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sunboki · 6 months

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⎯ CHRISTMAS BLUES a Hwang Hyunjin fiction

🎄 : Hwang Hyunjin x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. enemies to lovers, exes to lovers, reader is a writer, one bed au, forced proximity au, hyunjin is an artist(not mentioned a ton), coincidences

WORD COUNT. 7.3k words ☆ 40 minute read

WARNINGS. cursing, angst galore, mention of sex (non desc.), breakup, hurt feelings, making up, mentions of getting drunk

AUG'S NOTES. this is a stupidly lovestruck hallmark christmas mindset talking, whatever you read below is definitely not me… definitely. anyway, happy holidays to everyone that celebrates! this has been sitting in my drafts for months now, initially planned to be a smau, then a fic!! hope this fic exceeds your expectations, feel free to leave a reblog or comment of your thoughts!

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. You thought getting a call from Hyunjin was the last thing you needed during the holidays, but when he reminds you of your non-refundable tickets to Paris you had booked seven months prior to your earth-shattering breakup, you realize that his call was the least of your problems.

or alternatively :

Just a week over Christmas with your ex in Paris, what could go wrong?

Every circumstance has a question that goes along with it.

How did I get so lucky? Why did you leave?

As for yours, it’s fairly simple.

Where did we go wrong?

December 18th – Seoul, South Korea.

Holding onto what could’ve been is stupid, you agreed upon that mindset a long time ago. However, the past, Him being the past, lingered around you like the scent of citrus still clinging beneath your fingernails even after washing your hands. Everywhere. He was everywhere. And no matter how hard you tried to erase the memories of what was, they served their memory purpose and disfigured your mind all the same.

And so, you replaced it.

Replaced the hurt, the searing burn, with someone else. Who turned into someone else, and someone else after that till the only thing sufficing any weekly relationship was a no-strings attached notion.

Until you met Seungmin.

He was your vice, the person dragging you out of your self-made hole of false sanctuary and safety. He laid all his flaws on the table, showed himself to you. Seungmin was gentle and kind, he was patient— more patient than anyone else in this world— and loving. Oh so loving.

But behind your undying affection for your boyfriend, he saw something you didn’t. Perhaps in your eyes, perhaps in your soul, bared to him on an onslaught of occasions.

Longing.

He saw longing in your treasured hues, longing for someone that wasn’t him.

Because some scars take longer to fade away, but yours hadn’t even begun to heal. Masked with his many layers of band-aids only to never staunch the cut, the one Hwang Hyunjin left on you.

“Seungmin I’m so sorry—“

“You love him, I know,” He nods his head, a sad, soft smile holding place on his lips.

Tonight was the night he officially talked about it. The unforgivable thought continuing to incessantly plague his mind.

Although, he didn’t regard you sourly for it. That connection you had with Hyunjin was something no other person could return nor deliver, and he had to accept that if he really loved you.

If Seungmin really loved you, he wanted the best for you, even if that meant the best were when you weren’t with him.

You were shocked when he brought up the matter, asked if you really missed him, asked if you still loved him. Yes, you had of course discussed your previous relationship, but never to this extent, never so blatantly.

Though the absolute kindness in both his tone and the way he looked at you, seated at the dinner table, kept you from lying.

It’s not fair. Not fair for Seungmin, your boyfriend, to have to take responsibility for your tormented feelings. But here he is, assuring you nevertheless.

Because he’s known. He knew from the start you weren’t over Hyunjin. Knew that, despite so much ache and anguish he caused, your heart can’t help but beat at his pace, fruitlessly connected.

And he knew in the end things would fall apart just like this, and his spot as a placeholder would fall apart along with it.

That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt though.

“He hurt you, but you love Hwang Hyunjin, I know.” He whispers, fingers tightly twined beneath the table. There’s a sort of hiccuping sound bubbling up from your throat. You stave it down.

“I’m sorry.”

He smiles, smiles when you don’t deny it, reaching forward for your trembling hands to take in his own.

“I want you to be happy, Y/N. I’m not the one you’ll be happy with though.”

A soft squeeze before he rises and curves to where you sit, free-flowing tears threatening to cascade past glossy eyes.

Without hesitation you wrap your arms around him in a hug, chest wracking with unfiltered sobs. Guilty. Guilt is devouring your soul. You don’t deserve Seungmin, nor does he deserve to be hurt so cruelly by someone he loves. But here you are, ruining him.

He’d never admit it, but the pain in his eyes—the ones you’ve stared at countless times—will always remain evident. No amount of smiling or laughing can hide that.

Pulling back while your arms stayed hooked upon his shoulders, you savor the kiss he places on your lips, the ones he delicately pressed to each of your wrists.

Sad. It’s a sad kiss. A kiss that causes your entire body to wilt against him, crashing deeper and deeper into his warmth, his comfort. He’s not false, he’s real. A real, unadulterated love you’re undeserving of.

Guilty.

“If you’re happy,” He breathes, leaning in to land gentle pecks all over your face, forehead connecting with your own. “I’ll be okay.”

December 20th – Seoul, South Korea.

Your room is still exactly as it has been. Pillows faced the same way, sheets still tousled and hanging halfway off the bed. Hell, he hasn’t even touched the blinds — staying open throughout countless nights, your perfume lingering.

Like he was afraid his touch would break apart what he had left of you.

He hopes, swallowing down the remainder of wine in his glass, you’ll be able to look back and laugh at what used to be, find the matter childish and ridiculous.

What you used to be.

Lovers.

Not kids anymore, you taught him once before. You also taught him how deep a love could be. There’d always be a space for you here, just as you left it. Although, he doubts you’d come back. In fact, you’ve probably moved on with your life. Found someone else to fill the space he did.

But maybe, if he keeps the room as it was for long enough, your room; if Hyunjin keeps those tiny paper notes you wrote for him long enough, you would come back.

What a lie.

Wishful thinking takes you far then drops you into festering despair over and over, he’s learned this the hard way.

Starting with a text.

He blinked once, then twice, then three times—picking apart his brain in order to recollect anything, any details whatsoever that could decipher this random message on a Monday morning.

Paris.

Paris?

Paris.

It hits him, evidently.

Immediately clutching his head and simultaneously slapping an aghast hand over his mouth, a sensation recognizable as utmost horror obliterates his soul into pieces, quite literally rocking his world.

Months ago, he remembered.

You’d been stupid, you’d been drunk, and impulsively booked the tickets, laughing off the “no refunds” reminder as if nothing would’ve ever happened.

It did though. And now he’s dealing with the karma in return for that idiotic decision. Soon enough you both will.

Non refundable tickets to Paris, two days from now, together.

What were the chances?

Blindly tapping his password into his phone, he (just as blindly) jams his finger to the first caller he sees, who turns out to be Minho, seeming like both a blessing and a curse in unison.

Never before had Hyunjin so clearly lost his mind and control of his words, but there’s always a first time for everything, right?

“Minho, what the hell am I supposed to do? She hates me and the flight is booked two days from now. This is just.. Fuck!” Hyunjin pours, slamming his hands against the steering wheel, burying his head into the leather as if that would magically make his endless desperation disappear.

He didn’t usually curse, so when he did, whatever had happened was serious. He carried his words elegantly, proficiently.

He'd be the last picked candidate for elegance right about now.

“If I were Chan I would’ve said you should still try talking to her about it, but in my opinion that wouldn’t change a thing. So suck it up Hwang, it can’t be that bad.”

Ah. Remind me why I ever decided to call you hoping for advice.

‘Hwang’ was the name his friend had reserved for him, coming from a long line of tissues in the mouth and other ways Minho would pick fun at the blonde. But he was at least trying to help, somewhat.

How he got himself into this situation is honestly laughable, situation being your nasty breakup and a plane to Paris.

Great. Paris is great, right? Wrong.

Because this stupid, stupid trip to Paris isn’t one he’s going on alone to enjoy the sights and delicacies there, it’s one with you, the girl who ripped his heart in half two months ago. The trip you’d planned while you were still head-over-heels, not hating his guts.

Oh, and your tickets were nonrefundable. Couldn’t forget about that part.

“.. What am I gonna do?”

“Suck it up, duh.”

“And please enlighten me on how the hell I'm supposed to ‘suck it up’ in a plane seat right next to her for thirteen hours and spend every day glued to the hip, your honor.”

The mental picture of Minho’s fraud-innocent face through the line grated his nerves like nothing else. Brows lifted, mouth slightly open. He wanted to punch that imaginary face so badly right now.

"Then follow Chan’s tutorial on making it up to your now-ex. You asked me for my opinion, and you got it. Look, all I’m saying is this is a good chance to get some level ground between you two, even if you still fly back hating each other—"

“I don’t hate her,” Hyunjin quickly quips.

Honestly, truthfully, he doesn’t hate you, he can’t hate you and he doubts he ever will. You were the one responsible for years upon years of the best moments of his life, how could he hate you for that?

Although, by the way you looked at him that night, he doubts your response would be the same.

Minho sighs.

"Even better, you could fly back with her hating you slightly less."

For once the snarky man he was spilling his problems to had provided decent reason, it was terrifying.

From a spectators point of view, his utter fit had to be quite a sight. For the record, witnessing thee calm and collected Hwang Hyunjin go insane in his car wasn’t a sight you’d see on a regular day.

But today wasn’t a regular day. Instead, it was the day he found himself trapped in a loophole of love and war with his ex.

What were the chances?

There’s no book that could wholly describe Hyunjin.

Even as a writer yourself, not even Shakespeare could depict him to the full extent. He’s flawless but so flawed, kind and yet malicious in terms of his brilliantly unfair beauty.

Every day you run into Hwang Hyunjin. The first few times, you called it coincidence, told yourself his meeting happened to be at the same time, maybe he was headed to a neighboring coffee shop.

Well, before those few days turned into every day on your commute.

And when a breakup is as nasty as yours was, it’s not too refreshing constantly seeing your ex on the daily afterward.

Today, Hwang Hyunjin is wearing a tan trench coat that reaches down to his knees. He’s wearing the same tennis shoes as always (except his usual camera is absent from the picture), and his hair is pulled up, soft, sandy strands framing either side of his face. He stands on the other side of the crosswalk, occupied with his phone while you internally ridicule him.

Staring daggers into his frame, the frigidly cold beverage in hand doesn’t aid in warming up chilling temperatures burning your fingertips, signs of winter’s impending approach.

He looks up.

You avert your gaze to your shoes. You can feel his eyes on you; feel them traveling over your body, then to your face, boring into your skull. He’s waiting, watching.

And somehow, you know you’ll eventually have to make eye contact. Because on your normal route, your turn left on Harrison street, then right on Fords. He’s there. Unbelievably, wildly, he’s there.

It’s the one factor in your (almost) perfect life without him that makes things hell.

Back then, you were like clockwork. Not a minute going by without someone being awake. You taking a nap after spending two hours searching synonyms on Thesaurus, Hyunjin just waking up, heading out with his signature Canon camera loosely hung around his neck.

Two perfect oppositions leaving their cluttered love scattered all over a cheap apartment.

