie rolled her eyes, laughing despite herself. “Okay, dramatic.”

Y/N grinned wider. “You don’t know the half of it. I almost wrote a sad acoustic trilogy about you.”

“You kind of did.”

“Fair,” Y/N conceded with a wink. “Still, you showing up here, no boyfriend in sight, actually asking me out… I don’t know. I might need a minute to process this emotional rollercoaster.”

Lizzie bit back a smile, relaxing into the banter. “You’ve had four months.”

“And I’ve used them wisely,” Y/N said. “Grew into my heartbreak. Became Billboard’s favorite tragic romantic.”

“You hit number one, didn’t you?”

“Tragedy sells.”

They both laughed then — real, unguarded.

And when it faded, Y/N looked at her again, softer now.

“Yeah,” she said, sincere beneath the teasing. “I’d love to get that drink with you.”

Lizzie’s shoulders dropped the tension she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Good.”

Y/N held out her hand. “Then let’s get out of here. I know a place. No cameras. No crowd.”

Lizzie hesitated just long enough to let her fingers brush Y/N’s before taking her hand fully.

Y/N’s grip was warm, steady — like she wasn’t surprised this was finally happening, like she’d been waiting with quiet patience.

They didn’t make a scene walking out. No dramatic exits. No camera flashes.

Just two women slipping through the crowd unnoticed, away from the noise, toward something that felt a little more real.

Outside, the night was cool, Los Angeles buzz humming in the background. Y/N led them down the sidewalk, still hand in hand, and Lizzie couldn’t stop glancing at her. It was strange — she’d met hundreds of people in this industry, had dozens of conversations that vanished the moment she walked away — but Y/N had stuck. And not just because of her voice or the lyrics that had kept Lizzie company for the last few months.

It was her. Her calm. Her wit. Her gentleness.

“You drive?” Lizzie asked, just to fill the quiet between them.

Y/N smiled. “I do, but Dani wouldn’t let me tonight. Something about me getting recognized at valet and saying something awkward.”

Lizzie laughed lightly. “Is that a regular thing for you?”

“I think Dani just assumes I’m bad at parties. Which… I am. But I’m great at sneaking out of them.”

“Clearly.”

They turned the corner, where a black car idled at the curb. Y/N opened the back door and held it for her.

“I know a little bar in Silver Lake,” she said. “No velvet ropes. No paparazzi. Just a quiet booth and decent drinks.”

“Perfect,” Lizzie said, slipping in.

The drive was easy. Y/N didn’t fill the silence with small talk. She let the space breathe, music low — one of those indie playlists that didn’t scream for attention. Lizzie found herself watching her out of the corner of her eye. Y/N sat relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, fingers drumming against her thigh in rhythm to the beat.

“You always this calm?” Lizzie asked.

Y/N turned slightly, a smirk tugging at her lips. “You caught me on a good day.”

The bar was tucked between a closed vintage shop and a dark café. Low lighting, vinyl booths, wood-paneled walls that probably hadn’t changed since the ‘70s. The bartender nodded at Y/N like they knew her, but didn’t say a word beyond a soft, “Good to see you again.”

They slid into a booth near the back, the kind that let them disappear into the shadows of amber string lights.

“So,” Lizzie said once their drinks arrived. “Are you gonna tell me what Track Four was really about?”

Y/N raised a brow. “You really wanna know?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Y/N stirred her drink once, thoughtful. “It was about… meeting someone who made the room feel different. Who felt real in a place where things gets to be more plastic. But the timing sucked. And I walked away thinking, that’s the kind of person I’d give songs to if the world gave me another shot.”

Lizzie’s throat tightened. She looked down at her drink, then back at her. “You’re dangerously good with words.”

“Comes with the job,” Y/N said, then softer, “Also helps when you mean them.”

Silence wrapped around them again, but it wasn’t awkward. It pulsed with something new — anticipation, gravity, warmth.

Lizzie let herself lean in a little, eyes meeting Y/N’s.

“I’m glad you got another shot.”

Y/N held her gaze, unwavering. “I don’t intend to waste it.”

The booth seemed to shrink around them.

Not from pressure or nerves — just closeness. Something unspoken curled between them, neither of them in a rush to name it.

Lizzie let her fingers trace the edge of her glass. “I have to admit,” she said, “I wasn’t expecting you to be so…”

“So?” Y/N prompted, eyes warm but teasing.

“…Low-key. I don’t know. For someone whose song is literally everywhere, you have this… grounded energy. It’s unfair, really.”

Y/N chuckled, resting her chin in her hand. “I think I’ve spent so much of my life not fitting in, I stopped trying. Now I just aim for peace. Anything that feels like peace, I chase.”

“That’s kind of beautiful,” Lizzie murmured, meaning it more than she meant most things she said at events.

Y/N looked at her then — really looked. Not with heat or hunger, but with that same soft interest Lizzie remembered from the first night. Like she was a person worth pausing for.

“Peace doesn’t always look like stillness,” Y/N said after a beat. “Sometimes it walks in wearing a black pantsuit and orders a whiskey sour and makes me forget how bad I am at flirting.”

Lizzie felt herself blush — she hadn’t done that in years. “You’re not that bad.”

“Oh no?” Y/N raised an eyebrow. “I asked you out the first time and got shut down. That feels like a pretty solid L.”

Lizzie laughed, biting her lip. “You weren’t bad. You were just… honest. And timing was the problem, not you.”

“That’s what everyone says before they disappear for good.”

“I didn’t disappear,” Lizzie said, nudging her shoe lightly against Y/N’s under the table. “I just… rerouted.”

Y/N smiled. “And now?”

“Now,” Lizzie said slowly, “I’m sitting here wondering how I got lucky enough to have a second chance at this.”

---

Later that night, outside the bar…

The air was cooler now, and quieter. The city had begun to fold in on itself.

They walked slowly, neither of them mentioning their cars, their schedules, the fact that the night had become something neither of them planned for.

Y/N’s hands were tucked in her pockets, but every once in a while, they brushed arms — lightly, accidentally on purpose.

Lizzie stole glances. Y/N had that kind of face that changed with the light — sharp lines softened by calm eyes. She wasn’t loud, wasn’t showy. But when she looked at you, you felt seen.

“I thought about messaging you,” Lizzie said, voice low. “After I heard the album.”

Y/N glanced at her. “Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to make it about me. What if I was wrong and it wasn’t about me? Or worse — what if it was, and I missed the window?”

Y/N stopped walking. Gently took Lizzie’s hand. “Hey. If I wrote it, the window wasn’t closed. It was just… waiting.”

Lizzie looked down at their joined hands. It felt like an anchor. Like something real in a sea of fleeting things.

“Would it be crazy if I said this feels good?” Lizzie asked. “Like, too good?”

Y/N smiled. “It doesn’t have to be crazy. It can just be… what it is.”

“Which is?”

“Something worth staying awake for,” Y/N said simply.

---

The street outside Lizzie’s place was dim and still. She turned to face Y/N who had come out of the car to walk her up the stairs.

Y/N didn’t push. Didn’t assume.

So Lizzie took the step.

She leaned in slowly, letting her hand rest gently on Y/N’s chest — over her heart — before brushing the softest kiss across her cheek.

Not rushed. Not claimed.

Just offered.

When she pulled back, Y/N’s eyes were already closed for a beat, then opened with that same slow, sunrise smile.

“You’re dangerous,” she whispered.

Lizzie grinned, a little crooked. “So are you.”

Neither of them said good night right away.

But when Lizzie finally opened the door, she turned one last time and said, “Don’t disappear, okay?”

Y/N held her gaze. “Not unless you want me to.”

And Lizzie knew, without question, she didn’t.

---

Lizzie woke before her alarm.

The sun was barely up — a soft gray glow peeking through the curtains, like the world hadn’t fully decided to be awake yet. She blinked against her pillow, slow and calm, her body unusually relaxed.

Then she remembered.

The walk to her door. The warmth in Y/N’s eyes. That last look before Lizzie had stepped inside.

And the text she’d asked for.

She reached for her phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up with a familiar message from the night before.

11:09 p.m. — Y/N:

Made it home. Still smiling, by the way. Sweet dreams, Lizzie.

Lizzie smiled without meaning to. Let the words settle in her chest like a warm drink. She reread the message, then tucked the phone against her chest for a beat before sitting up.

7:42 a.m. — Lizzie:

Glad you got home safe. And that you’re smiling.

I might be too, but I’m blaming the coffee.

She hit send, then padded into the kitchen barefoot, pulling her sweater tight around her shoulders. Coffee was the plan, sure — but distraction was the real goal.

Because her brain wouldn’t shut up.

Y/N’s voice was still in her ears, not singing this time — just talking, low and thoughtful. That dry humor. That look she gave when she was listening to someone like they were the only person in the world.

God, and that smile.

Not movie-star smile. Just… real. Like she meant it.

Lizzie shook her head and poured her coffee like a normal person. No big deal. Just a very grounded, casually giddy morning.

Her phone buzzed.

8:03 a.m. — Y/N:

You’re blaming the coffee? Wow. You wound me.

For the record, I blame you. The girl with the best damn smile in L.A.

Lizzie bit her lip, almost laughing into her mug.

She typed, then retyped.

8:05 a.m. — Lizzie:

Smooth. Is that a lyric in progress?

8:06 a.m. — Y/N:

Not yet. Want to give me more material?

8:06 a.m. — Lizzie:

You trying to flirt with me, rockstar?

8:07 a.m. — Y/N:

Trying? Ouch. I thought I was doing pretty well.

8:07 a.m. — Lizzie:

You are.

She hit send before she could second-guess it.

And for the rest of the morning, Lizzie moved through the world differently.

Lighter. Quieter inside her head. Like something had shifted in her orbit.

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t fast.

But it was something.

And she hoped — without quite letting herself admit it — that it was only just beginning.

---

They didn’t see each other for two weeks.

Not for lack of wanting to — just timing. Lizzie was knee-deep in press days and fittings. Y/N was bouncing between studio sessions and late-night rehearsals. LA traffic didn’t help, and neither did the cameras that seemed to wait for Lizzie every time she stepped outside.

But the silence never returned.

They texted. Every day.

Sometimes flirty.

Y/N:

Woke up with a melody stuck in my head. Either it’s genius or it’s your fault.

Lizzie:

If it’s bad, I’m blaming your coffee habits. If it’s good, I accept full credit.

Sometimes soft.

Lizzie:

Long day. Just needed to say hi.

Y/N:

Hi. I’m here.

And sometimes, it was calls. Usually late, when the world had gone quiet.

Y/N’s voice in Lizzie’s ear, soft and familiar. Lizzie’s laugh making Y/N pause mid-sentence just to hear it again.

They talked about nothing at first — music, travel, bad lighting on red carpets — and then everything. What scared them. What surprised them. The weird quiet that came with fame. The ache of always being “on.”

One night, Lizzie said, “I think people forget I’m not my characters.”

Y/N was silent for a second. Then: “I don’t.”

And that stayed with her.

---

The tension never turned impatient. Just… curious. Warm.

It felt like they were building something.

Lizzie started keeping her phone closer. Checked it between takes. Fell asleep with Y/N’s messages still glowing on her screen.

Y/N started writing differently. Slower. More thoughtful. She didn’t say it was because of Lizzie, but her producer raised a brow when she started showing up with lyrics about green eyes and quiet bravery.

They were, in every sense, circling each other. Orbiting. Waiting for time to line up.

And then — finally — it did.

Late Friday. Lizzie had just stepped out of the shower, hair damp, face bare, oversized shirt clinging to her shoulder.

Her phone rang.

Y/N’s name lit up the screen.

“Hey,” Lizzie answered, a smile already blooming.

“You home?” Y/N’s voice was warm but edged with something playful.

Lizzie blinked. “Yeah… why?”

There was a beat. A pause just long enough to quicken her pulse.

“Can you open your front door?”

Lizzie nearly dropped her phone.

She hurried barefoot through the house, heart thudding, and pulled open the door.

And there Y/N was. Leaning casually against the frame, a few takeout bags hanging from her hands.

“Hi,” she said, smiling like the whole week had led to this.