For Hyunjin, it was the mug you’d gotten him last christmas labeled in bold font: “ART WHORE”, while yours was an equally degrading “SHE WOULD RATHER FUCK THE MEN IN HER BOOKS” sticker print slapped on the back of your laptop.

Little did you know you’d be desperately scraping the sticker off seven months later, that you’d leave your chapter unfinished since breaking up and that he had likely thrown away that mug.

Or maybe not. Maybe he painted over it, scribbled it out and somehow made it look good. Hyunjin has a way of making anything catastrophic look pretty.

You, on the other hand, are an erupting volcano. One that cries its lava onto the earth and doesn’t leave a pretty photograph. One that froths and rumbles, and destroys things as it goes.

Perfect opposites, exactly.

Now for the real question, the monumental “where did we go wrong” part that served as an explanation.

Three little words.

I love you.

You lied.

Those are big words, big words for somebody. Big words for yourself, words you spoke to Hwang Hyunjin, looped in his apartment, making love on the couch.

Big words he didn’t return.

Big words that kept your heart stilled in your chest, left your lips blue, drowned as you collected your discarded clothes off the floor.

And you left.

You didn’t need the awkward silence, the “let me think about it”, the bullshit they spouted Kissing-Booth-style. You needed him, his reassurance when you were your most vulnerable. His three words that told you your three years together weren’t one sided, not wordlessly confessed through actions though too scared to say aloud – a feared incantation.

Words he never said. Because you did love Hwang Hyunjin, so much it consumed you into his favorite muse, him your inspiration. Then came the doubt. The recollection of your favorite, dearest moments. Was it all a lie?

Those hour-long seconds, tangled on his sofa, kept that incessant anxiety alive.

You thought you found the one when your drunk night didn’t turn into an orgasm you can’t remember, but rather being coaxed into a warm shower despite your complaining about your pants being too tight.

Somehow, you can still feel his tender kisses like a ghost of a presence, littering the skin of your shoulder instead of the sloppy alcohol ridden ones you’d known before, and for once you had woken up beside the person responsible — not to a note saying they had to leave early.

He was the one responsible for teaching you how to paint, propping you in his lap, hand guiding your own while tracing careful strokes on the canvas. It was hardly possible sitting on his stool together, though neither of you noticed (nor cared), too busy savoring the intimacy of the moment.

That was Hyunjin. He was the glass of water placed in front of you after one too many at happy hour. He was the relaxing bath when everything hurt, the shoulder to cry on.

But you were mistaken. He wasn’t the one. Seungmin was the one, the one you had left behind only to chase after a toxic remedy.

In fact, Hyunjin never was the one.

And it fucking hurt remembering that.

December 21st - 22nd – Seoul, South Korea.

The last news you’d anticipated slammed into you like a bus.

Cozied up at your desk, a number pops up on your screen, interrupting the one moment of silence you managed to enjoy. Most people didn’t call during your work hours, except Seungmin, who, for the record, called before work.

The number you’d memorized by heart was not normal either.

Him.

“Before you curse at me,” He begins, and your hand hesitantly hovers over the call button, jaw clenched beyond reason, silence shouting loud. No strength in your bones allowed you to reply. Was it fear, hatred? Both most likely.

Taking the time to continue, his silky tone lulls along the line.

“Do you remember the tickets?”

Hatred seemed the dominant factor.

“What are you talking about?” You rhetorically snap, obviously annoyed albeit confused.

Tickets? It’s been three months, why the hell are tickets the first thing he’s mentioning?

He sighs. “The tickets to Paris. You remember, don't you?”

It takes you a moment, then, aha.

How could you forget? The tip of the iceberg of what two naive, lovestruck idiots thought would be forever. Little did they know everything would slip past their fingertips.

”Well um, did you know they’re non-refundable?”

Huh.

“WHAT?!”

You’d just managed to convince yourself free of Hyunjin, but he simply dragged you further into his labyrinth.

Or so you thought.

You had grown since he broke you (with the help of your better-ex, Seungmin). You evolved better (or so you told yourself). So out of the plentiful lessons you’d learned during your reflection, the factor that stuck with you most was that nobody is there to pick up for you. No matter how much you think they will.

You swore yourself into the belief Hyunjin would mend you, but you lived blind to the truth that he was just as broken as you were, a dog chasing its tail.

And so, you dealt with it.

In ways.

Whether that was incessantly talking to yourself, fanatically checking the date, contacting Felix on the verge of tears for him to laugh and then attempt at consoling your doom, or googling the best ways to run away from your predicament, fate had it out for you.

A disgustingly impertinent, unfairly fair fate.

Packing wasn’t all too stressful, unless you count trying on an entire entourage of outfits descending from dinner to snow-attire, then focusing on simple.

And it really shouldn’t have been so awful getting into your car, nonetheless waking up to realize today was the dreaded day, but it was, and you seriously deserved an award for the amount of times you checked your clock.

Although, you at least expected to have a little bit of time before having to face him again. Talking and interacting, not just drilling holes into his head. Little bit of time as in, a few years at least.

You were wrong.

Not the first time that’s happened.

“Hi Hyunjin.”

Answering his awaiting call with unsteady pitch, your eyes immediately gravitate to the blond-haired man. Taller in stature, leaning against a nearby pillar by your gate, staring directly at you.

Never had it felt so terrifying.

“Hey.”

You hesitate, never breaking eye contact with the man you’re speaking to a few meters away.

“Are we…Are we doing this again?”

He’s solemn. He’s not the same. Different.

“I don’t know. You decide for me.”

Never for a second does your gaze stray to his lips that barely move as he utters the line. Not the same either.

Before, you’d always been mesmerized by his lips. Then he’d notice and tease you prior to delivering the long-awaited kiss, again and again till you were breathless and your head became dizzy.

But this wasn't before; this is now, filled with grudges and sourness.

“You know I can’t make big decisions.”

That isn’t him. Isn’t the Hyunjin who would always provide endless tips and support, opinions unable to be held back without duct tape.

“Because you don’t want to get hurt knowing we chose this?” He whispers, and you tug your bottom lip between your teeth hard enough to bleed.

“Because I want better for us.”

“Y/n,” He sadly laughs, and your name rolling off his tongue sends an ache clawing your chest. It’s humorless, bitter in his throat.

“There is no us, only you and me, remember? So who do you want better for?”

There’s no twinkle in his eyes or his charming smile, it’s dry and painful, like he’d been crying.

You don’t want to think about that.

“Tell me something, okay?” Holding your phone to your ear with an iron grip, you slowly inhale through your nose, sparing a fleeting glance to the floor.

“Anything.”

“If I cry, will you hug me?”

“Do you want that?”

Question after question. He reaches in further, ripping out pieces of your soul with each inquiry. Stupid, sure. But genuine, all the way from the shrouded depths of your mind did you ask.

Of course you want that, want what’s so bad for you. No strength can make you admit it.

He knows the answer.

You hang up the call, fiddling around with your suitcase prior to wheeling the blundering thing over and ensuring you find a comfy spot out of Hyunjin’s sight.

Only five minutes of talking and you already feel as if your body is splintering into little pieces he’ll arrange into the perfect puzzle, ideal and pleasing.

He won’t. Not anymore he won’t.

And in that stead you’ll remain shattered.

What a shame.

Now boarding Group Five. All passengers in Group Five are welcome to board.

The hailing announcement earns a muffled groan through your mask, begrudgingly rising to your feet while directing your attention solely upon the bridge and your tightly held boarding pass. Luckily, Incheon International Airport isn’t half as hectic as you anticipated, but you have a gnawing feeling Paris will have a lot more to say.

Truth be told, you thank every lesson on task focus you once deemed useless as you shuffle among Paris-goers to find your seat.

One that obviously had to be right by Hwang Hyunjin.

“How’s you and Seungmin?” He fixes the length of his headphones, sparing a quick look at you while speaking. You despise how easy he treats this, how easy he’s treating everything at the moment.

Unfortunately, booking this hell-on-earth back when either of you were in your demented fantasy-land meant sitting beside each other also, in assigned seats.

Cupid really needs to give up by now.

You grunt beside him, uttering a hushed, “We broke up.”

Tilting his head, Hyunjin presses his face closer, craning. Close enough that you hold your phone up as a barrier, shrinking away nearer to the window.

“…Who broke up with who?”

Asshole.

Sighing boisterously, you shove in your own earbuds, rolling your eyes. Hyunjin, cocking a brow, dejectedly slouched back. Although he doesn’t ask any more questions, and you successfully get through your first three hours in silence.

Well, prior to the flight attendant strolling by with her cart, mandatorily beckoning orders from each row.

Wheeling her cart over where your seats are, Hyunjin takes a ginger ale and the customary pretzels they hand out. So when she gets to you and you order a Sprite, the man to your right’s head snaps to you, giving you quite an incredulous cock of his brow.

“No ginger ale?”

You wrinkle your nose.

“I don’t like it,” Biting back, you interrupt him upon accepting the canned soft drink, expression bitter and unwavering.

“You always got it when you were with me” or “Wasn’t it your favorite” was what you expected to come out of his mouth, positively obliterating any ounce of peace of mind remaining inside your rattling skull. You weren’t about to sit another seven hours sulking about something your ex said.

The ex you were very much over.

Right.

Your new goal? Avoid genuine conversation for as long as possible, at least on this flight.

So, given the chance to be deep in thought, you came to a conclusion.

You were clockwork, just like before. Except now instead of just equaling the time of day, he was the hour hand and you were the minute hand, always chasing after one another only to briefly touch and start all over again in an endless cycle of time.

Although the rockier the air gets and the more your grip squeezes the armrest does your initial goal falter, finding his considerate gesture asking if you were alright practically impossible to keep from responding to.

Especially when a huge drop has his hand racing atop yours, both too nervous to truly let go.

Just the circumstances, you blame, as if this plane was the sole cause of your slamming heartbeat.

Bullshit.

Four days and this trip was going to be one for the books for a multitude of reasons, that’s for sure.

Let’s just hope you can land first.

December 23nd – Paris, France.

His assuring hold on your hand guiding you through the bustling crowds of visitors and locals storming Charles de Gaulle Airport gives you this disgusting nostalgia, festering in your gut the longer you focus on his dark head of hair in front of you, kind, magnificent almond eyes flickering back to catch sight of you time and time again — like you’d magically sift from his grasp.

It’s a miracle you managed to hit ground in one piece, nevertheless end up with the notorious artist-jerkface named Hyunjin navigating you through an supremely overpopulated airport.

Perhaps it’s the scent of wispy pine or faint cigarette smoke that tinges the atmosphere such a rosy hue, perhaps everyone’s anticipation for the holiday’s. Either way, it certainly doesn’t help fuel your “absolutely NO touchy-feely-ness Hyunjin agenda”.

Well, you had no doubt you’d have to stick to your morals on this trip in the first place, and it’s not like the odds were supposed to work in your favor. Although, a little assistance would‘ve been nice.

Guess you’ll just have to make due.

Lovely.

“Thank you!” You shout, forcing your voice to sound chipper speaking to the Cab Driver (opposing the twenty-two hours of traveling you managed to survive through). Except now, you didn’t know what to do nor what to say standing outside the hotel entrance, especially not when Hwang Hyunjin was going to be biting your ass for the next few days.