Lizzie stared, stunned for a breath. “You’re— What are you—?”

“You said your favorite Thai place was this little hole-in-the-wall in Los Feliz, right?” Y/N lifted the bag. “I went. I got us enough food for three people because I panicked.”

Lizzie blinked at her, then laughed. It spilled out of her like breath.

“You drove all the way across the city at 8 p.m. on a Friday?”

“I missed your voice,” Y/N said simply. “Figured it might be even better in person.”

Lizzie stepped aside without hesitation. “Come in. Immediately.”

---

Inside, the vibe shifted — from surprise to comfort.

They ate barefoot on Lizzie’s couch, food containers spread out on her coffee table, some forgotten rom-com playing muted in the background. Their conversation picked up like it hadn’t paused. Somewhere between mouthfuls of drunken noodles and red curry, Lizzie leaned her head back and sighed.

“This is the best surprise I’ve had in months.”

“I was nervous,” Y/N admitted, glancing sideways. “Didn’t know if it’d be too much.”

Lizzie turned her head to meet her gaze. “It’s not. It’s perfect.”

Y/N smiled and went quiet for a moment, like she was holding onto something delicate.

Eventually, after the food was picked over and their hands had brushed more than once, Y/N stood to leave.

Lizzie walked her to the door, slower than necessary.

There was a pause there too, one filled with everything neither of them wanted to rush.

“I’m really glad you came,” Lizzie said, her voice soft.

“Me too,” Y/N replied.

Lizzie hesitated just long enough to let her fingers brush Y/N’s before taking her hand fully.

She squeezed Y/N hand once before letting go. “Text me when you get home.”

“I will.”

And she did — just a simple message.

Y/N:

Home safe. Still smiling.

Lizzie stared at it for a long time.

Lizzie:

Me too.

---

They didn’t talk about it the next morning — the handholding, the smile lingering on Lizzie’s lips, or the way she kept checking her phone like Y/N might text again. She did, of course. Just a “Morning :)” and a photo of the empty takeout bag with “proof I didn’t let your curry go to waste” scrawled under it.

They stayed in each other’s orbit that weekend, still texting, still calling — but something had shifted. The silence between them felt different now. Full of yes instead of maybe.

It was Y/N who asked this time.

Y/N:

What are you doing Thursday night?

Lizzie:

Canceling whatever I had.

Y/N:

Don’t cancel. Just... reschedule for something better.

Lizzie:

Better, huh? Confident.

Y/N:

Hopeful.

Y/N showed up just after 6:30.

No driver. No black SUV. Just her own Jeep, windows down, wind in her hair, and a playlist drifting softly through the speakers — hers and a few artists Lizzie had mentioned liking. She wore a deep navy button-down, sleeves casually rolled, her usual rings catching the last of the sun.

“You’re already killing me,” Lizzie said as she slid into the passenger seat, pulling the door closed behind her.

Y/N smiled without turning. “I haven’t even started.”

The restaurant was tucked into a quiet stretch of beach, half-hidden behind windswept palms and a weathered wooden sign. It didn’t scream exclusivity. It whispered comfort. The kind of place locals kept to themselves.

Inside, the lighting was warm and dim. Low ceilings. Mismatched chairs. Candles flickering in repurposed glass jars. The ocean was visible through the windows, the horizon blurring into the dusk.

“I used to come here after gigs,” Y/N said as they were led to a quiet corner table. “When no one knew who I was. Still feels like the only place that never changed.”

Lizzie glanced around, then back at her. “I can see why you kept it.”

Dinner was easy. No scripts. No performing. Y/N was quieter than Lizzie expected, but when she did speak — stories about tour buses and bad interviews and how she once accidentally fell asleep during a podcast taping — it made Lizzie laugh with her whole body.

And when Lizzie talked, Y/N listened. Not nodded-along listened. Listened. Like she might take each word home and put music behind it.

After dessert — espresso and a slice of almond cake they split — they walked along the restaurant’s back deck, the sound of the waves folding into their footsteps.

“You always like this on dates?” Lizzie asked, arms folded against the breeze.

Y/N grinned at the ocean. “Not even a little. I usually fumble through half a drink and wish I’d stayed home.”

Lizzie stopped walking, just enough to turn toward her. “You nervous right now?”

Y/N’s smile softened. “Only when I think too much about how pretty you are.”

That earned a blush. A real one.

Lizzie didn’t hide her blush, but she did try to brush it off with a small laugh. “You really know how to time that, don’t you?”

Y/N took a step closer, not pushing — just shifting the air between them.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” she said softly, eyes fixed on Lizzie like she was the only thing that existed on that beach. “And I don’t say them unless I want them remembered.”

Lizzie’s breath caught just slightly. “That sounds like a lyric.”

Y/N’s voice dropped an octave, barely more than a murmur. “Might be. You inspire a few.”

A wave crashed in the distance, soft and slow, and neither of them moved for a moment. Then Y/N extended her hand — not to take, but to offer.

“Walk with me?”

Lizzie slipped her hand into Y/N’s, and this time, there was no brushing. No hesitation.

They walked the curve of the deck until it ended in soft sand. Y/N led them down, the boards creaking beneath their steps before giving way to the cool, shifting beach.

Lizzie shivered as the breeze swept past, and without a word, Y/N let go of her hand only to slip out of her jacket and drape it over Lizzie’s shoulders. She didn’t ask. Didn’t make a show of it. Just did it like it was obvious.

Like it was hers to give.

“Thank you,” Lizzie said, holding it closed. The fabric smelled like her — cedar, clean laundry, and something warm and hard to name.

They stopped where the surf reached just close enough to wet the tips of their shoes. The stars had started to scatter across the sky, reflected faintly in the water.

Y/N turned to face her fully. “I know we’ve both been busy. That it took a while to get here.”

Lizzie looked up, eyes catching the flicker of moonlight in Y/N’s gaze. “Worth the wait.”

That made Y/N smile again — slow, sure, almost cocky. But it softened as she reached up, brushing Lizzie’s hair back behind her ear again, fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“Can I kiss you?” she asked, her voice low but certain.

Lizzie didn’t answer with words.

She stepped in, lifted her chin, and closed the space between them.

Y/N met her halfway — firm but unhurried. Confident. Her hand settled against Lizzie’s waist, the other cupping her jaw with delicate pressure. It was a kiss that didn’t ask, didn’t wonder — it simply was.

And Lizzie melted into it.

Everything about Y/N — the way she moved, held her, kissed like she had all the time in the world — made Lizzie feel undone in the safest possible way. Like she could just let go.

When they finally pulled back, Lizzie stayed close, her forehead resting against Y/N’s.

“You’re dangerous,” she whispered, breathless.

Y/N’s thumb traced the line of her jaw. “Only in ways you want me to be.”

They stood there for another few minutes, the waves and the stars wrapping around them like a secret. Until Y/N finally murmured:

“Let me drive you home?”

Lizzie nodded, but didn’t move. “Only if you stay a while.”

Y/N’s grin returned — low, knowing, impossibly fond.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

---

The drive back to Lizzie’s was quiet — not from awkwardness, but from comfort. Lizzie’s hand rested in Y/N’s on the center console the entire ride, her thumb tracing slow circles like she was memorizing the feel of her.

When they pulled into the driveway, Lizzie didn’t move right away. Neither did Y/N.

“I’m glad you called tonight,” Lizzie said, finally breaking the silence.

“I was tired of orbiting,” Y/N replied softly. “I wanted to land.”

That earned a smile — tired, warm, full of something bigger than either of them had said aloud.

Inside the house, the air felt different. Not cold, not empty. Just... waiting.

Lizzie slipped off her shoes, watched as Y/N did the same, and then led her into the kitchen.

“Tea?” Lizzie offered. “Or something stronger?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

Lizzie reached for the kettle, and Y/N stepped in behind her — not touching, just close enough that Lizzie could feel the heat of her body against her back.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t performative. It was presence.

When the mugs were filled and the lights dimmed, they ended up on the couch, legs curled under them, sitting closer than before. The tea went untouched on the table.

“So…” Lizzie began, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. “What happens now?”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She leaned in, not kissing her again just yet — but brushing the back of her fingers along Lizzie’s cheek, anchoring her gaze.

“Now I stay awhile. If you want me to.”

Lizzie’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I do.”

Y/N nodded once, then leaned forward and kissed her again — slower this time. Less about need. More about promise.

Lizzie leaned into it, her fingers sliding up to rest at the nape of Y/N’s neck, drawing her closer. Y/N shifted just enough to deepen the kiss, guiding it like she already knew what Lizzie liked — soft pressure, lingering, lips slightly parted like she wanted Lizzie to chase her just a little.

When they pulled apart, both of them breathing heavier, Lizzie’s eyes fluttered open and met hers. “Do you want to stay here tonight?”

“I’d like to,” Y/N said, brushing her thumb along Lizzie’s jaw. “But we don’t have to rush anything.”

“I’m not asking for that,” Lizzie said gently. “I just… want you close.”

That, more than anything, seemed to strike something in Y/N. Her expression softened as she nodded.

“Then I’m not going anywhere.”

They ended up curled together in bed — not tangled, but held. Y/N spooned behind Lizzie, her arm wrapped firmly around her waist, nose tucked into the back of her neck like she belonged there.

And Lizzie, for the first time in months, maybe years, fell asleep with her chest warm and her mind quiet.

---

The Next Morning

Sunlight crept in through the curtains, soft and golden. Lizzie stirred first, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she blinked herself into awareness. She didn’t move right away. She didn’t want to.

Y/N was still asleep behind her, one arm snug around her waist, their bodies molded together like the night hadn’t shifted them at all. Lizzie could feel the steady rhythm of her breathing, warm against the back of her neck. Safe.

She smiled to herself, eyes closing again for a moment, savoring it.

But then — a soft groan. Y/N shifted, tightened her hold briefly, and murmured, “You’re awake, huh?”

“Barely,” Lizzie whispered.

Y/N pressed a slow, feather-light kiss to her shoulder. “I can fix that.”

Lizzie laughed, her voice still sleep-rough. “You’re dangerous.”

“You like it,” Y/N teased.

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late,” Y/N mumbled, and nuzzled into her again.

A minute passed like that — unhurried. Then Lizzie turned in her arms to face her. Y/N blinked, still a little sleep-hazy, and tucked a strand of hair out of Lizzie’s face.

“You sleep okay?” Y/N asked, softer now.

Lizzie nodded. “Better than I have in a long time.”

The look Y/N gave her was quiet, almost reverent. She didn’t say anything right away. Just leaned in and kissed her — short, sweet, and sleepy.

Eventually, they made it out of bed, mostly because Lizzie insisted on making breakfast and Y/N insisted on watching, perched on a barstool in one of Lizzie’s old t-shirts.

The kitchen filled with the scent of coffee and eggs, the kind of domestic calm that felt… significant.

“So,” Lizzie said casually, plating the food. “You’re just going to pretend track four wasn’t about me?”

Y/N paused, then smirked. “Is that what you think?”

“I know it,” Lizzie said, setting her plate down with a raised brow. “Galaxy eyes? Loud room? A girl with a boyfriend?”

“Damn,” Y/N said, laughing as she took a bite. “You really did memorize it.”

Lizzie leaned on the counter, watching her. “You gonna deny it?”

Y/N swallowed, then met her gaze fully. “No. I’m not.”

That silenced them both for a beat.

Then Lizzie smiled — small, full of something she didn’t quite know how to name yet. “Good. I liked that one.”

Y/N’s voice dropped to something sincere. “It was always yours.”

They ate in silence after that. Not awkward — just full. Full of words they weren’t rushing to say, and a comfort they both knew they didn’t want to lose.

Outside, the day was starting. But inside, the world was just the two of them — coffee mugs, shared glances, and a song that had always belonged to Lizzie.

---

A Few Days Later

It hit Lizzie on a quiet Thursday afternoon.

She was back from a costume fitting, sipping tea that had gone cold, half-scrolling, half-daydreaming — when the headline caught her eye.

“Pop’s Golden Girl Off the Market? Y/N Spotted Holding Mystery Woman Close Outside L.A. Lounge”

She clicked before she could stop herself.

There it was. Y/N, surrounded by paparazzi, one arm wrapped tightly around a girl’s shoulders — drawing her into her side like a shield. The woman’s face was turned away, tucked into Y/N’s chest. Y/N’s expression was hard to read beneath her baseball cap, but her body said everything.

Lizzie stared at it too long. Her heart thudded once, deep and unsure.

Because just three nights ago, Lizzie had kissed her.

She’d kissed her with fingers curled in Y/N’s nape, lips tentative at first, then bolder, braver — as if weeks of near-misses and late-night calls had finally found release in one soft, breathless moment. And Y/N had kissed her back like she’d been waiting since the first hello.

They hadn’t said much afterward. Y/N had stayed the night, curled against Lizzie under her quilt, the kind of quiet closeness that spoke more than labels ever could.

So seeing the picture now — the closeness, the protective touch, the optics — felt like ice water.

Her phone buzzed.

Y/N: You probably saw the photo. Can I explain?

Lizzie didn’t respond right away.

She stood up, paced her living room, phone in hand, trying to swallow the ache of uncertainty. Her thumb finally tapped a reply.

Lizzie: Yeah. I’d like that.

The doorbell rang less than a minute later.

She blinked.

Y/N: I’m outside.

Lizzie’s chest tightened. She walked slowly to the door and opened it.

Y/N stood there, cap low, hoodie zipped, but eyes open — completely open. Not defensive. Just… here.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“I didn’t want to text it,” Y/N said. “Not after… everything.”

Lizzie didn’t move. “She looked close to you.”

“She is,” Y/N nodded. “She’s my cousin. Chloe. She just moved to L.A., and she showed up to the wrong entrance. The paps swarmed, and I—” her voice softened— “I went into big sister mode. That’s all it was. I swear.”

Lizzie studied her, reading the truth in her eyes, and something in her cracked open again.

“I know I don’t have a claim on you,” she murmured.

Y/N stepped in, closer. “You kinda do, though.”

Lizzie blinked.

Y/N cupped her cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath her eye. “I didn’t kiss you like that just to have something casual.”

The space between them narrowed.

Y/N leaned in, slow, giving her time to pull away.

Lizzie didn’t.

Their lips met again — not like the first time, not rushed or uncertain — but sure. It was a kiss that felt like an answer, like this is what I choose. Y/N pulled her closer, arms around her waist, deepening it just a little, enough to make Lizzie melt into her.

When they broke apart, Lizzie’s voice was small, hopeful. “So I can call you mine?”

Y/N smiled, forehead resting against hers. “Only if I can call you the same.”

A beat passed, and then Lizzie nodded. “Deal.”

Y/N’s thumb still lingered at the curve of Lizzie’s jaw, her touch steady, grounding. The door shut behind them, and in the quiet hush that followed, something shifted — the space between them, electric and waiting.

“I should’ve called sooner,” Y/N said, her voice low and earnest. “Or warned you. I hate that you had to see that photo like everyone else.”

Lizzie stepped in, close enough for their chests to brush. “I didn’t want to assume anything. But yeah… it messed with my head. Especially after…”

Her words drifted off, but Y/N knew what she meant. Especially after the night we kissed. After you held me in your bed and didn’t let go.

“It’s you, Lizzie,” Y/N said, her hand sliding from her jaw to the back of her neck, fingers threading through the soft hair there. “It’s been you.”

Lizzie tilted her head back to meet her gaze — vulnerable, a little breathless. “Then show me.”

The kiss came hard — not rushed, not clumsy, but hungry. Y/N crashed into her like she couldn’t hold back anymore, her mouth hot and insistent. Lizzie let out a soft gasp as her back hit the door, her fingers clutching at the front of Y/N’s hoodie. Y/N kissed her like she’d been starving for it, like Lizzie was air and water and the only thing she’d ever want again.

Y/N’s hands slid down Lizzie’s sides, gripping her hips, thumbs pressing just beneath the hem of her shirt. Lizzie arched into her, moaning quietly when Y/N bit gently at her bottom lip before soothing it with her tongue.

She was melting — dizzy from the kiss, the warmth between them, the week of wanting that built into a fire now roaring in her chest.

They stumbled toward the couch, barely breaking apart. Y/N sat first and pulled Lizzie into her lap, her hands greedy but careful — thumbs grazing under her shirt, mouth dragging from her lips to her jaw to the hollow of her throat.

“God, I missed you,” Y/N breathed against her skin, voice ragged.

Lizzie’s hands found their way under Y/N’s hoodie, palms splayed over bare skin. “You could’ve fooled me,” she teased breathlessly, hips shifting just enough to draw a groan from Y/N.

“Keep doing that,” Y/N whispered, her voice rough, dark with promise, “and I won’t be able to stop.”

Lizzie kissed her again — slower now, deeper — and smiled against her lips. “Then don’t.”

Lizzie’s kisses didn’t slow.

If anything, they deepened — more intent, more searching. Her fingers brushed under the hem of Y/N’s hoodie again, spreading over warm skin, anchoring herself in the feeling of Y/N’s body beneath hers. Every now and then, her hips shifted — not intentionally, not even consciously — just following the rhythm of want building between them.

Y/N's hands gripped Lizzie's waist, but there was tension now, the kind that wasn’t from desire alone.

She broke the kiss suddenly, breath catching. “Wait—just…” she said, voice strained.

Lizzie froze. Her heart dropped. “Did I—did I do something wrong?”

Y/N shook her head, eyes closed, jaw tight. She inhaled deeply, like she was trying to ground herself. “No. God, no. It’s not you. You’re just…”

When she trailed off, Lizzie shifted slightly again in her lap to look at her fully—only for Y/N to let out a rough groan, like she’d been punched in the gut.

And that’s when Lizzie felt it — the growing bulge against her thigh. Her breath caught.

Y/N opened her eyes slowly, gaze heavy with frustration and something tender. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Didn’t mean for that to happen. I wasn’t trying to—”

“Hey,” Lizzie said softly, brushing a hand against Y/N’s cheek. “Why are you apologizing?”

“Because…” Y/N laughed nervously, head falling back against the couch. “We were just kissing. I didn’t want you to think I was trying to take it somewhere without asking. Or that I can’t control myself around you.”

Lizzie blinked, then smiled — genuinely, warmly. “Y/N. I’m literally straddling you. I don’t think you did anything wrong.”

Y/N looked back at her, still a little cautious. “So… you’re not weirded out?”

Lizzie leaned in again, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth. “No. I’m flattered.”

Y/N chuckled, exhaling like the weight of the moment had lifted just slightly. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“Only to you,” Lizzie whispered, her forehead resting against Y/N’s. “But if you need to slow down, just say the word.”

Y/N nodded, her hands steadying on Lizzie’s hips again. “Not tonight. Not yet. I just want to hold you.”

Lizzie curled in closer, letting her body relax into Y/N’s. “Then hold me.”

And in the quiet, wrapped around each other, they stayed — pulse still fast, hearts still learning this rhythm. But safe. Honest. And slowly falling.

---

Bonus Chapter

Lizzie had slept over at Y/N’s place the night before.

Nothing had happened — not like that — but something had shifted. They’d kissed until the moonlight faded, tangled up in each other under Y/N’s old college blanket, whispering sleepy jokes and quiet things that didn’t feel safe to say in the daylight.

That morning, Y/N had kissed her temple with a low, warm hum. “Quick check-in at the studio. Be back in an hour. There’s coffee and leftovers if you get bored.”

Lizzie stayed wrapped in the oversized hoodie Y/N lent her, curled up on the couch with a mug and her phone. She was halfway through a crossword when she heard the front door open.

No knock. No callout.

Just keys turning and the door swinging wide like someone owned the place.

Who the hell is this!? Lizzie thought to herself 

She set her mug down too hard and stood quickly just as a woman stepped into the apartment — sunglasses on, tote bag slung over her shoulder, like she’d done it a hundred times.

Lizzie froze. Her heart thudded.

The woman paused too, eyebrows lifting as she took Lizzie in.

“Ohhh,” she said, dragging out the syllable like she was amused. “You’re not Postmates.”

Lizzie crossed her arms, subtly adjusting the hoodie sleeves. “No. Who are you?”

The woman raised her sunglasses to her head, revealing familiar eyes. “I’m Chloe. Y/N’s cousin.”

Lizzie blinked.

Chloe.

The name clicked.

The one from the photo.

Oh.

Lizzie’s shoulders relaxed a little. Cousin.

Still, she couldn’t help the flicker of tension. “Sorry, I just… you came in kind of fast.”

Chloe gave a sheepish shrug. “Yeah. I’ve had a key since before she got famous. Didn’t realize she had company, or I’d have knocked.”

Lizzie gave a tight, polite smile. “It’s okay. I just didn’t expect… anyone.”

Chloe wandered in like she owned the place, her movements easy, familiar. She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and leaned against the counter, looking at Lizzie with open curiosity. “So. Are you the girl who’s making my cousin smile like a stupid?”

Lizzie blinked, caught somewhere between defensive and bashful. “I—um. I don’t know. Maybe?”

Chloe grinned, clearly entertained. “That’s not a no.”

Lizzie exhaled, her fingers tightening slightly around the mug in her hand. “You’re very… direct.”

“Yup,” Chloe said without apology, cracking open the water and taking a sip. “Family trait. Especially when Y/N gets all weird and dreamy over someone and refuses to give details.”

That made Lizzie perk up. “Wait—she talks about me?”

Chloe tilted her head, smirking. “She doesn’t shut up. But in like, a tragically subtle way. You kind of have to read between the lyrics.”

Lizzie flushed again. “So she’s written about me?”

“God, yes. Green eyes? Quiet bravery?” Chloe leaned forward, one brow raised. “Dead giveaway.”

Lizzie opened her mouth to answer, but the truth caught in her throat—because she knew the lyrics Chloe was talking about. She’d played them on repeat more than once.

Chloe noticed the flicker of emotion on Lizzie’s face and her teasing expression softened.

“Hey… I should probably say this before we go any further.” She shifted her weight, suddenly a little less casual. “I’m sorry about the paparazzi mess. That photo? It blew up way bigger than it was ever supposed to.”

Lizzie blinked, startled by the unexpected apology. “You mean the one of you and Y/N?”

Chloe nodded, wincing a little. “Yeah. I had just gotten out from the wrong entrance and the paps surrounded us immediately. Y/N stepped in, did the whole human shield thing. Classic protector mode. But the angle, the lighting, the timing... it looked like we were on a damn date.”

Lizzie gave a small, understanding laugh, though her voice was still tight. “And the internet went wild.”

“Didn’t help that Y/N didn’t say anything at first. She was trying to keep your name out of the fire, not knowing it’d burn this way instead.”

Lizzie looked down, the memory of those two days — the ache in her chest, the doubt she hadn’t wanted to admit — still sharp around the edges. “I thought it was real. The photo.”

Chloe stepped closer, her tone quieter, more careful now. “I get it. It looked convincing. Hell, if I didn’t know me, I might’ve thought it too. But I swear, there’s nothing between us but childhood trauma and an unhealthy love of spicy ramen.”

Lizzie let out a soft laugh despite herself, the tension loosening a little more. Chloe smiled, then reached for a stool at the kitchen island and plopped down like she’d always belonged there.

“You know,” Chloe added casually, “this reminds me of the time Y/N and her twin tried to sneak out past curfew and ended up locked out in nothing but boxers and mismatched hoodies. It was like watching two feral raccoons fight over a stolen pizza.”

Lizzie blinked. “Wait. Twin?”

Chloe grinned, eyes wide with mock surprise. “Oh my god. She didn’t tell you?”

Before Lizzie could respond, the front door opened, and Y/N walked in with a tote bag slung over her shoulder and a confused frown already forming.

She froze the second she saw them—Lizzie still wrapped in her hoodie, perched on the arm of the couch, and Chloe mid-story, laughing with her mouth full of coffee she definitely hadn’t asked permission to make.

Y/N’s voice came sharp and incredulous. “Chloe.”

Chloe didn’t even flinch. “Y/N.”

“You still have a key?”