Much to your luck though, it seemed he was just as clueless as you, both prioritizing just checking into your room first and foremost.

Thankfully, the sights are a wondrous source of distraction, and you devise a plan to go walking more often than not (and not just to avoid Hyunjin). Each building appears as if it’d been expertly carved from stone, historically aged beige, awnings titled a bottomless array of Grand Seiko and Jaeger-LeCoultre.

To add, huge paneled windows are placed in each room, allowing a breathtaking view of the city as evening dawns. Whether it’s a quaint bakery hitched right below a bookstore or the bell tower seated comfortably in the middle of a square—you could never get bored.

Seems your interest tore you away from an unwelcomed reality until Hyunjin cleared his throat, thick eyebrows raised questionably.

“..We could go ice-skating?” He offers, index pointing to the huge rink a few blocks to the left.

You don’t have to speak for him to know your response, unzipping your suitcase to gather a new change of clothes without a word.

“Look, I know you want nothing to do with me, but I doubt either of us will ever have enough money to come to Paris again, so just, do it for the experience, not for me.”

That’s it.

“For you? You think I’m doing this for you? Are you really that conceited to think I’m still catering to you, Hyunjin? I’ve changed whether you like it or not, and I’m not the girl that’s willing anymore,” You toss your clothing to the side, giving him a downright venomous stare. Loathing. “I’m not yours anymore.”

“In fact,” Spitting poison, you stab your index to his chest, causing him to back up the more you advance forward. “You don’t know shit about me.”

He appears torn. His nose scrunches, and his lips form a squabbled line upon his face, evidently troubled.

Somehow, those actions that normally earned your sympathy only reared your deftly oiled gears more, angrily roaring without fail.

“Because if you did, we wouldn’t be like this.”

Gesturing around, you retreat back a few steps, arms slapping your sides irritably. Meanwhile, the tall man remains silent, attention magnetically directed down at his shoes. And for a swift moment, mere seconds, you feel sorry — apologetic even.

It makes you sick to your stomach.

You exhale. “I’ll go, and not for you. Understood?”

Hyunjin doesn’t reply, biting his cheek as he watches you disappear into another room.

You thank the refreshing scent of peppermint for its momentary relief upon entering the bathroom, practically drenching your face in ice cold water over and over as if it’d clear your head.

For you; you’re doing this for you, nobody else, you remind yourself, prepping a washcloth and your toiletries whilst praying the warm shower water eases your blaring jet-lag.

Yet, you didn’t expect a visitor to suddenly pop in while you were mid-shampoo, and it seemed he didn’t expect it either.

You swore the prolonged eye-contact went on for centuries, absolute terror embracing every aspect of your face through the clear shower door.

“Fuck! Get out!”

Scurrying like a character off a cartoon, Hyunjin manages – through spilling apologies – to blindly ram himself into the door, hands gripping his skull.

Suddenly, he pauses, hesitating.

“Wait but I’ve seen you naked befo–”

“GET OUT!” You scream.

“Okay! Okay.” He hurriedly slips out, leaving you to rethink every decision made with his name involved. A recurring thought at this point.

And with that, you quickly accept that your jet lag isn’t even close to gone and likely won’t be as long as the artist sharing your hotel room is within a six-foot radius.

Oh, and you don’t know shit about ice-skating.

Of course, Hyunjin is a natural on ice. He glides like a snow spirit, freer than ever. Meanwhile, your nails are embedded into your vice of a railing, knees shakily attempting at balancing with little success.

He’s the princess, and you’re the frog. It’s decided. Walking while you crawled, running while you walked. A step ahead that was at some point motivating, now plain humiliating.

The ice rink is jam-packed, citizens and tourists alike savoring the crisp winter, the faded twinkling of lights glittering in the distance.

“C’mon, just one?”

You, clawing the icy edge, confusedly avert your focus to where the voice came from.

It’s Hyunjin, gesturing to his camera while you piece together his request before childishly whining your despair. He lifts his toboggan upward, a few endearing tufts of golden peering out to hang over crescent moon eyes, evidently smiling.

Leave it to this man to test your sanity. How could anybody say no when he looked that cute.

“Fine, one.”

Not like I could run off anyway, you mentally consider, finding the fact your legs are quite literally flailing as a good enough sign to give in.

“Yes!” He chirped happily, hurriedly fiddling with his camera.

Watching him with that kind of expression, you witness your Hyunjin again, fumbling around, so excited about the smallest of things.

It hurts.

“I..” He trails off, voice barely audible whilst winking to see through the lense. “Don’t want to miss a moment of you.”

“What was that?”

The camera flashes, and you wonder if you heard him correctly.

“Oh nothing.” His lips curl into a sheepish grin, easing toward you and unexpectedly prying your hand into his own, involuntarily pulling you along.

Panickedly, you clutch onto any article of clothing available (another goodbye to your no-touchy-feely-ness Hyunjin agenda) similar to the handrails, squeezing your eyes shut while painfully awaiting a harsh slam against rock-hard ice.

A harsh slam that never happens.

You cautiously open an eye.

“One, two, one, two.” He counts steadily, soaring across the ice, unable to contain the huge beam the longer he watches you. Captivating.

You fight the urge to smile, the sensation of wind whipping your hair and his warm, reminiscent touch setting your nerves into a dopamine frenzy, making the routinely frown much harder than need be.

Nevertheless, perhaps staying in Hyunjin’s grasp would’ve been the safer option. Because with confidence comes failure (at least in your book of life), and your knees would’ve definitely appreciated not getting ruined.

“Are you alright?” Hyunjin murmurs, sympathetically regarding your black and blue frame, looking worse for wear, skates in hand.

“Amputation has never sounded more tempting,” Grumbling, you hobble to return your skates, the man tailing behind you choking back his giggle, kindly waiting in case you stumble.

From the way things are going, the probability is high. Except, Hyunjin walks on eggshells, worried you might rip his head off in the case he asked the question sitting tentatively on the tip of his tongue.

Keeping himself contained had never been as unbearable as when with you, constantly having to refrain from wrapping your precious self into his arms, witness those warm, beautiful hues blinking at him like globes.

Five minutes into the walk back and your near-face-plant-turned-catastrophe was his last straw.

“Can I at least carry you?”

Your head snapping back was almost comical, ogling at Hyunjin as if he told you he’d been neutered or something.

Insane. He’s officially gone insane.

So have you, apparently. Because after getting all too familiar with the icy side walk for a fifth time, you give in, stifling your thoughts from erupting out of your skull—feeling like your entire earth was slowing down on its axis when he easily swept you off your feet.

Cute, hell, romantic too, until you arrive back at the hotel and the curious looks sent your way have your cheeks burning.

“This is so embarrassing.” You whine, burying your face in your hands. Of course, Hyunjin just laughs.

You missed his laugh.

And he cares for you that night, transporting you from room to room in his arms despite your complaints you could do so yourself (although you secretly preferred it, and no, not because it was Hyunjin, only because of how bruised your legs were).

Plus, the mental exhaustion was practically debilitating, sleep beckoning you into its cozy embrace as the clock ticked on the wall. The man before you knelt in front of where you sat on the side of the bed, gently applying antiseptic to your cuts while you blanked in and out of consciousness.

Any common sense had completely abandoned you. Certainly, since you hadn’t noticed only one bed sat dead center in the room. Nor had you noticed through your half-asleep eyes how sweetly he maneuvered you around, pulling the comforter snug over your body.

His hand strays, wistfully smoothing some hair from off your eyebrow.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers, gathering spare pillows and blankets.

He’ll sleep on the floor.

December 24th – Paris, France.

Apparently, there was much more to this Paris dilemma than just the “going to Paris” part (excluding, y’know, the havoc that’s occurred over the past three days).

This fantastic surprise came in the form of a booked Louvre Museum date, now a bit more like a punishment with your current state of soreness merely rising up from bed. And, in turn, seeing Hyunjin sawing logs on the floor below, an action you were inaudibly grateful for.

You two are a different kind of romantic if that’s what you want to call it, especially when Hyunjin practically barricades the bathroom door, nonsensically shouting that he won’t make the same mistake of walking in ever again.

Sweet gesture, but it gets a tad bit irritating when you have to basically charge the door in order to move the chair situated behind it, making you doubt if it was to keep Hyunjin himself out or keeping you in instead.

Yeah. Different kind of romantic. Exes kind of romantic.

Once 5pm rolls around, you’re already dressed and ready to leave, trying your darndest to pretend you’re doing something on your phone to evade conversation. A middle school move, though your ego is on the brink of becoming extinct anyway.

Seems the final act is when Hyunjin steps out of the bathroom, wearing that tan trench coat he always did.

He notices you analyzing, stifling a very tempting smirk.

“I thought you’d like this jacket. Y’know, since you stared at it all the time.”

With a sentence you watched your endangered ego obliterate in real time, embarrassment swallowing you whole. The cycle is neverending.

Thankfully, at least one factor in your unsolvable equation proves itself useful, the factor being your already purchased tickets, granting an earlier entrance into what felt to be a new world.

A new world you recognized as Hyunjin’s world. Vast, expansive. A place you can get lost in and be okay with. Stories hidden behind gold-rimmed frames, so much to tell if only you’d listen.

He lingers by the Psyche and Cupid sculpture longer than usual. Briefly, he told you about them many moons ago. Their love awakening from something much more tragic, apocalyptical.

What a coincidence.

You spend what feels to be days in there, daylight from the lengthy windows overhead falling dark by the time you’re finished. The temperature dropped exponentially while you explored, ignorant to the frigid conditions till realizing you still had your trek back.

Curse the taxi service for not running twenty-four hours.

“You grew your hair out.” You comment, but it’s not really a comment, more like an observation you already knew and felt the need to point out for some odd reason. The awkward silence is suffocating enough.

Granted, you’d known his hair had grown. You saw him every day coming to and fro from work, so any adjustments he made you saw, some of which you remember loving oh so much.

This adjustment was his hair.

Hyunjin’s lips quirk ever so slightly, fingers straying up to tousle a strand.

“You used to love it when I grew it out.”

He continues to walk ahead, ignoring how you had stalled behind, numb grip desperately clutching your puffer jacket as if it’d magically allow you inhalations.

“You would tie it up for me, and stick my paintbrushes in the bun.”

This time, he spins around, seemingly unaffected by your (both literally and figuratively) frozen finger that simply blinks at him — robotic-like.

Like Hyunjin is a stranger. Like your Hyunjin, the old one you were mad for, is now a stranger.

“And I,” He sniffs in, his exhale causing a cloud of air to comprise in its stead. “Really wanted to marry you.”

There’s your breaking point.

He’s pulled you thread by thread closer to an unthinkable free fall, a freezing free fall. Unfurling your strings of yarn to no point of repair. So as you teeter on the edge, your defense mechanisms kick in. And before you can logically consider your options, you smack him.

Right. Across. The face.

He’s stunned, you don’t blame him for that, but there’s also a crinkle in his brows, a look of utmost hurt beginning to stain any somber expression left.

“You have no right to say that when you’re the one that caused all of this.” Your volume increases, unaffected by the glances from passerby.