“I always have a key.”

Y/N put a hand on her hip. “We talked about this. You can’t just show up like this.”

Chloe sipped her coffee, unimpressed. “You say that every time. Never change the locks though.”

Y/N turned to Lizzie with an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry. She’s like a stray cat. You feed her once and she assumes the place is hers.”

But Lizzie was smiling now, clearly amused. “You didn’t tell me you have a twin brother.”

Y/N blinked. “I didn’t?”

Lizzie shook her head, teasing. “Nope. Kind of big info to skip.”

Y/N groaned and shot a look at Chloe. “You told her that story?”

Chloe beamed. “Only the highlights. Don’t worry, I left out the part where your boxers had ducks on them.”

Y/N buried her face in her hands. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Chloe winked, then hopped off the stool and made her way to the door. “Alright, lovebirds. I’ll leave you to your cohabitating. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t—wait, never mind, that list is too short.”

She opened the door and stepped out, calling over her shoulder, “Call me when you’re ready to admit I’m the fun cousin!”

Y/N sighed as the door clicked shut and turned back to Lizzie, who was clearly holding back laughter.

“I really am sorry,” she said, flopping down beside her. “She’s a menace.”

Lizzie leaned her head on Y/N’s shoulder, smiling. “She’s kind of great. But I like you better.”

Y/N smiled, wrapping an arm around her. “Good. Because I’m keeping you.”

"So...Why were you and your brother only wearing hoodies and boxers?" Lizzie asks with a playful smile.

Y/N groaned as she leaned back against the couch, covering her face with one hand. “I can’t believe she told you that story.”

Lizzie raised an eyebrow, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “And why were you and your brother only in hoodies and boxers?”

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head as she settled back into the couch. “Okay, here’s the thing. We thought we were being sosneaky. Tried to sneak out past curfew by climbing over the neighbor’s fence.”

Lizzie’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Uh-oh.”

Y/N groaned again, biting her lip to stop from laughing. “Yeah, well… turns out the neighbors had an alarm system. It went off as soon as we started climbing.”

Lizzie giggled. “Oh no!”

“Exactly. We panicked, tried to hide, but my pants got caught on the fence and ripped as I fell.”

Lizzie covered her mouth, trying to hold back a laugh.

“And that’s how our parents found us—me with my pants ripped off, standing there in my duck boxers, and Jay, my brother, trying to pull me away like I was some kind of escaped convict.”

Lizzie burst out laughing, shaking her head. “Do you still have the duck boxers?”

Y/N peeked at her through her fingers, clearly suffering. “Why would you ask me that?”

Lizzie grinned, smug now. “Because I need to know what I’m working with here.”

Y/N dropped her hand with a dramatic sigh. “First of all, they were comfy. Second, I was sixteen. And third… maybe.”

Lizzie gasped. “You do!”

Y/N tried to play it cool, but her ears were pink. “They’re in a drawer somewhere. For emergencies.”

“What kind of emergency requires duck boxers?” Lizzie teased, nudging her.

“The kind where I want to remind myself never to let Chloe live here again.”

Lizzie laughed, the sound bright and free, and she curled closer into Y/N’s side. “Well, if I ever see them, I expect a full fashion show.”

Y/N looked down at her, faux-serious. “Only if you’re wearing that hoodie again.”

Lizzie smirked. “Deal.”

They sat there like that for a while, tangled up in teasing and warmth — and for once, nothing felt rushed.

---

[ichorai]

wool ; coriolanus snow.

pairing ; young!coriolanus snow x capitol!reader (gender-neutral)

synopsis ; when you laughed, airy and light and reminiscent to that of wind chimes, coryo wished he could bottle up the sound and keep it as his, only his.

words ; 1.5k

themes ; mild fluff/angst, slightly suggestive

warnings / includes ; set before events of tbosas so no actual spoilers, making out, clemensia appearance, mentions of other characters, coryo's paranoia, he's not exactly toxic yet but the seeds are very much planted, i tried to keep him in character as best i could, let's pretend the academy also serves dinner

a/n ; this man has consumed me body and soul. this fic was inspired by the song wool by flatland cavalry on the movie soundtrack! let me know if you guys would like a second part :)

series masterlist. main masterlist.

Coriolanus Snow was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He bore an aristocratic last name—yet you noticed that his dress shirt’s buttons seemed to be various different shades of black and slightly misshapen. His voice, so sweetly saccharine, charming, seductive—would whisper falsities like it was second nature. He would often claim that he wasn’t hungry, but you’d catch the longing glint in his pale irises as he eyed the steaming bread rolls Sejanus slathered with generous helpings of butter. 

Control. That was all he needed. 

It crumbled, ever so slightly, when you nudged your slice of apple pie in his direction. His eye twitched, and you pursed your lips, pulling your plate back to you. You ate quietly, and Coryo stared at you all the while, as if he were mentally dissecting your mind—studying you. 

You knew. It was all too clear, even if he wouldn’t tell you. And if he wouldn’t tell his closest friend—or, the closest thing he had to a friend, the two of you certainly did things that friends wouldn’t do—he most definitely wouldn’t let it slip that he was financially strapped to anyone else.

That same day, he met you in the back of the library. The two of you were supposed to be studying history—Professor Demigloss was one of the nicer teachers at the academy, but that didn’t mean he was any less strict with grades. And neither you nor Coryo could afford slipping now. Not if you both wanted to get into university. Being on top meant that there was only greater distance to fall.

But there were… distractions.

Mainly, his foot knocking against yours under the table. Your hand over his jostling knee. His teeth digging into his bottom lip. When you shifted so that your thighs brushed against his, the books spread out over the table were entirely forgotten.

He pushed you against the bookshelves a mere second later, the wood digging into your back uncomfortably, and kissed you until you grew dizzy. You were a welcome distraction—he could taste the apples on your tongue. The way you snaked your arms around his neck, toying with his pale blonde curls, pulling him closer until his body slotted against yours just perfectly—clicking into place like a pair of magnets facing opposite directions. It was desperate and heavy and he could only barely pull away to inhale sharply before cradling the base of your head to tilt your jaw back and kiss you even harder. Coryo swallowed any muffled whimpers that slipped from you when his free hand traveled lower.

Lower, lower, dangerously low—

When Clemensia’s voice echoed through the library in search of her lab partner, the two of you sprang apart, gasping for air.

She rounded the bend, and her dark eyes landed on the two of you. Keen, observant, narrowed. Coriolanus was flushed, hair mussed, lips swollen, chest rising and falling erratically. You were looking anywhere but the two of them, smoothing out your clothes and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Oh! I guess I’ll just have to find another time to bother you, Coriolanus,” she tittered, sickly sweet. She tilted her head with a tempered smile. “What’re you guys studying?”

Snow rolled his eyes in exasperation. “History,” he said. Curt, simple.

“Right.” She eyed you curiously. When she spoke again, it was directed more to you than him, sounding uncharacteristically void of frigid scorn. “I’d be careful if I were you. You sure he’s not just sleeping with you because you’re the top of the class?”

You stiffened, and Coryo bristled. 

“I’ll be fine, Clem. See you tomorrow.” 

There was another beat of terse silence. Her eyes darted warily between the two of you, and she whisked away in a flutter of red and black.

You blew out a breath. Your mouth tingled with the phantom memory of his lips planted over yours, and your cheeks flushed with heat. The two of you sat back down, both quiet. You worked in fluid tandem with each other, as you always did. His hands kept to himself this time. 

“I’m not using you,” he whispered, eventually. “It’s not like that.”

“I know,” you replied hesitantly, testing the waters. “It’s not like you’d need to. Your grades are just fine as is.”

The two of you kept working until your fingers cramped with overuse and his head pulsed with the beginnings of a migraine. 

“Dinner?” you asked once the clock struck six, nudging him. “I think they’ll be serving mashed potatoes today.”

His stomach clenched at the thought of warm food. Control.

“Sure,” he replied coolly, flicking his books closed and gathering up all the papers to stuff into his bag. “I’m sick of mashed potatoes, though.”

You shot him an incredulous smile, brows quirking up. He was lying, but you didn’t know. “Not even when it’s seasoned with roasted garlic? A dash of the freshest of herbs?”

The blue of his eyes gleamed when they bore into yours. “Not even then.”

“You’re a strange man, Coriolanus Snow.” Your lips twisted downward, but it was more of a smile than a frown. When your eyes darted below to glance at his school uniform, you couldn’t help but notice the unironed creases in the carmine fabric. One of the buttons—the very top one—was oddly shaped and a different color from all the rest. It reminded you of his dress shirt. You quite liked that dress shirt. He looked handsome in it, but you chalked it up to his uncanny ability to look handsome in just about anything.

Your head tilted to the side, molten eyes fixed on the button. You knew. He knew that you knew. Panic seized in his chest, an irrational clawing sensation searing within his lungs. Would you tell the rest of the class? What would you say to them? That he was living as filthily as a District boy? That he skipped meals because he couldn’t afford them? That his cousin mended his clothes for him?

But your frown-smile deepened. Fondness stained your expression, clear as day. Coriolanus found himself surprised, as he often did around you. 

“I love your buttons, by the way,” you mumbled, reaching out to trace it with a finger. He held his breath on instinct. “Is it a stylistic choice? Having them all irregular like this?”

Stylistic. Coriolanus almost laughed.

“Mhm. It’ll be in fashion one day. I’m just ahead of the trends,” he murmured charmingly. A bluff.

When you laughed, airy and light and reminiscent to that of wind chimes, Coryo wished he could bottle up the sound and keep it as his, only his. 

“Maybe I’ll start wearing mismatched buttons now, too. Rebel against uniformity.” You stood up from your chair as you spoke, not catching the way Coriolanus’ expression faltered momentarily with your last three words. It was a joke, he had to remind himself. Just a joke. “Come on. Let’s go have dinner. I’m starving.”

He jerkily stood up. Grabbed your hand just because he could, fingers folding over your wrist. He could feel your pulse, thumping quicker and quicker. You regarded him curiously. Snow’s remaining spindly hand cradled your face and he stepped closer, intuitive eyes roaming over your face, wondering just how much of you was real. How much of you was lying, just as he was?

His lips fell over yours again. This time, the kiss was sweeter. Slower, more languid. His nose brushed over your cheekbone, warm to the touch. You hummed pleasantly against him, before placing a hand flat over his chest—over the crooked button—and pulled away with a dazed smile. It felt dangerously good that you hadn’t tugged your hand out of his grasp yet. His grip tightened in a near possessive manner.

As the two of you began walking out of the library, Coriolanus couldn’t help but think back to your hyperbole—about how far from starving you truly were. You wouldn’t ever know, not when your family was the very epitome of Capitol wealth. But he was glad he wasn’t the only one lying, for once, even if your lie was merely an inflation of the truth. 

After dinner, Coryo worked off the top button of his uniform with repeated tugs to the threads, pulling apart Tigris’ handiwork. He slid it over the table to you, watching the way your countenance softened in endearment. He kissed you again in the dark hallways outside the cafeteria, finding it difficult to get your lips to melt away from your tightly-stretched grin.

He walked home with a mirroring smile and a missing button that night. One less piece of the wolf’s sheeply clothes.

[rosenclaws]

Would You Fall In Love with Me Again || Worst!Logan x Reader

Would you fall in love with me again If you knew all I've done? The things I cannot change Would you love me all the same? I know that you've been waiting, waiting for love

warnings: angsty af, happy ending, sad logan.

wc: 1.5k

alternate version

a/n: I heard this song and immediately pictured Logan so this fic was cooked up! I hope y'all like it <3 I'd recommend listening to the song while reading or before or after! Its a great musical btw

Logan holds the small piece of paper in his hands. It's been crumpled and flattened countless times. He turns it over in his hands, the faded black in is just bright enough to read. He glances down at it again. Written on it is an address. Laura's words playing over and over in his head.

Find her. She would want to see you.

Would you? Would you want to see him? He's not the same man that you knew. He's not your man. He's not the hero you remember. He's just a broken, tired, old man. He's a coward.

Laura gave him your address shortly after he came to his world. But he never went. He was afraid. This tiny slip of paper would keep him up at night. If the nightmares didn't get to him first than this stupid, little paper did. He debated on throwing it away.

You didn't need him. You were better off without him. But was he? You were his better half. Always had been. Just one look, a meeting. Closure. So he set off to find you one last time.

Each foot step weighs heavy as he marches to your front door. A small cabin tucked away from the the busy town only a few miles away. This is his handiwork. Logan always promised you that he'd build you a house one day, when you two were done with all the X-Men bullshit.

He had already written out the plans back before...before he lost you. Initials are carved into one of the wood boards. His fingers running over the letters, tracing them as his mind floods with memories of you.

He raises his fist and knocks at your door. His ears straining to hear you move behind the wooden door. Though if you didn't answer he couldn't blame you. He's the ghost of the man you once loved standing on your doorstep. He waits and waits and nothing.

His shoulders sag in defeat. What was he thinking? This was stupid. He takes the paper and crumbles it up in his hands, throwing it as far as he could into the woods.

"Pretty sure that's littering." He freezes at the sound of your voice. He knows it's you. He doesn't need to see your face, this voice had been haunting his nightmares for years.

"Logan?" He nearly falls to his knees. His name sounds so sweet coming from your lips. He hasn't heard it in so long. Ever so slowly he turns around, a part of him afraid this is another dream.

"Is it really you?" You're holding a grocery bag, dressed up for the cold weather. He's frozen as you walk up to him. Your eyes shine with tears as your hand reaches out for him.

"Please tell me its you." Your hand cups his face.

Thumb lightly brushing over his face. He looks different. He looks tired. So much pain behind those gorgeous eyes. He melts into your touch. He clenches his fists at his side as he leans his head into your hand.

"My love, how I've missed you." Logan opens his eyes to see the wedding band sitting on your finger. He never got the chance to give that to you.

"Sweetheart...I'm not the same man." He wishes he was. God he wishes he could sweep you up in his arms. Runaway and live in this cabin for all eternity. You smile softly. Your hand leaves his face and he visibly sinks.

"Come inside yeah?" Without thinking he takes the grocery bag out of your hands and follows you inside. There's not much inside.

"Laura told me about you, she sent letters when she came back." You explain as you reach into the fridge and pull out a beer, his favorite.

"I buy a new pack every week, in case you ever showed up." You smile when you talk but Logan can only focus on the bottle in front of him. The guilt eating him alive.

"I'm so sorry." He chokes out.

"For what?" You ask. He looks at you in disbelief, how could you be so forgiving, so welcoming.

"I'm not your husband. I-I'm not the man you fell in love with." He places the beer on the counter. If he closes his eyes he can picture you and him in this little cabin. Be the family you both always wanted. But he's not yours.

"I know you aren't. I'm not a fool Logan. But..." He's not your husband, he's different. He's not a replacement for the man you once loved but your love for Logan was stronger than anything you've ever felt.

"Would you fall in love with me again? You don't know what I've done. I'm not worthy of the love you gave to him." A tear slips down Logan's face.

He sinks to the ground, on his knees. Silently begging to be loved by you once again. The shame of his past chains him to the ground, he can't even look at you.

"What did you do my love?" You cup his face and tilt his head up.

"I lost you, I lost everyone. I can still smell your blood, I can still hear your voice calling to me. But I walked away." He grabs onto your wrists and holds onto them desperately.

"I walked away from you." You wipe away a tear that falls down his cheeks. His normally stoic face crumbles into a mess of despair and loneliness.

"I needed to numb myself. I started drinking, I started killing. I left a trail of blood in my wake." He expects you to cower away from him. To be disgusted with what he's done.

"Once I started, I couldn't stop. I didn't want to stop. I was so angry, so buried in my grief that the only thing I could feel was rage." The grip on your wrists is firm and tight. Not to the point of pain but he's locked around your hands. Please don't leave him again, please.

"Forgive me." You drop his face and it hangs low, ashamed of what he's revealed to you. You've been waiting for him, all this time only to come and disappoint you.

"If you think that's true, that you're not the same man I feel in love with. Then leave."

"W-What?" He's taken aback.

"You want me to leave?"

"I don't want you to leave but you keep saying you're not the same man. So if you truly believe that, than leave." Logan is stunned to silence.

"No." He says without thinking. He's spent every night missing you, thinking of you. You're here in front of him, it's not the same you but he still loves you. He will always love you.

"I can't leave you, I just found you again I...I won't." He stands up and takes your hand.

"This wedding band, I bought it after out first date. I knew, that I was in love with you but I was so scared to lose you." Tears fall down your face as he presses your hand against his face.

"I ended up losing you anyways."

"He told me that story when he proposed." You say softly. He may be from another universe but he will always be the love of your life.

"You asked if I'd fall for you again, how could I not?" He presses his forehead to yours, noses knocking together as you get to take in the man before you.

"I will always love you. I don't care how you got here, where you're from or what you've done. " You close your eyes as Logan wraps you up in his arms. Holding you close as he whispers apologies.

"No matter how long its been, you're mine." You kiss Logan fiercely, tasting the man who you've longed to hold in your arms again.

He's equally as desperate to feel you. His hands squeezing your sides gently as he walks you back until you hit the wall. Your hands run through his hair, the feeling of your wedding band in his hair only eggs him on.

Silently he thanks the universe for bringing him to you, for your forgiving, loving nature. He would have begged on his knees for a chance like this. He growls when you tug on his hair. His hand slipping up your shirt just to feel your skin. When you finally part he refuses to stay too far.

"Tell me Logan, how long as it been." Your heart aches to think of the pain he's been through. The life he's had to live without anyone to calm his self loathing thoughts.

"I can't even remember." He sounds so tired as he buries his face in your neck.

"It's okay, I'm here now."

"I love you." He whispers, a sense of relief washing over him as he utters the words he thought he'd never get to say again.

You had been waiting for him to come home and you would have waited until the day you too your last breath. He's worth it, all that waiting was worth it for you to call Logan yours.

"I love you too Logan, forever."

[reveriebae]

Hi! I just wanted to say I adore your writing—especially the smut pieces you’ve done inspired by Daniel di Angelo’s songs. You capture the vibe of his music so perfectly, it’s honestly addictive 🔥

If you’re ever taking requests, I’d love to see you do something based on his song “Promiscuity.” It’s got such a sexy, messy, intense energy, and I just know you'd bring it to life in the most delicious way 😩🖤

Thank you for sharing your amazing work—you're such an inspiration!

REQUESTING PROMISCUITY IS SUCH AN EVIL🫠🫠 but sure, baby! I'll give you what you want😏

Promiscuity

pairing(s) : Yunho x reader

word count : 2146

summary : He cheated. You left. But you still came back—and Yunho makes sure you never forget why.

genre : smut

warning(s) : Heavy toxic relationship dynamics, Cheating (referenced but impactful), Emotional manipulation, Degradation + possessiveness, Dubious consent tones (power imbalance, pressure), Crying during sex, Verbal cruelty, Rough sex, choking (consensual but intense), Mental/emotional whiplash. Let me know if I missed anything!

Minors do not interact, 21 only!!

🪐smut under the cut 🪐

The hallway smells like someone’s leftover takeout and cheap weed, and the longer you stand in front of Yunho’s door, the more you hate yourself.

You should turn around.

You should delete his number. Block him for good. Go home, put on a face mask, and pretend like he never turned your entire spine to liquid with one look.

But here you are—three months, two breakdowns, and one fucked-up rebound later—wearing the short black dress you know he likes, standing at his door like you didn’t swear you'd never do this again.

The music thumps faintly from inside. Of course there’s music. Of course it sounds like something someone would fuck to.

You lift your hand to knock.

The door swings open before you can touch it.

And there he is.

Yunho.

Leaning against the frame, shirtless, a drink in one hand, eyes scanning you so slowly it makes your stomach tighten. His mouth curves into a slow, arrogant smile.

“Damn,” he hums, voice low and thick like honey poured over rust. “You look good when you’re lying to yourself.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You told all your little friends you were done with me, right?” His head tilts, tongue running over his bottom lip. “And yet—here you are. Middle of the night. Wearing that.”

You should slap him. You should walk away.

Instead, you cross your arms and lie.

“I came to talk.”

He laughs.

“Yeah? That what we’re calling it now?”

He steps aside, giving you just enough space to walk in, but not without brushing your hip with his. You feel the heat of his bare chest even through the thick air, feel his eyes burn through the back of your dress as you step inside.

Same apartment. Same dim lights. Same scent—him. Warm cologne and smoke and something darker.

You turn to face him.

“Why her?” you whisper. “Out of all people—you fucked my friend.”

He shrugs, walking to the counter and setting his drink down like you didn’t just drag your shattered pride into his living room.

“You weren’t around. She was.”

“That’s your excuse?”

“No excuses.” He leans against the counter, jaw tight. “I’m just not gonna lie to you.”

You swallow hard. Your throat aches.

“She told me everything,” you say, quieter now. “Every filthy little thing you did to her.”

He meets your gaze. Unflinching. Unapologetic.

Then he says it—just one line, but it carves through you.

“Did she tell you I moaned your name when I came?”

Your chest tightens. You can’t breathe. You want to slap him, scream, cry—leave.

But you don’t move.

He steps closer, voice dropping an octave. “Hate me all you want, baby. But I’m still the only one who knows how to make your legs shake just from kissing your neck.”

Your lip trembles. You hate that he’s right. You hate how fast your body reacts to him. You hate yourself for wanting him even now.

“I shouldn’t be here.”

“Then leave.”

You hesitate. He sees it. He knows he’s already won.

But just when you turn toward the door, he speaks again.

“I left the bedroom lights on.”

A pause.

“For you.”

You don’t speak when he closes the door behind you.

You just stand there, jaw locked, eyes burning—and legs already too warm.

Yunho doesn’t rush. He never does. He moves like he knows time bends for him. Like no matter how angry you get, how many times you swear him off, you’ll always come back just like this—silently begging to be ruined.

“You wore perfume,” he murmurs behind you, voice dragging over your spine like silk. “Didn’t have to. I already know how you taste.”

You whirl around. “Fuck you.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “You keep saying that like it’s not exactly what you came here to do.”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond.

His hand is on your jaw before you can breathe—tilting your face up, backing you into the wall with all the gentleness of a warning shot.

“You’re mad,” he whispers, brushing your lips. “But not enough to leave.”

Your pulse races. You hate how his voice wraps around your gut, how your thighs tighten with every word. He leans in closer, forehead to yours, and murmurs like a threat:

“You should’ve slammed the door in my face the second I opened it, angel. But you didn’t. You looked me in the eye… and stayed.”

“I’m—” Your voice cracks. “I’m not here to sleep with you.”

He hums, eyes dropping to your mouth. “Then why are you already wet?”

You gasp, and that’s all he needs. His mouth crashes against yours—hot and vicious and impossibly slow at the same time. He kisses you like he owns you. Like he’s reminding your body who it belongs to even if your heart’s still bleeding.

His hands slide down, gripping the back of your thighs, lifting you like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around his waist by instinct.

“I fucked her,” he mutters against your mouth, dragging your back along the hallway wall as he carries you. “But she couldn’t take me like you do. Couldn’t look me in the eye when I broke her open.”

“Shut the fuck up—”

“No.” He pushes you into the bedroom. “You want honesty, right? Thought you liked it when I told you exactly what I did.”

The mattress meets your back before you can answer. His hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just enough to make you feel your heartbeat in your ears.

“You came here because you missed how it feels to be used.” He bites your lip. “Admit it.”

You shake your head, eyes glassy. “No, I didn’t—”

His thumb presses against your lips. “Then why aren’t you stopping me?”

You have no answer. You don’t need one.

Because your hands are already pulling at his sweatpants. Because your hips are already arching. Because your pride never stood a chance the moment he said your name.

“Take it off,” he growls, yanking your dress up your thighs. “All of it.”

You hesitate.

Wrong move.

Yunho smirks, hand sliding down to cup you over your panties. You jolt, gasping, and he watches your face like it’s his favorite show.

“I said take it off. Or I’ll fuck you with it on and rip it off later.”

Your fingers fly to the straps.