You have no doubt the two of you are quite a scene, though common sense had long abandoned you, and no thought but fiery rage curls around you, tendrils alight.

“Why the hell did you want to marry me if you can’t even love me? Quit hurting and confusing me Hyunjin, I can’t keep doing this.” Practically pleading, he pulls his palm from where it babied his cheek, instead retreating to your wrists, keeping you in front of him.

“Listen.”

“No!” You screech, trying your hardest to escape.

“Listen.”

You pause, gingerly allowing him to adjust the scarf over your pink nose and ensure your gloves trap warmth for your fingers.

He bites his lip, gaze dancing across your features.

“I love you.”

You shakily exhale, wishing everything would just stop. Time would simply diminish into nothing but stillness, easiness.

Your anguish and anger was easy, and staying mad was a whole lot easier than this—confronting the pains of meeting him again, nonetheless this trip.

He’s finding the pieces to your puzzle.

You want to hide.

Worst of all? Especially hearing him say the words that ended you two months prior.

Cruel.

“I loved you,” His voice wavers. “More than anything, Y/n. And I still do. But when you said that, I got scared.”

He shakily inhales, the grip on you lessening a bit.

“Because when I say I love you back, that means I have someone to lose.”

It’s hypocritical, you know.

Hell, you know what it’s like to be a hypocrite more than anything right now. From hearing the godforsaken news to sitting in an airplane together after wholeheartedly promising yourself you’d never let him have you once more.

Yet here you were, dragging him by his collar into a kiss.

He kisses you back, like an idiot, childishly grasping his clothing-cladden frame against your face and savoring the small bit of heat huddled between where your lips meet.

His trench-coat, you remember, despite so many adjustments, is the same as usual, and it’s almost comforting to find he smells the same as well—floral, with hints of jasmine (mainly thanks to his favorite perfume). You remember that too.

Guess some things never change.

Perhaps he kept that mug after all, drank from it every day like he used to.

And perhaps, right now, he’s wishing back all the time you’ve spent apart, just like you are. Wishing you would’ve just talked like mature, capable adults. Figured things out.

Newsflash, you’re not mature adults. You’re two broken lovebirds fighting to find their song after being caged together, searching high and low for the perfect pitch when all you needed was a single note, a single start.

Positioning you where an arm wraps around your back, the other holding your cheek, he dips you as if in a ballroom dance, not kissing beneath a street light.

Everything is pretty in Hyunjin’s presence.

“Hwang Hyunjin,” You whisper, nostrils burning the longer you’re surrounded by snow, falling in hefty sheets at this rate.

He hums into your lips, maneuvering his head to kiss away the chilled tears beginning to froth upon your waterline. And in those moments, you feel so fragile, so weak in his touch.

Almost instinctively, his grip tightens oh so slightly.

“I really don’t want to lose you.”

And he laughs, a muffled laugh that nonetheless causes his shoulders to shake before delving further into your kiss, melting away every bit of anguish you felt, all the hurt and ache. Dissolved into nothingness by his lips.

Figures briefly illuminated by the light of the street lamp, you remain ignorant to the encroaching nightfall, the way the stars seamlessly blend with white snowflakes. Something out of a fairytale.

You’re certain you could’ve stood there forever, all numb and freezing cold.

But in love. So very in love.

For him you would’ve stood there. And the you still in denial without understanding this entire story would’ve died before admitting that.

This time, you’re okay with letting him finish the puzzle, create a song as lovebirds.

“You won’t, I promise,” He traces your cheek with his thumb. “Now let’s get someplace warm, shall we?”

Landing an affectionate peck to your burning red nose, he takes your hand, guiding you through climbing snow toward your hotel, sign reading “Hôtel de Vendôme” glittering in the distance.

In your opinion, however, it was too fleeting. A kiss you hadn’t realized you’d been waiting for until it actually happened, till you pathetically craved it again and again.

Although, that didn’t mean you didn’t enjoy gaining feeling back in your fingers and toes, treasuring the flicker of the fire crackling beneath a brick mantel. A few guests litter the lobby, dishing paper cups of hot chocolate left and right, taking the opportunity the mistletoe hanging above a long forgotten stairwell provides.

Christmas Eve and you’re beside the ex you swore you’d never spend it with, spend any time with generally. So surreal you simply cannot stop thinking about it, enough that you become too distracted to notice the mischievous glint in Hyunjin’s vision.

Well, before he points upward and you notice the dangling mistletoe.

And he kisses you again just like you wanted. Deeper, slower, like separating would cause you to break apart, carving your kiss into his memory for a second time.

Standing there, too lost in him to ever consider anything better than this, you begin to think maybe you’ll be able to finish that stagnant book of yours. Maybe it’ll be about two lovers turned two exes, whose trip to Paris might just have been the cherry on top to hurt feelings and broken love. Because, at the end of their tribulations, Cupid falls in love with Psyche.

And you begin to think—as the clock’s ringing announces midnight has arrived—maybe this Christmas will pass by on a good note.

No, you’re certain of it.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

FIC TAGLIST. @slut4colinbridgerton @armystay89 @shujohajohaminnie @minhosbitterriver @callmedarlingsstuff

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queers-gambit · 3 months

Text

Let the Bodies Hit the Floor

prompt: what happens when Tangerine's little lady is targeted in their home?

pairing: Tangerine x female!reader

fandom masterlist: Bullet Train

word count: 9.1k+

note: this got away from me. like wtf is this plot, Cherry?

warnings: author still runs with Tangerine's name being Aaron and Lemon's being Brian. inspired by GIF, established relationship, Russian Mafia vibes, physical violence / assault, blood, character injury, small angst, mostly hurt and comfort, Tan and Lem standing on business.

The skirt of the designer dress fanned around your thighs when you turned swiftly from the stovetop to a separate counter in order to collect the chopped vegetables. Light music filled the space between the sizzling of different dishes cooking, bare feet sticking to the linoleum floor of the kitchen.

"Right," your sweetheart, Aaron, announced as he jogged down the glass stairs while fixing his cuff link, entering the shared space, "know I hate t'do this, love, but I promise we won't be long."

You smirked, "Uh-huh, and where have I heard that before? Oh! That's right, when you - "

"Oi, oi, oi, you know I ain't mean to disappear in fuckin' Kyoto for 6 weeks, love," he repeated in exasperation, "please, stop holdin' that against me."

"I'm not," you sang in a singsong voice, dropping the vegetables to the stir fry you were preparing, "but you know, you say you won't be long, and then you disappear for random amounts of time."

"You know why," he sighed, buttoning his suit jacket as he closed the distance between you, "and you know it ain't my choice."

"Yeah, yeah, job first, girlfriend second."

"Not even close t'what my priorities are," he smirked, snatching your hand to twirl you around and tug you closer to face him. You grinned up at him, hands landing on his chest; letting his arms lock around you to keep you pressed against his impeccably sculpted body. "You look so beautiful tonight," he whispered, eyes flickering over you, "just love you in this dress. Could ravish you right here, right now."

"Yeah?" You cooed, "Recognize it?"

"Hm, feels rather expensive," he pet around your hips and waist, cheekily moving them around to grip both arse cheeks; causing you to gasp lightly, "thinkin' I must've gotten it for yah. Huh?"

"From Paris last month," you chuckled.

"Ah, yeah, I remember. Lemon was right hacked off we spent so much time shoppin', but no way was I gonna come home without something for yah." He sniffled and patted one hand in a gentle smack on your bottom, continuing, "Now, listen, sweetheart, I know tonight's real important to yah, so, I promise, Lemon and I will be back before the main course, yeah?"

You tisked, "Don't fucking call him that, you know I hate it."

"Apologies, lovely girl. Listen, I won't have my phone on, so, you need me, call Brian - "

"'If I need you'? See, now it's sounding like you're gonna disappear again, Aaron," you complained. "What the hell's this job anyway?"

"Nah, don't worry 'bout nothin'," he promised, "'cause we'll be back in time for your li'l dinner party."

"You know tonight's important for us - both of us!"

His eyes rolled, "Yes, yes, t'finally get your father's approval, right?"

"More like my whole family," you reminded with a roll of your eyes. "Goddamnit, I knew you weren't gonna take this seriously - "

"No, hey," he soothed, squeezing his hands to gently jostle you into silence, "tonight's very important to me, darlin'. I swear it, yeah? We'll be back in time, promise you."

"Good, you better."

"But in case, call Brian - "

"Aaron!"

He grinned, watching your own lips spread, "Jesus Christ, can't take a joke no more, can yah?"

"Maybe on less important days."

"Duly noted." The apartment's buzzer sounded, your boyfriend sighing, "Right, then. That'd be Lem - aht, ahem, Brian." He frowned, "Feel bad skippin' out on yah like this, but duty calls, baby."

"Mhm," you hummed, lifting on your toes to peck his lips. "Just be careful, please."

"I always am."

"You literally crashed a Bullet Train into an entire village - "

"Told yah, that was the Ladybug twat!"

"You also got shot! A centimeter to the side and you'd have bled out your fucking jugular."

"Again, the Ladybug twat."

"Potato, po-ta-toe."

Aaron chuckled, kissing you again, his mustache tickling your skin; groaning in annoyance when the buzzer sounded again - but for a prolonged time. "All right," he pulled back only to peck your lips again, "I'm off but I'll be back real soon. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good without me?"

"I have to be," you teased, petting the lapels of his suit jacket and readjusting his tie. "Go, before you give your brother a fucking aneurism."

"Right," he chirped, pecking your forehead with a loud smooch. Swiftly, Aaron reached over to pluck a carrot from the wok, hissing from the heat, "oh, hot, hot, hot!" You swatted his bottom as he stepped away, eating the veggie, knowing you hated when he sampled your cooking while in the midst of actually cooking. "Mh! Tastes divine, sweetheart, maybe a bit more garlic. Love you!" He called over his shoulder, dropping a quick wink.

"Love you," you repeated, smiling; feeling lucky in love. You watched him go; his curls slicked back, classic navy blue suit on to make the crisp white button-up stand out, his shiny dress shoes winking at you. With a sigh, you focused again on prepping an admirable meal for the evening, planning on hosting both your divorced parents, their partners, and three older siblings.

Obviously, as the youngest kid, any and everyone you dated fell under heavy scrutiny.

The plan was to shmooze them into accepting Aaron as your lover, something your father and eldest brother were specifically vehemently against. But you weren't a little girl anymore, they couldn't dictate who you loved, but you could do your part to make your contract killer boyfriend more appealing to your kin. Easier said than done, but tonight was about at least trying.

So, you cooked a series of dishes to present on the grand dining table your boyfriend had furnished your apartment with, yet never utilized. Humming to the music, you hopped around the cooking space, and about an hour later, the apartment's buzzer was sounding in an obnoxious echo.

Dusting your hands off, you rushed to the comms system and pressed the big green button that unlocked the door building's front door. You left the door to your flat unlocked for easier access, rushing back to the kitchen to finish plating dinner. Not a minute later, the door opened and in walked your family; bottle of wine in your father's hand and a bouquet of flowers in your mother's.

Your father, Edward, had his newest wife on his arm; in the tallest heels you ever saw and a dress made of sequins, being far too short for this kind of event.