The dress hits the floor with a soft sound, but the silence afterward is louder.

Yunho takes a step back.

His eyes sweep over your body—your bare skin under the glow of those bedroom lights he “left on for you”—like he’s starving and you’re already halfway chewed.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You really let me fuck that up.”

You blink. “What?”

“This.” He nods at you—at your curves, your flushed chest, the way your nipples harden under his gaze. “You really let me go fuck someone else when this was mine?”

You scoff. “You fucked her while I was yours.”

He grins. “Still are.”

He doesn’t give you time to argue.

He kneels between your legs like worship, then spreads them apart like vengeance. His hand slides up your inner thigh, slow enough to make you twitch.

“Can’t even look me in the eye,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles over your soaked panties. “But your pussy’s screaming for me.”

“Yunho—”

“Shh.” He hooks a finger around the waistband and pulls them off in one smooth, greedy motion. “Open wider.”

You do.

You always do.

He groans the second he sees you.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasps. “Still so perfect.”

His mouth replaces his fingers without warning—hot, slow, deliberate. He eats you out like he’s got time to kill and demons to feed. Licks slow and wide, then short and fast, tongue curling right against the spot that makes your vision go white.

Your hands fly into his hair. He groans when you tug, eyes rolling up to look at you, fucked out and gasping, chest heaving like a whore in a dream.

“Don’t stop—oh my god, Yunho—”

He pulls back, lips glistening, jaw sharp enough to cut.

“I didn’t say you could cum.”

You stare at him, blinking through the haze. “W-What?”

“I said you missed me.” His hand slides up your torso, thumb brushing your nipple. “But you didn’t say it with your mouth yet.”

“You’re such a dick.”

“And you’re dripping for it.” He crawls back over you, cock thick and heavy between your legs now. “Say it.”

“No.”

He nudges the tip against your entrance, not pushing in—just threatening to. Your breath catches. Your legs tremble.

“Say you missed this dick,” he says, voice low and lethal. “Or I’ll make you sit on it and fuck yourself while I watch.”

Your pride burns.

Your body wins.

“…I missed it.”

He smiles. Not sweet. Not kind. Dangerous.

“How much?”

You stare at him—this man who destroyed you, ruined your trust, twisted your sanity—and you say the one thing you swore you wouldn’t:

“Enough to let you ruin me again.”

His cock slams into you.

No warning. No hesitation.

You scream—half from shock, half from the overwhelming stretch—and he groans like a demon exorcised.

“Shit—tight as ever. You missed this.”

He thrusts again. Deeper.

Your back arches, hands scrambling for the sheets as he picks up pace, rough and relentless, fucking you like he’s reclaiming territory that never stopped being his.

“Did she scream like this?” you choke out, head thrown back.

He laughs—a low, taunting thing.

“She cried,” he says, fucking into you harder, “but not for the same reason you do.”

You moan, hands clawing at his back. His lips find your throat.

“No one fits me like you do,” he growls. “And you fucking know it.”

His grip bruises your hips, dragging you to the edge of the bed as he keeps slamming into you—like he’s chasing the version of himself you once trusted and destroying it in your cunt instead.

“You think I feel guilty?” he pants against your mouth, sweat slick between your bodies. “You think I lost sleep?”

Your nails dig into his shoulders.

“You said you loved me,” you choke out.

He smirks.

“I do. But I never said I was good at it.”

Your body jolts with the force of his next thrust. You’re unraveling, but you don’t stop him. You couldn’t if you tried.

“Do you know how hard it is not to fuck you every night?” he growls, voice gravel. “But you wanna cry about one girl? One night?”

You gasp when he grabs your throat again, not tight, just enough to trap the heat between your thighs and your shame.

“I break your trust once,” he whispers, hips still rolling deep inside you, “but you still came back to get broken again.”

“Yunho—!”

He leans in closer, tongue teasing the shell of your ear.

“You love it. You love being the one I come back to after I fuck other girls. You love knowing none of them scream for me like you do.”

A tear slips from your eye, and he groans.

“Fuck, baby… are you crying?”

He slows down, thrusts deep and deliberate now—meant to hurt and please all at once. Meant to make you feel every single inch of how much you hate loving him.

“You gonna cum for me now?” he whispers against your lips. “Gonna let me fuck the pain out of you like I always do?”

You nod, barely able to speak. “Y-Yeah, please—”

“Say it.”

“I wanna cum,” you sob. “I wanna cum so bad.”

He kisses you like a war—biting, sucking, ruining.

“Then cum for me, angel. Cum on the same cock that fucked your friend—because it’s still yours.”

You break.

Your body tenses, pleasure crashing like a scream through your core as you shake in his grip, crying and moaning into his shoulder, completely wrecked.

And Yunho doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it—chasing his own high now, muttering filth against your neck.

“This pussy,” he pants, “is fucking mine. I don’t care who else I touch, I always think about you. About this tight little hole—fuck—mine.”

He buries himself to the hilt, cumming hard with a guttural groan, body jerking into yours.

The room goes quiet except for the sound of both of you trying to breathe again. His cum starts dripping out of you while he’s still buried inside.

But he doesn’t move.

He kisses you—this time, soft.

Like none of it just happened.

Like your heart isn’t on the floor again.

[freakmcnastyy]

Sex, money, feelings die

Geum Seongjae x f!reader Pt.2

Warnings: Smut(?), smoking, one-night stand, curses.

Note: I have absolutely no clue about Korea’s currency system or economy. I wrote the amount randomly, sorry!

→ Pt.1 / Pt.2 / Pt.3 / Pt.4 / Pt.5

Inspired by the song “Sex Money Feelings Die”

⸻

It was 11:43 pm. You were lying in bed, staring at reels on your phone like a zombie. Still thinking about that morning from a week ago. İt just didn’t leave your head. Feelings had no place in your thing. You knew that. Still, you were thinking about him way more than you should’ve.

It’s like the universe heard you.

A notification popped up from the top of your screen.

Wolf 🖤: “you up?”

Your heart skipped. It shouldn’t have. You tried to stay cool. Replied with a simple “yeah.” He texted back right away. No emoji. Just an address. Probably the same one from that morning.

⸻

You called a cab and went to his place. Knocked on that familiar door twice. He opened it. Black shorts. Black t-shirt. A cigarette hanging from his lips.

No “hi.”

No smile.

You walked in like you’d done this a hundred times. Oversized hoodie. Messy hair. No makeup. Still looked like a fucking dream. Or a red flag.

You sat on his bed like it belonged to you. You didn’t say a word.

He didn’t either. Just walked over, leaned in, and kissed you.

Slow at first.

Like it meant something.

Then rougher.

Your hand slipped under his shirt, cold fingers tracing his warm skin. He grabbed you by the waist, pushed you back onto the bed. You sank into the pillows. He kissed your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

Took off his own shirt first. Then pulled off your hoodie. A little too fast. Like he wanted it over with. —But he didn’t. Not really.—

No “I missed you.”

No “How was your day?”

Just heavy breathing.

And a kiss that made you forget your fucking name.

⸻

When his hand reached for your bra clasp, a moan slipped out of your mouth. He unhooked it like he’d done it a million times. Slid it off your arms and latched onto one like a starved baby. One hand on your waist, the other massaging your free breast.

Then he pulled away.

Without wasting a damn second, he yanked down your shorts. All you had left on was your panties. But you weren’t shy. You were used to this.

You just wondered what he’d do next.

He kissed you again.

You let out a soft sound.

The kind that made his knees weak.

The kind that made him want to pull you closer and never let go.

But he didn’t.

After that kiss, the only sounds were the bed creaking, skin against skin. Then silence. Your body still touching his. His breathing calm. Heartbeat slow.

⸻

You both collapsed on the bed. Completely naked. Half-lost.

He looked at you.

Really looked.

Like he gave a damn.

Like he felt something.

And maybe—just maybe—he actually did.

⸻

And before either of you could say anything—or before he could even think about asking you to stay—you got up. Got dressed.

Didn’t look at him.

Didn’t say goodbye.

“Wait,” he said, just like that morning. You turned around. He stood up, grabbed the necklace you’d left in his car, and clasped it around your neck.

“You can go. I’ll send the money,” he said.

You didn’t hesitate.

You just walked back home.

⸻

[02:02 am]

You were fresh out of the shower, about to crash. Your phone buzzed. You checked the notification. Banking app.

“₩300,000 has been deposited into your account.”

You sighed.

As you slipped into bed, he was in his own world—smoking on the balcony.

And the next time you saw his name light up your screen…

He knew damn well you’d answer.

[pedroscurls]

touch starved (one-shot)

summary: logan agreed to go out with wade, having been promised a low-key night, but he should've known than to trust wade for his word. he didn't agree to spend his night at a strip club and he's just about ready to leave until he sees you. pairing: worst!wolverine x fem!reader content warnings: explicit smut (18+, mdni), porn without plot, lap dance, grinding / humping, striptease, one night stand (you take logan back to your apartment), unprotected p in v (be safe folks!), cowgirl, reader takes charge (and logan's more than happy to let you take the lead), oral - m receiving, swallowing logan's release. basically this story is all about catering to logan and his needs 🙂‍↕️, reader description (only clothes and hair), no use of y/n. word count: 3k a/n: coming at ya with yet another one-shot of logan filth lol. my own headcanon is that logan / worst!wolverine is touch starved (just as much as he craves to be part of something bigger than himself). anyway, hope y'all enjoy - it's a spicy one 🤭 song: closer by nine inch nails

“You promised a quiet night out, Wade,” Logan snarls at the other man, hand gripping his glass of whiskey. It’s too loud in here, the music blaring from the speakers, the flashing dark red lights illuminating mainly the stage where women are performing. There are plenty of men surrounding the stage, alcohol in one hand and dollar bills in the other.

“I promised no such thing,” Wade grins. “I said let’s go out and you agreed.”

Logan’s jaw tightens and he looks at Wade with narrowed eyes. “You’re a fuckin’ liar.” 

Wade laughs. “Come on, peanut! Have some fun. Let loose. Just sit back and relax–”

“I’m leavin’,” Logan interrupts, downing his entire glass before slamming it on the table. He stands up and gets ready to turn on his heel when he catches a glimpse of you at the corner of his eye. He turns slightly and watches the way your smile meets your eyes. You don’t look like you belong in a place like this, the other women wearing too much make up and revealing so much that it leaves little to the imagination. But you… You look absolutely breathtaking and Logan feels like he can’t move, can’t tear his eyes away from you.

Your hair cascades past your shoulders, your make up remaining light and natural. You’re dressed in an all black sheer robe with a lace cuff and satin waist belt. The robe is loosely wrapped around your frame, giving Logan a glimpse of your sheer mesh bra, the top of your bra trimmed with lace and when you undo the belt of your robe to reveal your lower half, he feels his breath catch in his throat. Your panties – or rather, your thong – matches the same style of your bra. 

It’s so innocent in comparison to the other women in the strip club, and yet, Logan can’t seem to take his eyes off of you. It’s only when he hears Wade’s voice that he finally looks away, even though he’s yearning to just look at you again.

“Oh, someone’s caught your eye,” Wade grins, swaying in his seat. “Want a private dance, Mr. Wolverine?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Logan says. “Like I said, I was leavin’–”

“So soon?” you interrupt and glance between both men. You flash a smile in Wade’s direction who looks like he’s about ready to combust with excitement. He’s sipping his drink with a straw, grinning in your direction. Then, you glance over at Logan whose eyes stare directly into your own. 

“Actually,” Wade says. “How much for a private dance…” he trails, staring up at you as he waits for you to say your name.

“Kitty,” you finish for him. “You can call me Kitty.”

“Very fitting,” Wade winks. “Well, Kitty, it’s my friend’s first night out in a very long time and I figured I can treat him to a private dance.”

“That’s very nice of you,” you respond, but your eyes never leave Logan’s. You can see his eyes flit over your frame, lingering on your exposed skin.

“Listen, you ain’t have to and–”

“How about the first one’s on me?” you interject. 

“Sweetheart,” Logan mumbles. 