You mother, Linda, powered walked ahead of everyone with her boytoy of the month kept a close distance to the matriarch. He was probably just a few years older than you - but you were dating a contract killer agent, there was no room for judgement.

Your eldest brother, Robert, or better known as Bobby, entered with an aurora of arrogance; instantly looking around and judging your home unfairly. You sister, Mabel, just looked stony and stoic; completely bored of that night already. Lastly, your brother older by just a single year, Jonathan, or John, or John Boy, followed behind your siblings, wearing a thick gold chain against a classless wife beater.

"Oh, I'm so glad you made it!" You squealed, opening your arms and practically skipping close to greet your parents and their partners. "About time, don't you think?" You smiled at your father, hugging him first and kissing his cheek.

"Well... Guess better late than never," he begrudgingly agreed. "You remember my wife, Crystal?"

"Of course," you tried to politely smile and offered the fake-blonde a greeting kiss to her cheek, "lovely to see you again."

"Thanks for the invite," her tired voice drawled; indicating she'd rather be literally anywhere else.

"Mum," you moved along, hugging and kissing her cheek, too. "You're look fit."

"Thank you," she sighed.

Looking to her boyfriend, you greeted, "Thanks for coming, Keith - "

"It's Toby."

You blinked, "Huh?"

"Name's Toby," he explained.

"Right, right, Toby, my fault," you apologized, ignoring the look he sent your mother as you greeted Bobby, Mabel, and John Boy.

After, your father stiffly asked, "So? Where is he? This boyfriend you want us all t'like so much, huh? Not even out here to greet us?"

"Running an errand, but he and his brother will be back for dinner."

Bobby scoffed, "So, we do all this for him and he's not even home? Wow... Real stand-up guy, innit he?"

"You're also here to see me, aren't you?"

"We see enough of you, we're here for your dumbass boyfriend you're so enamored with that you missed Christmas last year."

"Bobby," you warned, taking your mother's flowers and heading back into the open-concept kitchen to locate a vase and fill it with water. "You're gonna play nice tonight or I'm gonna be really pissed," you warned your family, "and I'll cancel the New Years trip."

"Woah, hang on," your sister, Mabel, interjected, "let's not be hasty, the night's only just beginning - no need for threats."

"I know," you smirked at her, "it's called incentive."

"Truly your father's daughter," you mother scoffed and rolled her eyes. Edward just mocked her and handed over the wine bottle; making your mother snip, "No drinks to offer us? Not a very diligent hostess, are you, darling?"

Her sickly sweet tone gave you a cavity, but this was simply how your mother behaved when around her ex-husband - all passive aggressive and holier than thou.

You pointed, "There's an entire cart behind you, there. Help yourself."

"Hm," she hummed, nodding, turning to make herself a hefty bourbon with Toby right behind her.

"Um," Crystal hummed, "do you have seltzers?"

You almost laughed but managed not to, "No, no, just win and whatever liquor's on the cart."

"It's a nice place you've got, love, if not overly expensive," Linda cut off anything Crystal might've said; complimenting you stiffly, looking around as the amber liquid was poured, "bit empty, though, innit? I don't see one single family photo, not a personable damn thing."

"Oh, well, Aaron and I just like the minimalistic aesthetic," you deflected; the truth being, Aaron was constantly on the move for his job, there was no real time or reason to decorate the flat. You began transporting the large dishes on the kitchen counters to the table, your other brother, John, springing into action to help.

To say it was awkward was the simplest way to put it. After pouring herself a second drink, Linda started to trade insults with Edward; both telling the other how pathetic it is to find younger lovers. Mabel rolled her eyes but listened carefully, ever the quiet mouse who opted to observe rather than be seen. Bobby was snooping through anything he could get a hand on; attempting to know Tangerine without outright meeting him yet. John Boy didn't care this way or that, happy to just be involved and set the table for you.

"Chow's on!" You announced, leading everyone to the table and take whatever seat they liked.

"You know," Bobby started, "think it's a bit weird."

"What is?" You asked, handing Mabel the steamed sticky rice.

Bobby gestured around, "The whole thing. I mean, I'm almost tempted to believe you've made this Aaron character up. What kinda man skips out on a family meal like this?"

"A man who has a very demanding job," you snapped, the table still passing dishes around to take their fill. "I didn't ask you guys here to fucking harp on him, I asked you to just give him a chance and get to know him."

"Why should we even bother?"

"Because he's important to me!"

"You honestly think this is gonna last?" Bobby scoffed, shaking his head and passing the vegetables.

"Of course I do, I know how strong my relationship is. What the hell do you expect me to say, do, think, or feel if Aaron and I get married, and my family's feuding with the groom - "

"I beg your pardon?" Edward snapped, making the table go silent. "You're gonna marry this bloke?"

"No, Daddy, he hasn't proposed or anything, but we have been together almost 7 years" you explained. "I just used it as an example. Aaron's going to be in my life for a long time, I'd really appreciate everyone getting along."

"I think that's reasonable," Crystal smiled.

"Oh, shove it, nobody asked you," Linda sneered.

"Could you maybe not be a raging bitch for five minutes?" Edward snapped, dropping the cutlery with a loud clatter. "Don't talk to her like that - "

"The trollop doesn't get an opinion on family affairs!"

"Now that we're married," he held up his left hand, golden band visible, "she does get an opinion. It's your newest toy that shouldn't talk!"

"I didn't even say anything, mate," Toby scoffed.

"I'm not your 'mate', silly boy - "

The table erupted in a busy and loud argument, you slumping back into your chair; listening to your siblings attempt to resolve the feud. You thanked yourself for making the conscious decision to have this little dinner party at home instead of a restaurant; knowing Linda and Edward were never able to resist a good screaming match, even if in public. You sipped your wine mutely, eyes darting back and forth between either sides of the table.

However, they were silenced when there came a pounding at your front door. Three distinct, punctuated knocks of a fist, your mind instantly jumping to thinking it was the police - nobody else knocked like that. You went rigid instantly, brow furrowing, your father asking, "Expecting more company, honey?"

"No," you shook your head, already out of your seat and heading for the door - when suddenly - it was kicked in. Your scream was shrill from shock. The force of the violent entry splintered the doorframe; knob colliding with drywall, indenting it from the jarring movement. You yelped in shock, trying to back up, but there came a flood of armed men that instantly rushed you. You were only briefly aware of chairs scraping on hardwood floor as your family leapt up in shock.

Long gone was the argument, your family mutually screaming in fear.

These intruders yelled in Russian, fanning out to gather you and your family in harsh grips; shoving everyone into the living room. You were forced to sit down, at least one armed man posted for each of you, the others spreading out and searching the flat.

"What's happening? What the hell is happening!?" Mabel squeaked through her huffy breath, the men exchanging a few words before one stepped forward with his gun drawn at the ready. "Please, there's some mistake! Please, please, why are you - what is happening!? You can't do this! We only - "

"You," one of the intruders spoke with a heavy accent and a thick, pointed finger, "quiet." From his utility belt, the Russian produced several zip ties, demanding, "Hands. Hands, together! Now! You understand, eh!? Hands! Your hands! Now! Right now!"

Another henchman barked in Russian, telling you to comply or things would get messy. "Just do what they say," you whispered, pressing your wrists together and presenting them. They were secured tightly, your parents, their partners, and siblings enduring the same, and by the time the last zip was tied, the other henchmen returned.

You identified what was reported: "He's not here, no trace where he went."

"No, hmmm," mused the man obviously in charge, "well, that's all right, his girlfriend is right here." Your eyes widened as the Russian turned to look at you with a sadistic smirk. "Heard he's real protective of you, likes you a lot. Huh? Heard he once broke a man's collarbone for just looking at you - must be very important, yeah. What do you think he will do when he finds you - ruined?"

"You're not gonna do anything," you seethed between gritted teeth, "because you know he'd kill you all. Now, there's been no harm done so far, so there's time to walk away and I'll guarantee he or his brother won't come after you."

The Russian chuckled, "Oh-ho! Hear that, boys? Good old Tangerine's domesticated now. Takes orders from his bitch, and boy, she likes to bark!" Other henchmen chuckled, a few picking at the abandoned dinner. "I think it's time we send him our message, no?" The leader grinned to his men, earning a chorus of agreement.

Your eyes widened when the man lunged forward and yanked you to your feet, yellowed teeth gnashing in your face. "Whole family can watch!" Another intruder barked, curating a wave of laughter, "Call it, uh, bonding? Trauma bonding?"

"Oh, I like that," the leader of the kill squad grinned.

You gasped when the Russian balled his fist and socked you directly in the diaphragm; winding you, bending you at the waist, and giving him the vantage point to rocket his fist upwards into your nose. There was a sickly snap, you whimpering when a different Russian shoved you from behind and forced you to your knees; three different men joining the relentless and savage beating. You were kicked, punched, breaking several bones, being spat on, shoved over, and made to bleed your own blood. Though you hadn't wanted to, wanting to appear strong and unfazed, you cried out when the pain became too much; heaving for breath and praying the next kick to the head was enough to knock you unconscious.

But you weren't so lucky and wishful thinking was simply that: wishful, not applied or actual. Your family begged and pleaded for mercy, flinching when you spat blood on numerous occasions; shoes squeaking when they stepped in the globs. Everyone helpless and powerless in the current predicament, no hero to swoop in and save the day; your family knowing they were yelling into thin air and their words fell upon deaf ears. They could only watch and listen as you took the brunt end of three angry Russian's brute strength.

The leader had lit up a cigarette, watching his men physically assault you with an air of entertainment and aloofness. This went on for several long, agonizing minutes; you eventually going limp. "Hm," he waved his hand through the smoke, inhaling nicotine, "enough, boys, that's enough. She gets it, she gets we mean business." His men complied and backed away from you, letting the leader kneel at your head on blood-smeared hardwood floor. "You tell Tangerine and Lemon who did this, huh? Yeah? You tell them for me."

You spat blood in the Russian's face, smirking in satisfaction when it hung off his nose in a humiliating display of your stubbornness.

"Ah, I see," he wiped the blood clear, regarding it on his hand before bare-knuckle punching your head back into the ground. You were instantly dazed, groaning, the man continuing, "Now that you got that out of your system, you will remember my name. Huh? Ivan, yes? You remember that? Ivan. Fucking Ivan Kostka, you tell Tangerine and Lemon Ivan Kostka did this."

"The fuck does it matter who you are!?" You whimpered, eyes burning and being kept screwed tight. "You're a deadman walking, nobody cares about your fucking name except whoever inscribes your tombstone."

"Because your fruity boyfriend and his twin took something very valuable from me," the Russian leered, "and I have come to collect it back into my possession. You tell them, Ivan did this to you. I want them to know they are not untouchable - not to me. Not to my men. Tangerine can try to protecting you all he wants, but there will always be a time and place to act." Then, he laughed, "Know how easy it was for us to get here? Huh? Bit too easy, I admit. See, we picked up Tangerine's trail and followed him here. All we had to do was be patient for our opportunity."

"Who the fuck is Tangerine?" John was heard whispering to the others, a series of shrugs replying. The Russian gave a new command and several men divided to use their weapons to wreck the flat you called home; tearing up pillows, smashing spider-web cracks to the windows, tossing plates and mugs, overturning a bookcase, throwing expensive crystal glasses to watch the shards scatter.

Ivan continued to explain, "Your stupid fucking family talk so loud, eh, it is miracle they are not in witness protection, huh? We see them at your door, and when you opened for them, oh, it was easy to, ehhh, just follow them inside. Yeah? And now, here we are," he smirked. "I am sorry about this, though. You've such a pretty face, I almost don't want t'taint it," he pet a finger down your bloodied cheek.

"Go to hell!" You hissed.

"Oh, I will be when the Reaper comes for me. Remember, tell Tangerine it was Ivan... Ivan Kostka did this," he gestured to your tattered form, "and that I want my Faberge Egg and little sister back or this will get a lot worse for everyone involved."

You coughed as the man stood, whistling sharply and commanding his men to follow. The moment they were gone, as your family erupted in panicked screams, Mabel raced for the kitchen and snatched up a knife from the counter. Returning, your sister carefully uncut everyone's ties, your mother gasping and dropping to her knees when freed.

"What have you gotten us into, you stupid girl!?" She cried, massaging her constricted wrists.

You manage to mumble before passing out, "Call Brian."

Tangerine and Lemon had been on their own stakeout, tracking a gang of Russians accused of money laundering. He had forgotten to put his phone on the charger the night before, it dying and being left behind at his flat; so when there came a vibration, he knew it was Lemon's phone.

He hate the sound of the vibrations in the cupholder. "Oi, gonna fuckin' answer that?" Tangerine snapped, staring out the windshield.

"Uh, bruv?" Lemon turned the phone for Tan to see, guessing, "It's for you, I'm sure." The contact name displayed your home number.

Tangerine sighed and accepted the call with it on speaker, "Yeah, hello? Love? That you?"

"A-Aaron?"

"Linda?" Tan questioned in curiosity, hearing your mother's soft sob. "What's goin' on? What's wrong? Why're you calling? Where's Y/N?"

"Th-There's been an accident."

"What kind of accident?"

"The kind that involve angry Russians looking for some egg and someone's little sister? I don't know - "

"Oh, fuck me! Don't move, we're on our way," he rushed, hanging up. "Oi, fuck this, mate, get us back home," he barked at his brother, "we gotta get back now. Like right fucking now!"

"We can't just - "

"What? Leave our post?" Tan snapped. "Brian, you know where we are right now?"

He glanced outside, "Uh... Little Italy?"

"Fuckin' wanker," Aaron snapped. "No, this shipping yard is owned by the Kostka's - Russian crime family. You heard Linda, means the tip tonight was a set up t'get us away from the flat. They probably moved while we were absent. Now, c'mon, fucking hustle!"

Lemon connected the dots and started the engine, peeling away at a dangerous speed to navigate the city back to the high-rise apartment you and Tan shared. He couldn't explain why, but Tangerine could feel his heart in his throat; a sick feeling taking over at the thought of the Russians setting this entire thing up.

Why send he and Lemon to stakeout the shipping yard? Why remove them from the equation?

Upon arriving at the shattered front door, both men in pressed clothes came to a jarring halt, taking in the sight. The flat was a wreck, literal feathers from pillows still floating in the air, their dress shoes cracking over shattered glass.

Tan caught sight of your hunched body sitting on the couch. "Right, the fuck is this, then?" He demanded, striding up to where your family had surrounded you. "The hell happened? Swear t'God, I'll put a bullet... In... Whoever..." He trailed, pausing when he saw your state. Tangerine slowly squatted in front of you, gently trying to coax your chin up, "Lemme see, darlin', c'mon, c'mon, lemme see, c'mere."

When you met his baby blues, you could only watch as tears filled them - knowing they'd never fall. "I'm sorry," you whispered, throat soar from the beating; making you sound a lot hoarser than ever before.

"For what? You did nothing, love, nothing - couldn't have deserved this, now could yah?" He rushed to comfort, caressing your jaw in both hands to look you over. There was a long gash in your hairline that dripped racing drops of blood down your face. "This is my fault, I know it is, God fucking damn it. Who the fuck did this? Hey? You remember, darling? Remember anythin' 'bout these men?" But you were silent from shock. So, he addressed the room by barking, "Does anyone? What the hell happened here, tonight!?"

Your father cleared his throat before knocking back the last swig of his whiskey. "These Russian fuckers," Ed answered. "Big lot of 'em, too, all with scary lookin' tattoos and fucking guns. Some were automatic." He eyed your boyfriend, "Associates of yours?"

"Fucking hell," Tangerine looked up at his brother, "think they want the Faberge back?"

Lemon frowned, "Possibly, but that's only if - "

"Ivan," you whispered suddenly, Tangerine and Lemon both looking back at you in mild shock. "He said his name was Ivan and he wanted you two t'know there was no hiding from him. He wants back whatever it is you two took."

"Yeah, they want the fucking Egg," Tangerine's jaw flexed as he glared at the floor, sighing deeply, and then looking back at you. "Hey," he whispered, "I'm just glad you're alive and well-enough. Yeah? You're my priority, sweetheart, nothing else matters."

You sniffled, "I'm okay."

"Like hell you are," he shook his head, gently prodding around your bruised face and sighing, "look at yah. You're definitely not okay, sweetheart. Right, then, listen, we'll go to a safe house for the time being - "

"A what?" John asked incredulously.

"A safe house," Lemon repeated, "you know? Somewhere not on record to let us hide discreetly?"

"I know what it is - but why go?"

"Can't stay here, mate, it's compromised," Tan answered with a hardened tone. "Now, you gonna fuckin' stand there, questioning me, or go be useful and get ready to leave?"

"Tan," his brother offered softly, "lay off, they just watched our girl get the shit kicked outta her."

Tan nodded and looked back at you, "Yeah, all right, sorry, love, just a bit on edge. But I'm gonna fix this - "

Robert (or Bobby, he's also known as), scoffed a sarcastic laugh, arms crossed, approaching you and Tangerine. "You takin' the piss? Your fuckin' job is leadin' men t'my sister, breakin' in her own home, givin' her a beatin' meant for you, yah fuckin' twat! Yet that's all you got to say to us? That you're on edge?"

"What'chu want, then, bruv?" Tan snapped, standing to face Bobby. "Huh? Call it an occupational hazard, but just 'cause you wanna bring it up, know that we ain't never had no situation like this before. All right? Excuse us for tryna piece it best together."

"My fuckin' sister's still bleedin', and you're, what? Makin' it up as you go?" Bobby snarled. "You owe us a plan! Somethin'! Fuckin' anythin'! How the fuck are you gonna rectify this situation?"

Tan's mouth opened, ready to retort.

"All right, all right, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, no, no, quit it, cut it out, yah fucking ninnies!" Lemon stepped between them and forced distance between the two men. "That shit ain't gonna help us right now. We all need to think clearly, so let's try not to wind one another up. Yeah? Fair?"

"Fuck you," Bobby spat, "fuck the both of yahs, you're both responsible! Puttin' my sister in harms way! Fuckin' look at her!" He snarled and pointed, "Shakin' like a fuckin' leaf!"

"Yeah, all right, you what, mate?" Tan sneered.

"I'm not your mate."

"I'll just fuckin' handle this on my own - "

"Like hell you are," His brother interrupted. "They fucked with our family, ain't nowhere for them to hide."

Tangerine nodded, then asked, "How many men were here would you say? Ballpark number." It was quiet. "Someone better answer me!"

Linda sneered, "Some 12 or 15 men, most of whom carried assault rifles. Anything you wanna tell us, Aaron? Huh? Why were these men searching for you? What'd you do that was so bad, they hurt my little girl?"

Your boyfriend nodded and looked to his brother, stiffly nodding and stoically demanding, "Let's get fuckin' Biblical, then, yeah?"

Brian clicked his tongue and winked at his brother in agreement, Crystal handing you a bag of frozen peas to hold against your head.

"You're sure it's safe?" You whispered, holding onto your boyfriend like a crutch as you exited the elevator.

"They didn't want our protection, love, 'cause the Russians are after us," Tan answered. "Easy does it," he whispered, opening the door to the safe 'house' he and Lemon kept in downtown London - not terribly far from your actual flat. "At's a good girl, slowly - slowly," he kept one arm around you, the other holding the door for Lemon, who carried several duffels. "Right, see? Nice, ain't it?"

You nodded, still relatively drugged from the hospital you just left. After begging them to come with you, your family outright refused, saying Tangerine and Lemon were bad news and they wanted no part in whatever bullshit was happening; even though it meant leaving you alone. So, Lemon packed up the flat while Tan took you to the hospital, meeting again at the skyscraper that doubled as a fortress.

"Here we are," he sighed, lowering you to the couch; left wrist in a cast, a brace on your ankle, concussion, bandages and gauze stuck to random open wounds that required stitches. "Right," he knelt in front of you, "you saw the lobby, yeah? Ain't nobody gettin' in here without clearance, you're safe. Yeah?" He pushed a strand of hair from your face, hating how it was still crisp from dried blood.

"Okay," you whispered with a nod.

Aaron sighed, "I'm so sorry, love."

"Not your fault."

"But it is," he frowned, "'s all my fuckin' fault."

"Did you really take a Faberge Egg?"

"It's what our employer wanted, so... Yeah. Apparently, it was a right dime piece, thought lost in one of the wars. Very exclusive - "

"Most expensive Egg made," Brian added, dropping a couple of the duffels. "And it's not in our possession anymore, love."

"Fuck would we do with Faberge?" Aaron rolled his eyes.

"Hock it," his brother answered, bringing grocery bags into the kitchen and setting them on the counters.

"And the sister?" You asked, eye once being nearly swollen shut now just red and irritated; looking at him with profound sadness. "What happened to Ivan's sister?"

Aaron sighed, wiping a hand down his face, "She was placed in witness protection, she's an informant f'MI6 and Interpol. They want her 'cause she's been spillin' secrets, gettin' business all topsy-turvy."

"They wanna kill her?"

"Seems so," he nodded, smoothing his hands over both your thighs, "but don't you worry 'bout nothin', yeah? We'll handle this."

"How?"

"We've got a couple calls to make," he alluded, standing to his full height but bending at the waist to kiss your forehead gently. "Try to rest, love, we'll be here a bit."

You nodded and watched him stride out of the living room, grabbing one of the duffel bags Lemon had dropped and brought it to the glass dining room table. He ripped it open as you sunk into the plush fabric of the pillows, but perked up when Brian came into sight. "Here, darling," he set a mug of tea to the granite coffee table in front of you, "just a bit of something for your nerves, yeah? You all right? Need anything? A pain pill, maybe? You look uneasy."

"I'm all right," you promised, trying to smile, but it came out as a grimace.

"Mhm," he sent you a look, grabbing the pharmacy bag. "Don't be a hero, just keep yourself afloat. Here," he handed you a little, round, white pill and the tea. "Bottoms up, huh?"

You half-chuckled and did what he said, settling again as he grabbed a blanket and tossed it over you. "How often are you two here?" You asked.