You bite your lower lip and gently reach up to rest a hand on his arm. You can feel the muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt, can feel him flex it underneath your fingertips. Logan inhales sharply as he looks down at your hand, clearing his throat at your soft touch. 

“His name’s Logan, by the way,” Wade chimes in, cutting through the tension with a quiet giggle. 

“But only if you want to, Logan,” you whisper, moving your hand down his arm and to his forearm. You bat your eyelashes up at him, trying to ignore the obvious attraction you feel towards him. Truthfully, you’d rather spend the rest of your night with him rather than give dances to other men in the club – men who didn’t look like Logan. 

Logan feels his resolve diminishing, but when he hears his name leave your lips, he nods slowly. “Y– Yeah, sure.” 

“Great, come with me.” You smile and gently take his hand in yours. He looks down at it, taking notice of the way his large hand encompasses yours and he allows you to lead him towards the back of the club and into a much more private room. 

Once inside, Logan hears the door shut and he turns to face you, his eyes lingering on your frame. He watches you walk towards him, hips swaying to the muffled sound of the music until he feels your hands rest firmly on his chest. 

“You’re a shy one,” you point out, tongue darting out to lick your lower lip. 

“Not shy,” Logan mumbles. “Just bein’ respectful, sweetheart.” 

“Sexy and a gentleman?” you smile. “Mind if I keep you for the rest of the night?” you tease.

Logan feels a blush rise in his cheeks and lets out a quiet grunt when he feels you push him back against the large sofa. He stares up at you, eyes obviously now trailing your frame. He keeps his hands on his lap, though he yearns to reach out to touch you. 

“Logan,” you whisper, moving your hands to rest on the backs of the couch as you lean in until your lips are mere inches from one another. You’re slightly bent over to be at eye level with him and you smile, catching the way he clears his throat. “If you don’t want to do this, all you have to do is say so, okay?” 

“Okay,” he responds quietly. 

You smile and gently press a soft kiss on his cheek, slowly pulling away to see that his eyes had fallen shut. You turn on your heel and walk over to the speaker to put on a couple of songs that you normally play when you give a private dance. Pressing play on the first song, you then turn around to face him once more. He looks so large in this room – his legs spread open on the sofa, broad shoulders and chiseled muscle beneath the fabric of the flannel he’s wearing. This was only ever a job to you, never finding anyone all that interesting or attractive, but Logan – well, you’d risk your entire job if it meant you can have him for one night. 

As the first song plays and filters the room, your eyes meet Logan’s who is staring at you with an anticipated look on his face. His eyes move along your legs, up to your midsection and then up to your breasts and back down. Slowly, you remove your robe and let it pool around your ankles as you strut towards him. Your hips sway with each forward step and Logan lets out a shaky breath. 

Once you’re standing in front of him, between his legs, you lean down and gently brush your lips against the corner of his lips. His facial hair tickles your lips and you pull back enough to stare into his eyes, lips slowly grazing his own. “You can touch me,” you whisper and move your hands onto his strong shoulders, slowly straddling his hips. “To be honest, I’d let you do anything you’d want to me,” you say quietly into his ear. 

Logan’s large hands immediately move to your hips, gripping it tightly as you sit firmly on his lap. He’s so hard and he feels so embarrassed, but the look on your face when you feel him alleviates some of the uncertainty he’s feeling. 

This isn’t the first time you’ve felt a man’s erection while giving them a lap dance, but it is the first time that you actually let out a quiet moan as you slowly roll your hips against his own, to the beat of the song. The tension between you thickens in the air and you stare deeply into his eyes as you try to remember the routine that you normally do for this song. 

You let me violate you 

You let me desecrate you 

You let me penetrate you 

You let me complicate you

Logan’s hands slowly move from your hips to your thighs, his fingertips digging into the meat of your flesh as your hips roll against his. He clears his throat and watches as your eyes flutter with each movement. He has to wonder if this is all part of your act, that maybe you’re just acting like you’re enjoying this. 

“Logan,” you whisper, moving to slightly lean back in his lap. You move one hand from his shoulder to reach behind you and rest on his knee as you lift your hips before coming back down on his lap. Logan groans quietly, almost inaudibly, as he moves a hand to splay on your abdomen, slowly moving it upwards towards your breasts. 

I wanna fuck you like an animal

I wanna feel you from the inside

I wanna fuck you like an animal

My whole existence is flawed

You get me closer to God

When his thumb brushes against your nipple, feeling it peak beneath the sheer fabric of your bra, he has to wonder if maybe he crossed a line. Logan moves his hand away from you but you grab his wrist and move it back over your breasts. He smirks and wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he leans forward. 

You let out a quiet moan and feel a wetness settle between your legs that you have to lift your hips off of him, not wanting to stain his dark jeans with your arousal. Slowly, you stand back up and hear him let out a quiet, disapproving groan. You stand between his legs, moving one hand in your hair as you use the other to run along your body, grazing your own breasts and down between the valley of your thighs as your hips sway to each beat of the song.

You tear down my reason

(Help me) it's your sex I can smell

(Help me) you make me perfect

Help me become somebody else

Logan can smell your arousal, can smell just how excited you are and the uncertainty he felt earlier is now completely gone. His hands move up your legs, fingertips hooking into the thin waistband of your thong, but he feels your hands move to rest over his. 

“Logan,” you say quietly. Even through the music, he can hear your voice, can hear the desire and yearning in your tone. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” 

“I want to take you home,” you admit, moving to sit back on his lap. “I know it’s very unprofessional, but–”

Logan grins. “Then take me home.” 

—

Logan had told Wade what happened, the other man all too excited for him. He hadn’t expected this night to turn the way it did and there’s some part of him that doesn’t feel like he deserves it, but when he sees you step out of the club with that same sweet smile that meets your eyes, he pushes those feelings out of his mind. Because all he can think about is what’s going to happen next. 

The drive to your apartment was short and the moment you step out of the car, Logan’s quick to follow you. He steps inside of the apartment with you and you shut the door behind him before you’re on him almost instantly. Your arms wrap around his shoulders and Logan’s hands move to rest on your hips. You stare up at him before you lean up to press your lips firmly against his. 

Logan groans instantly against your lips, eyes falling shut as he follows your lead. You move one hand down his chest to his abdomen until it reaches the waistband of his jeans. He feels your tongue slide past his lips and he whimpers against you – he fucking whimpers. Logan’s used to being the one in charge that it takes him by surprise when you’re more than willing to take control. 

When you undo the button and zipper of his jeans, you pull away. Your gaze darkens at the sight of him and you bring him further into your apartment, once more pushing him against your couch as he sits down with a grunt. Standing in front of him, you pull down your shorts and panties in one motion, grabbing the ends of your shirt to lift over your head. You stand in front of him, completely bare and exposed for him that Logan doesn’t know where to look first. 

You’re so fucking breathtaking that he feels his manhood strain against the fabric of his jeans. Logan slowly pushes his jeans and boxers down his legs, catching the way your eyes widen at the sight of his erected length. He smirks to himself and undoes the buttons of his flannel, pushing it off his shoulders. 

“Fuck me,” you whisper under your breath. “You’re so fucking hot, Logan.” 

Logan bites his lower lip. He doesn’t have time to respond, to tell you that you’re the one who’s so fucking hot because you straddle his hips and take hold of length. He groans at the feel of your hand wrapped around him, lining him up to your opening. He doesn’t know how long he’s going to last – it had been such a long time since anyone’s wanted him like this, since anyone looked at him the way you did. 

In his universe, everyone hated him. 

But in this one – Logan has a second chance at living life the way he should have in the first place. 

When you slide down his length, Logan’s hands move to your hips. He groans loudly, your walls surrounding his length – so warm, so wet, so tight. Your walls slide down every inch of his length until you’re seated fully on his lap. He looks up at you, sees the way your eyes flutter. 

“God, you’re so deep,” you point out with a quiet moan, moving your hands to his shoulders. Holding onto him, you slowly begin to lift yourself before you slide back down. You can feel every inch of his throbbing manhood within your depths and he fills you so fully in a way that you’ve never felt before. 

He shifts to lie on his back on your couch, staring up at you. Your hands move to rest on his chest, rolling your hips forward and backward. You can feel the hair at his base brush against your bundle of nerves with each movement, quiet moans escaping your lips. 

Logan moans in surprise when you reach for his hands, lacing your fingers together as you press them above his head. He knows that he’s so much stronger than you, but he finds that he likes being at your mercy. You’re gripping his hands so tightly, pressing your joined hands further into your couch as you begin to bounce along his length. You lift yourself until his tip is the only part of him that’s within your depths before you slide back down, your tight walls sliding down each inch of him.

“Sweetheart, fuck,” Logan groans, squirming slightly against your grip. He feels your walls begin to tremble around him, can feel you tightening even further around his manhood. 

“Lo– Logan!” you exclaim, moaning loudly as you slam down onto him. You shut your eyes tightly, slowly moving your hips forward and backward to ride out your high. You release his hands to brace yourself on his chest, the feeling of his hair at his base providing just the right amount of friction. 

Logan feels a tightness building in the pit of his stomach and he gently lifts you off of him. You gasp, whimpering at the sudden loss of him before you realize that he’s close. You move down the couch and settle yourself between his legs as you take hold of his length, stroking him with a firm grip as your lips wrap around his tip. 

“Fuck!” he groans, not expecting you to fucking suck him off. Logan moves a hand in your hair, tangling his fingers in your locks as he guides you along his length. Your hand strokes what your mouth can’t and when you hollow your cheeks to apply more pressure around him, Logan tosses his head back against the couch. 

It’s sloppy, spit trickling down your chin as you keep your eyes focused on him. You move along his length, flattening your tongue on the underside of him as you feel each throbbing vein against you. Logan’s grip around your hair tightens and he lifts his hips slightly off the couch to push himself further into your mouth, feeling his tip hit the back of your throat as you gag around him.

Slowly, you pull away from him and smile. “Come for me, Logan.” Then, you wrap your mouth around him once more and bob your head rapidly, stroking his base. Logan shuts his eyes tightly, the tightness building once more as he lets out a loud moan. He gently pushes your hand away as he grips himself, using his free hand to pull you back from your hair as he releases into your mouth. He opens his eyes to look down at you, his seed filling your mouth and you eagerly swallow. 

Logan groans, stroking himself to release every last drop of his spend into your mouth. You smile against him – you fucking smile with his cock in your mouth – and it’s an image that Logan will never forget. When you pull away and lick your lips, swallowing every last drop, you lean up on your knees and stare at him.

“Yum,” you grin. 

Logan’s breathing heavily, moving one hand to rest behind his head as he looks at you with a small smile. “Didn’t expect this to happen tonight,” he admits. “But I’m glad it did.” 

“Stay the night?” you ask. 

Logan nods and sits up, gently pushing you onto your back as he settles himself between your legs. “Oh, sweetheart, I ain’t even done with you yet.”

[hameesstuff]

"A Marriage Rewritten”

Pairing: Husband, Lawyer!Jaehyun x Wife, Artist!Reader

Themes: Arranged Marriage AU | Exes to Lovers | Jaehyun x Reader | Smut | Enemies to Lovers | Exes | Slow Burn | Angst, Humor, Longing

Word count: 4.4k

Preview: They were each other’s first everything — love, heartbreak, mistake. Jaehyun is now a ruthless corporate lawyer and her, a struggling but spirited artist. Years after their painful breakup, fate plays its cruelest card: their families arrange their marriage for business-political reasons. Just great.

__________________________________________

Part 1: Signed in Ice

The pen trembled in your hand.

"Don't make it dramatic," Jaehyun muttered across the table, his tone cool as a polished knife. "It's just ink."

You looked up slowly. He was seated like he always was—back straight, suit immaculate, jaw tight. Only his eyes betrayed anything. And even then, they were unreadable.

“You said the same thing when we signed the lease to our first apartment,” you said flatly.

Silence.

The lawyer in the corner shifted uncomfortably.

You signed anyway. Because what else could you do?

Your father's health was failing. Your art gallery was barely breathing. The offer had come dressed in silk and thorns — "a family merger," they called it. His family wanted the political ties. Yours wanted stability. And here you were, a broken love story tied up with gold and paper.