"Ah, usually when we're doin' recon," he answered, handing over the remote. "All the streamin' you could want," he winked, pointing at the TV.

"Oi, mate," your boyfriend called, "thinkin' we should call Kiwi?"

"To stay with her?" He asked, caressing the top of your head affectionately; grabbing another duffel and meet his brother at the table. The London Eye was visible from the window, creating a picturesque scene.

"Yeah," Tan answered, "she's good company, ain't she? Handy with a gun. Usually shoots first, asks questions later."

Brian shrugged, "Couldn't hurt. But I think we need t'call Moss... See what he and The Agency can tell us 'bout Ivan."

"On it," Aaron agreed, rapidly typing on a nondescript laptop. But he paused suddenly, looking up and asking, "You gave her a pain pill?"

"Yeah."

"She should eat with it..."

"I'm right here, you know!" You snapped. "I can hear you!"

"I know, doll, sorry," Aaron sighed, going to the kitchen and grabbing you trail mix - knowing opioids gave you the munchies. "Here, love, just wanna make sure you stay all right," he handed the bag over, dropping to the spot beside you with a heavy sigh. "Listen, uh, we're gonna have some of the lads come over t'help."

"Who?"

"Well, Kiwi's a lass, but she works with us sometimes. She's handy t'have 'round inna pinch. That all right?"

"I'm not one for much company right now," you frowned.

"Nah, don't worry, she'll entertain herself," he chuckled slightly, eyes darting around to take in your appearance. In a low whisper, he breathed, "I'm so sorry this happened."

"You've said that," you half-smiled, placing an M&M at his lips. He accepted the treat. "We knew something was bound to happen eventually, right?"

"Not like this, this ain't acceptable," he shook his head. "Lookit, Ivan's one of them nasty fuckers, traffics narcotics into the country using a series of shipping yards. He's got a whole army at his fingertips, plenty of money t'sustain an all out war if he wants."

"When was the last time you dealt with this guy?"

Lemon joined you two, sitting on the other side of the L-shaped couch. He worked on the laptop now, but sent a look to Aaron that begged him to lie. But often, Tangerine never could to you, so, he told the truth, "Last we saw him was some 6 years ago."

Your head cocked, "That's when we first started dating."

"Yeah," he smirked, stretching his arm around you to bring you in close for both your comforts. "Remember that week you couldn't get ahold of me? I told yah I was on some bloody fishing trip?"

"Mhm."

"We were in Colombia, fuckin' up part of his operation."

Your eyes widened, "Colombia? You mean, this Russian's in league with South America? The cocaine capital of the world?"

"Yeah," he sighed, "but it's taken him apparently this long to get shit straightened out - else he would've come sooner."

"Or he was waitin' until our guard was down," Brian chimed in, rapidly tapping on the laptop. "Intel says... Ivan's been in the country 'bout 3 months."

"And before that?"

"Uh... Looks like... Ah, fuckin' hell, he was in Spain, Portugal, Nicaragua, even fuckin' Trinidad."

"Sounds like he's made some friends," Tangerine frowned. You nestled a little closer, his arm contracting to squeeze you tight. "Send word t'Kiwi and Moss, ask Moss t'bring only The Jailbird."

"Who the fuck - you know what? I don't want t'know," you whispered.

"The Jailbird is a brutal fucker," Lemon chuckled, typing faster, "took out an entire fright train by himself with a single shotgun and only a couple rounds of ammo."

"Brian," Tan warned, shaking his head.

"What? 'S not like she's gonna say shit, you picked the most loyal girl in the world," he grinned, winking at you. "Right, love?"

"Mhm."

"That pain pill kicking in yet?"

"Not yet," you yawned.

"Right," your lover chuckled, handing over the mug of tea, "we've got some work t'do, you sit tight. Need somethin', anythin', just ask. Please," he frowned, "don't try t'get up."

"All right," you whispered, lifting your chin slightly with intent. He smiled and met you the rest of the way, pressing a gentle kiss to your split lips.

The lads went back to the glass table, setting up a network of tools and technology, muttering to one another as they did what they knew to gather as much information as possible.

About an hour later, there was a knock at the door that made you flinch. "It's all right," Tangerine rushed, but pulled his gun in hand, "probably Kiwi - "

"It's me, fuckers!" A female called from the other side.

Your boyfriend checked through the peephole and sighed, holstering his gun and opening the door. "Kiwi," he greeted.

"Tangerine," she rolled her eyes, strolling into the flat with her arms full of food. "I brought lunch! Know you fuckers aren't payin' attention to time and shit. Oh!" She grinned when she saw you, "Oh, my word, you're her! Wow, you're even prettier in person! You know, Aaron's told me all about you - "

"Fuck off," Tan snapped.

"Fuck you," she sent right back, "been askin' t'meet your lady for years now, now I finally get to."

"I wish it were under better circumstances," you offered softly, watching the lass with stark white hair round into the living room to set coffee cups and paper bags down.

"Oh, hi, hello, you gorgeous girl," she grinned, sitting next to you and hugging you softly. You were shocked, eyes wide, but hugged her back. "Oh, it's real nice to meet yah, heard all about'cha!"

"Really?" You asked when she pulled back, "'Cause I didn't know a thing about you until an hour ago."

"Makes sense," her eyes rolled, "them two never talk 'bout shit. Makes 'em good agents, but shit lovers. Huh?"

"I'd have to disagree," you smiled softly, defending your love.

"Yeah," she grinned, "knew I'd like you. Lemon!" She greeted in a cheer, standing swiftly to set one coffee cup out for you and take the rest over to the table.

"Hi, Key," he chuckled, offering her a hug. "Lookin' fit, aren't yah?"

"Just got back from a 6 month stint in the DR," she nodded.

"R&R or mandatory?"

"Rehab," she shrugged casually, "but not for me."

"Makes no bloody sense," Tan rolled his eyes.

"I was there, cozyin' up t'fucking Francisco Juarez."

"No fuckin' shit," Lemon laughed. "How was that?"

"The man's mental, but shit, he's got some balls of steel."

"Jesus Christ," Tan groaned. "Can we focus, please? Where's Moss? Anyone heard from him?"

"Mh," Kiwi nodded, swallowing a mouthful of coffee as you gingerly reached for your own; trying not to strain the shattered ribs you earned. "He called me on my way here, said he was on his way, just had to pick something up."

Lemon and Tangerine shared a look as Kiwi practically skipped back over to you. She happily struck up a conversation, telling you all about how she first met Aaron and Brian on some recon mission in Moscow - the three apparently all tracking Ivan. So, no wonder she was asked to assist on this little mission.

The man named Moss arrived not long after, dropping another duffel in the foyer and silently approaching Tangerine and Lemon. Kiwi waved the behavior off, whispering, "That's one of the bosses. Not a man of many words, just a man of action, yeah?"

You nodded in understanding, accepting the Tylenol she handed you and answering her 20,000 questions. You heard the three men muttering together, papers shuffling over the tabletop and the laptop dinging every time there was new information.

"Oh, holy shit," Lemon gaped at the screen, earning everyone's attention. "You lot aren't gonna believe this."

"What's wrong?" Moss asked, moving to his shoulder and peering over to look at the laptop. "Well... Ain't that interesting?"

"What?" Kiwi asked.

"Looks like Ivan's here for some wedding..." Lemon muttered, tapping on the return key repeatedly. "No shit!"

"WHAT!?" Kiwi snapped, making you flinch. She instantly apologized, "Oh, shit, sorry, sorry, sorry, love, I get a bit excited when outta the loop."

"Ivan's sister's gettin' married," Moss reported, "to the Minister of Defense."

It was quiet for a long moment, the agents stewing in shock. "Well, that can't be good," you whispered to Kiwi.

"Not entirely, just means our jobs got a helluva lot more exciting, though," she grinned, dropping a wink.

Three days. Three bloody days, you've been confined to the safe house. You were under strict orders not to leave out of fear of retaliation, so you remained for Aaron's peace of mind.

Moss, Tangerine, Lemon, and Kiwi were preoccupied focusing on their plan of attack. They figured there be an altercation at the engagement party, designing a trustworthy team to help them infiltrate and keep an eye. The day of the party, you were curled up in bed, reading to pass the time, and when you noticed Tangerine leaning in the doorway, your book snapped shut.

"How long you gonna keep me here?" You asked. "Some of us have day jobs they need to get back to."

He smirked, "I covered for yah."

"How?"

"Said you had a funeral t'go to in the States," he eased, pushing off the doorframe and approaching your side of the bed. He grunted as he sat, sighing deeply, "Listen, sweetheart..."

"Oh, that's never good."

"Just listen," he smirked. "Tonight's the engagement party, so we're gonna make our move."

"Are you sure Ivan's gonna be there? That this is what needs done?"

"We got it worked out, love," he promised. "Just need yah t'stay here with Kiwi. Keep safe, yeah?"

You stared at him for a moment, cocking your head slightly, "Been meaning to ask - why refer to each other's codenames when alone, like we are?"

"Good habit t'have," Aaron shrugged, caressing your head and then petting a finger down your cheek softly. "Hate leavin' you like this, but I'm gonna kill the fuckers that dared touch you."

"I'm not usually one for violence or revenge, but in this case, go crazy."

He nodded and stood with a smirk, stooping slightly to press his lips against yours. There was a solemn tension in the air, foreheads pressed together to breathe the same air, him whispering, "Love you, darlin'."

"Love you, too," you answered instantly. "Just make sure you come home, yeah?"

"As quick as I can," he swore.

You learned that day, you hated waiting. You despised being out of the know, having no connection to tell you what was happening on Aaron's side of things. Kiwi was a great distraction, though. She was chipper, talkative, wildly animated; sharing a joint with you, ordering take out that a security guard brought up, and making you watch all her favorite movies.

She checked her phone several times, eventually, you begging, "Any word?"

"Nah, don't worry," Kiwi smiled, "they usually don't give updates when on the job."

Unknown to you, on the other side of town, Tangerine and Lemon were changing into suits the hotel waiters would wear to serve the engagement party. Moss was in a nondescript white van, working surveillance, informing in the headset, "The Jailbird's in position."

"So are we," Lemon reported, nodding at his brother. "Ready, bruv?"

"It's gonna get messy," he nodded, cracking his neck and leading the charge into the event room with trays of champagne. He surveyed the room subtly, seeing The Jailbird working the catering table in a matching suit, and when the couple of the hour entered, it was showtime. However, before springing into action, the trio of trained and paid assassins had to wait for the first move else they'd blow their cover and alert Ivan they were onto him.

The future bride's name was once something traditionally Russian, now choosing to be Veronica, and her soon-to-be-husband, Gerald, was the very man who had established her witness protection. It was romantic, in a way, that the two fell in love; being naughty and a little forbidden, yet still tantalizing. Their families filled the room with the groom's colleagues, security lining the walls - yet being unable to do anything if the Russians decided to attack.

However, the moment Tangerine saw Ivan, he went rigid with anger. "Mate, hang on, don't do it - we have a plan for a reason," Lemon tried to warn, but sighed hotly when his brother stormed off. Into the comms system, he warned, "Heads up, lads, Tangerine's on the move. 'S bouta get real sticky, people, stay sharp."