The moment your name hit the contract, Jaehyun pushed his chair back.

"Congrats, Mrs. Jung," he said without a smile.

You stared at him. “Still as charming as ever.”

He stopped at the door. “You knew what this was.”

“Yeah,” you muttered under your breath. “A mistake. Just like last time.”

But he’d already walked out.

Later That Week: The Penthouse

“Wow,” Taeyong muttered, looking around the pristine space like it was a museum. “Cold, sharp, and lifeless. Just like your husband.”

You laughed. “Don’t let him hear you. He might sue.”

He handed you a carton of takeout and flopped onto the modern black couch like he owned it. “So… how does it feel to be back in hell?”

You sighed, pulling your knees to your chest. “Familiar.”

You hadn’t seen Jaehyun since the signing. His assistant had dropped off the penthouse keys with a post-it that said “Don’t touch my wine.”

So you touched all of it. On principle.

Two Days Later: The First Fight

The door slammed just as you were dancing barefoot in the kitchen to an old indie song, wearing one of your paint-stained shirts.

“I live here too, remember?” Jaehyun’s voice cut through the music like a blade.

You didn’t even turn. “Thanks for the reminder. I was starting to feel safe.”

He appeared beside you, hair ruffled from work, tie loose. “And this?” He gestured to the chaos of your paints. “This isn’t a studio.”

You held up a brush and smiled sweetly. “Now it is.”

“God,” he muttered. “Why are you always so—”

“Alive?” you offered. “Free? Full of joy that makes your tight little jaw clench?”

His eyes darkened. “You’re infuriating.”

“And you’re boring.”

He stepped forward. “Say that again.”

“You’re boring, Jung Jaehyun,” you said, poking his chest. “You weren’t always. But now? You’re just a stiff in a suit who thinks feelings are weaknesses.”

His mouth was a breath from yours. "You’re one to talk about feelings. Who ran when things got hard?”

You shoved him lightly. “Don’t twist it. You walked out first.”

You didn’t realize how close you were until your chest brushed his.

His gaze dropped to your lips.

But he stepped back. Cold. Colder than the last time.

"Grow up,” he said. “You're not twenty anymore."

You didn't answer.

And the ache between your ribs reminded you that neither was he.

Part 2 - “Velvet Lies & Stolen Glances”

Charity Gala – Grand Hyatt, Seoul

The gala was for some high-profile legal foundation. Jaehyun’s turf. You were only there to play the role of a dutiful wife — the ornament beside Seoul’s most prized lawyer.

You’d worn black silk, not for him — for yourself. But the look in his eyes when you stepped out of the dressing room said otherwise.

He’d gone quiet. Too quiet.

“You clean up well,” you muttered, tugging your earring on as you passed him.

He didn’t answer — just stared.

But then came the car ride. Cold. Professional. His voice only used for directions and “You forgot your clutch.” The same man who used to kiss your shoulder at every red light now treated you like a contract clause.

Inside the Ballroom

You weren’t even halfway into your first flute of champagne before you felt a presence.

“Yo.”

You turned — and lit up. “Taeyong!”

He hugged you like the night hadn’t been awful. “You look like a painting tonight.”

You mock-curtsied. “I clean up when I want to show my ex-boyfriend-slash-current-husband that I’m still capable of turning heads.”

Jaehyun, standing not five feet away, tensed.

Taeyong grinned. “You still turning hearts, too?”

You leaned into him laughing — and Jaehyun’s hand appeared at the small of your back like a damn reflex.

“She’s married,” he said smoothly. “Remember?”

You turned your head slowly. “To you? Oh, right. I forget sometimes.”

His jaw flexed. “Clearly.”

Later: On the Balcony

You needed air.

The silk clung to your back like heat, and the music inside started to feel suffocating. You stepped outside into the cool night — and Jaehyun followed five seconds later.

“You like making me look like a fool?” he asked, not angrily — but low, sharp.

You scoffed. “If the title fits.”

“He touches you like you’re his.”

You turned to him. “And you act like I’m yours.”

A beat.

Jaehyun stepped forward, jaw taut, eyes unreadable. “Aren’t you?”

You blinked.

“You’re not dating him.”

“No,” you admitted.

“You’re wearing my ring.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

His voice dipped. “Then why do I still want to kiss you every time you laugh at someone else?”

You stared at him.

Silence stretched.

And then you turned away, heart slamming, voice low. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

He didn’t stop you from walking back in.

But he didn’t look at anyone else for the rest of the night.

Part 3 - “Cracks in the Ice”

Back at the Penthouse – After the Gala

The car ride home was silent again.

Only this time, the silence felt different.

He kept glancing at you. Like he wanted to say something. Like if he opened his mouth, everything he’d buried for years would spill out.

But he didn’t.

So when you got home, you went straight to your makeshift studio—Jaehyun’s sterile guest room, now littered with canvases and paint jars.

You kicked off your heels and dropped onto the floor, dress pooled around you, dragging your fingers through a half-finished piece.

Not five minutes passed before he stood at the door, hands in his pockets, tie loosened.

“You were flirting with him.”

You didn’t even look up. “And you were pretending to care in front of donors.”

“I wasn’t pretending.”

Silence.

Then—his voice, sharper this time. “What does he give you that I don’t?”

Your head snapped up. “Kindness. Consistency. Someone who doesn’t treat me like a transaction.”

Jaehyun's jaw locked, but his eyes… cracked.

“He was never there when you fell apart. I was.”

“You also left me in pieces.”

That shut him up.

Next Day: Solo Gallery Appearance

It was supposed to be low-key. A community event for local artists — nothing glamorous, nothing massive. But the article dropped while you were still standing by your own canvas.

“Wife of Elite Corporate Lawyer Peddles Paintings at Local Crafts Fair?”

You froze. Mouth dry.

And then you saw the rest.

Anonymous quotes:

“She only got the spot because she’s married to Jung Jaehyun.”

“She’s talentless — the marriage is her real gallery.”

“Desperate for relevance.”

The world tilted.

Your hands shook. You stepped outside, back pressed to a wall as the chill hit your bare arms.

That Night – Back Home

You were curled on the couch, staring at nothing. Still in your gallery dress. Your phone on silent.

Jaehyun walked in and stood there for a long time.

Finally: “I handled it.”

You nodded numbly. “Good.”

“I mean it,” he said. “I had them retract everything. I bought out the blog. They’ll be issuing a formal apology tomorrow. And they’ll donate to your gallery.”

You stared at him. “Why?”

He knelt in front of you slowly. “Because I let you go once,” he whispered, “and I’ve regretted it every goddamn day.”

Your breath caught.

“And because…” his voice cracked, “you’re still the only person whose opinion has the power to ruin me.”

The air between you tightened. Dense. Fragile.

You leaned forward without thinking, forehead brushing his.

“Jaehyun—”

“I’m still in love with you.”

His hands curled around your waist. Yours knotted into his shirt.

And then—

You kissed him.

Hard. Hungry. But not angry.

It was years of silence being undone.

Part 4 - “The Wall That Broke”

The Morning After

You woke tangled in a blanket on the living room couch, your head resting on Jaehyun’s lap.

His fingers were in your hair.

Not moving. Not stroking. Just… there. Holding.

You blinked up at him. “Didn’t know lawyers came with built-in pillows.”

He didn’t smile. “Didn’t know artists kissed like they never stopped loving you.”

Your throat tightened.

Neither of you moved.

Then, softly: “Do we talk about last night?” you asked.

He looked away. “Do you want to?”

You paused. “Eventually.”

He nodded once. “Then eventually.”

But when you got up, he helped you straighten your wrinkled shirt.

His knuckles lingered on your collarbone.

That Week: Your First Real Outing Together

A city charity fundraiser. Crowds. Cameras. Handshakes.

He kept his hand at the small of your back all night.

You smiled when the press called you “picture-perfect.”

You didn’t know he’d canceled a major case to be there.

That Night – The Bedroom Door Left Open

You passed his room on the way to your studio.

His door was open.

He sat there in a white tee, head in his hands.

When he noticed you, he didn't speak — just patted the bed beside him.

You sat.

Neither of you said a word.

He laid back, arm brushing yours. You followed.

No kisses.

No lies.

Just silence and breathing, and his fingers grazing yours under the sheets like they used to.

Final Part - “The Letters He Never Burned”

The house was quiet when you returned from the hospital. Your father’s operation had gone well — a miracle, the doctor had said. The relief should’ve settled your bones, but it hadn’t. Not until the nurse handed you the paperwork.

Paid in full.

Signed: Jung Jaehyun.

You stood in the doorway of the penthouse, fingers trembling, the receipt still in your coat pocket.

He was on the couch, shirt sleeves rolled, legal documents beside him. He looked up when he heard the door—then immediately stood, brow creasing.

“You’re back late.”

You didn’t answer.

“Is your dad—”

“He’s fine,” you said softly. “Because of you.”

He went still.

You walked toward him slowly, heart loud in your ears. “You told me your family wouldn’t help.”

“They didn’t,” he said. Quiet. Careful.

“But you did.”

He swallowed. “You hate charity.”

You stepped closer. “You think this is about pride?”

“No,” he said after a beat. “It’s about how I failed you once. I didn’t want you to think I was trying to buy forgiveness.”

Your throat clenched.

Then you dropped the second bomb. “I went into the study.”

He froze.

“You should really lock your drawers,” you whispered.

He didn’t ask which ones. He knew.

“All the letters, Jaehyun.... Every single one. From college. From after the breakup.” You paused. “Even the one where I told you I hated you.”

His voice cracked, “Never believed that one.”

Silence. Heavy. Soft.

You stepped right into his space. “Why didn’t you let me go?”

He exhaled, hand brushing your waist with the ghost of a touch. “Because letting you go never worked. I tried.”

You blinked back tears. “And marrying me?”

“The only way I could keep you close,” he admitted, voice low. “Even if it meant you’d hate me again.”

Your breath hitched. “You think I still do?”

He looked at you like you were sunlight after a long winter. “I think I don’t deserve you. Even If I never stopped loving you.”

And finally—finally—you kissed him.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed.

It was reverent.

Years of pain melting into the space between your mouths.

He kissed your forehead. Your cheek. The tip of your nose.

When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “I love you.”

His kisses were slow. Thoughtful. Like he was mapping the years you’d been apart with every touch of his lips. He didn’t pull you into bed like he used to — like a man starved.

No.

He laid you down like someone he'd loved in a hundred lifetimes. Reverently. Carefully. His hands explored your skin like an old story he finally had permission to reread.

Your breaths tangled. His forehead pressed to yours.

When he entered you, there was no sharp gasp. No race. Just a sigh — one that left both your mouths at once, as if your bodies remembered what your pride had buried.

His hand was laced with yours above your head. His voice was in your ear, cracked and breathless.

“I still see you every time I close my eyes,” he whispered. “Even when I didn’t want to.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“I never stopped writing letters,” you whispered. “I just stopped sending them.”

He slowed.

Held your face.

And moved inside you like he was writing one back — with his hands, his mouth, his heart.

No rush.

No noise.

Only softness. Only “I love you” in every unspoken place between your skin.

Epilogue – “Framed in Color”

Five years later – Seoul Contemporary Museum of Expression

The museum bustled softly, high ceilings glowing with morning light.

In the far wing — the one newly dedicated to living Korean artists — a six-year-old girl in a yellow sundress stood in front of a giant abstract mural, tilting her head.

Jaehyun crouched beside her.

“What do you think it means?” he asked.

His daughter scrunched her nose. “It looks like... Mama’s dreams.”

He smiled. “You’re not wrong.”

The plaque at the base read:

“To the woman who paints without apology, and the man who finally learned how to see her.”

— Y/N Jung

Your name.

Framed in gold.

You walked toward them with two iced coffees and a juice box, smiling as your daughter tugged her dad’s sleeve.

“She’s gonna be famous,” the girl whispered.

Jaehyun looked up at you, his heart never more full.

“She already is.”

And as your daughter ran off down the gallery, her laughter echoing, Jaehyun reached for your hand.

Not like he was holding on.

But like he’d never let go again.

The End.

Feedback is welcome!

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