Tangerine surged up behind Ivan, who was dressed similarly and indicating he, too, was undercover at this event. Tan felt his face redden with anger, tapping Ivan's shoulder, and when the Russian turned, he didn't hesitate to pull his fist back and launch it directly into Ivan's nose. It was the first punch thrown (literally) that spurred the other Russians into action.

People shrieked, heels clattered to flee, and security guards rushed to cover their employers; not knowing who the desired target was. Luck didn't seem on their side that evening as security managed to get Gerald out of the hall, but his fiancé, Ivan's sister, was separated in the stampeding crowd; gunshots making patrons scream in concern.

In their comms, Moss barked, "Veronica! Someone cover Veronica! She's the informant - get to Veronica!"

The Jailbird flipped the catering table to reveal several heavy-duty guns strapped for this very moment. He and Lemon made their selections, Tan preferring his fist; someway, somehow, missing getting shot by Ivan's men. But the Russian gangster was just as angry, fending off Tangerine and even getting a few punches in himself. All for nought, though, because Tangerine had the power of his anger propelling him; your face conjured in his mind, bloodied, making him hit harder - and harder - and harder.

"You! Dirty! Fuckin'! Scum!" Tan punctuated each word with a blow of his fist, keeping Ivan in his grip like a vice. "C'mere! You've done it now, haven't yah, you fuckin' bastard? Fucked up by touchin' my woman! I'll fuckin' gut you!"

Ivan's elbow cracked Tan's nose, making him stumble back a few steps. The Russian grinned, blood outlining his teeth, "She was real pretty, wasn't she, eh? I tried to leave her face for yah! Didn't wanna fuck that up too bad!"

"C'mere!" Tangerine roared, knuckles bloody. However, as he was winding up for another hit, one of Ivan's men tackled Tan from the side and knocked him into a banquet table - collapsing it.

The Russians were in an abundance, yet stood no chance when Tangerine got ahold of a handgun. The Jailbird preferred the larger shotgun, blowing gargantuan holes in people's chests; Lemon keeping it simple and just doing his job by taking out the enemy. It was Tan who was absolutely feral, sprayed in the blood of his enemies and sparing no life he came across; the party's occupants screaming in terror and trying to flee the event hall between gunshots.

"Tan!" The Jailbird barked, pointing off at someone, and when he looked, Tan locked onto Ivan again. The Jailbird located Veronica, trying to save her, but being unsuccessful when a Russian got to her first - disappearing from his line of sight as the chaos rampaged.

Growling, Tangerine started firing single shots to the heads of anyone in his way of his main target, but this time, the Russian saw him coming and was plenty prepared. The blade Ivan used cut Tan deep, filleting flesh; but did not stop the man wanting to avenge his love.

Bodies hit the floor left and right as Tangerine's anger swelled, there not being a single force in the world that could stop him now. Whatever Tan could get his hands on turned into a weapon, finding every single Russian responsible for what happened to you - the love and light of his life.

The engagement party was decorated with white table cloths and white roses, now stained and splattered in blood the longer the fight went. The musicians of the live band had fled, security encountering the Russian that had Veronica and shooting him dead, food covering the walls. Moss had tapped into the security cameras, informing his men when more Russians were racing towards the room; grunting when he threw off his headset, grabbed a gun, and left the van to take out anyone trying to get inside.

Lemon did his best to cover Tangerine's six, but the Russians kept coming in waves; far more prepared than they were that evening. Yet it didn't matter, their numbers might've been high but the anger Tangerine and Lemon felt was a gift from God Himself, spurring them to work harder and smarter.

Once inside, Moss brought The Jailbird to higher ground and strategically shot down their enemies while Lemon and Tangerine operated on the ground. When face-to-face with Ivan, Tan seethed, "You waited 6 years for a shot at me, would've thought you'd try harder."

"Don't need to," Ivan laughed, "I already got you!"

"Didn't get shit - "

"That why your girl's all alone? Don't worry, lad, I sent some boys to go deal with her. C'mon, then!" Ivan taunted, waving Tan in an antagonizing motion, weilding the 6-inch blade. As the two exchanged blows, Ivan laughed, "Never told me! Did you like my li'l gift? How I left your girl?"

Tangerine grit his teeth and used a chair to bash the Russian over his head. "I'll fucking gut you for touching her!" He shouted, people still squealing and screaming in fright.

"You stole my inheritance! That Faberge Egg's been in my family for generations!" Ivan roared, "And my fucking sister! If not for you," he grunted, taking a hacking swipe and missing, "she never would've opened her mouth!"

"Your sister, mate, fuckin' hates your guts!" Tan barked, kicking Ivan back and sending him crashing through a table. "She would've spoke even if we hadn't picked her up!"

"Bullshit!" Ivan snarled, swinging and his blade catching Tan's bicep, slicing shirt and flesh. "My sister knew loyalty! Until you rotten fucks showed up, kidnapping her, confusing her! Fucking brainwashing her!"

"She's the one who hired us, mate!"

"Liar!"

Tangerine earned the upper hand by flipping Ivan onto his back, dropping to his knees, and wailing his fist into the Russian's face. He kept hitting him, even when Ivan stopped moving; flesh tearing, meat flying, bones breaking, and blood spurting in every which direction.

Blood painted his face, droplets racing down to create streaks.

At the safe house, Kiwi was making tea when there came a series of distant banging from outside the flat's door. She met your worried eyes and pulled out a gun, holding a finger to her lips to indicate you to stay quiet. She checked the in-house security system, spying a few Russian Mafia members fighting through the security guards and getting closer.

"Right," she rushed, helping you off the couch, "you gotta hide and stay quiet, love, I'll handle this quickly."

"Handle what? What's going on?"

"They're here."

"A-Are we safe?"

"For now."

"Are the lads!?"

"We'll find out!" Kiwi stuffed you inside one of the closets, assuring, "No worries, I'll handle them, you just stay here. Aaron would kill me if he knew something happened to you on my watch."

You didn't even have time to register that she used his real name; finding no choice in the matter as she shut the doors, and through the slats, watched her brandish a gun. You flinched when you made out the sounds of a struggle and then several gunshots, not knowing who fired them, who was being shot at, or what was happening.

Tears of fear filled your eyes, holding your breath and just waiting with trembling appendages. You hated waiting. You hated not knowing. You hated the tension, the fear, the cultivation of stress.

When the doors ripped open, you gasped shrilly and stepped back into the wall, but calmed when you realized it was only Aaron. And then you realized - it was Aaron!

"Baby," you gasped, leaping into his embrace out of sheer relief; arms wrapping around his neck and being dampened with blood. "Oh, my God, oh, my God, you're okay - you're okay, you're really okay."

"Yeah, 's all right, love," he rushed, one arm holding your waist, the other petting the back of your head. "I'm all right, 's all right, I'm here. I've got yah, love, I'm here now. They're all dead, they're all dead, my love, we got 'em all, you're safe, it's all right. Nobody will touch you again - never again, sweetheart."

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" You sniffled, pulling back to take both his cheeks in hand and frowning, "Is this blood!?"

"Yeah," he whispered, gently taking your wrists to pull your hands down. "But it's all right, 's not mine. I'm not hurt." He didn't let you answer, rushing, "Are you all right? Hey? Not hurt?"

"No, no, Kiwi - she protected me," you nodded, sniffling. "Where is she? Is she all right!?" You suddenly panicked, but Tangerine shushed you gently.

"She's fine, love, she's safe. Not a single scratch on her. Had most of the Russians down and out by the time we got back."

"And Brian?"

"Lemon's fine," he promised softly, "just cleanin' up in the other bathroom. Which," he smirked gently, "we should probably do the same. C'mon."

You agreed, hating the sight of blood on your man. When in the shower together, you got a look of the cuts and bruises he earned that night; knowing that despite him being the reason you were attacked, he was also the man who would protect you from anything and anyone. No matter the cost.

There was nowhere you were safer.

Watching you wash his wounds in spite of your own, Tangerine realized he didn't need to ask your father for permission - he was gonna marry you. Come hell or high water, there wasn't anything or anyone - be it Edward or Ivan - that could keep him from loving you the rest of his life.

requesting rules and masterlist

Bullet Train masterlist

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reverieaa · 1 year

Text

A change of clothes.

Man's biggest misconception is believing that manifestation is physical, that it's your job to make sure those manifestations show up.

If they don't, you're told to persist, think about it more, affirm robotically, try harder, and as a result, you end up walking in a trap of repeating and failing that many of us were victim of.

Then you tell yourself you're probably imaging it wrong, you're not affirming enough or maybe you're just not enough for your desires.

But this is NOT what loa is, not what Nevielle was teaching and not what Edward art is explaining.

When we say assume that you have your desire, we're talking about the 4d. It's only in your inner world where you can make things happen.

The law isn't about changing uour surroundings, it's about changing you because that's all there is.

I mentioned in my previous post that when I admitted to myself that I can't manifest, I felt this freedom within me, that's because I stopped forcing myself and stopped trying to find a way to make things happen.

Many of us keep the 3d alive because we're looking for an answer, but what you need to realize is thag you can't, you as the outer man, can't make a brand new face, you can't fly and you can't make things show up out of thin air.

But in your imagination you can do all of these things can't you? You can change your face, you can fly as high as you want, you can manifest in 5 sec, you can go to sleep jn New York and wake up in Paris.

That is the inner man, that is who you are, and that means you've been manifesting successfully this entire time.

The problem is not how vivildy you imagine, how much emotion you put into it, how much you affirm, it's what you pay attention to and feel to be the truth.

When people say they get results in 5sec, they do in the inner world, assumption can only live in the inner world, that's the only responsibility.

With me saying that you can't do something in this community, you'd believe it's a lie because loa bloggers always tell you there's nothing you can't do.

But you need to accept that yhe outer man is powerless, you as the outer man can do nothing, unlike the inner man.

By doing this, you let go of the 3D because the the outer man stops looking, don't tire him and leave him be.

All you can do is accept or let go.

When you wear something you don't like and you want to change, do you change your clothes to change your reflection or do you change it to change yourself?

Start with gentle reminders throughout your day that you're free to imagine what you wish, that there is no one else but you and that what you seek is never the actual object of your desires, but the feeling of it's truthfulness, it's reality.

Many of you have terrible 3D circumstances. This does not mean you ignore your 3D but you do not react to it. Just like Edward art said, you must learn how to go on about your daily life as an observer not a reactor.

Let me ask you this, you can imagine what you want and live as you want jn your mind, and sometimes you get negative or intrusive thoughts right? And what do you normally do when you have a thought like that? You notice it and let it go the next sec right? You've observed it but you didn't occupy it, you just thought of it as a stupid thought.

Why is your 3D different from that? It's not. You notice bad things in your reality all the time, but that does not mean that you occupy ot right?

Prioritize your 4D over the 3D. It takes time when you've lived your life being taught the opposite all the time, but it can surely happen.

This way, even if you spiral, you can get back up easily because you've learned that since your reality, beating yourself up when you're down is exactly what life will show back to you.

I remember reading a certain post from @aphroditeapprenticee that I related to a lot. They said that they thought once they mastered loa they would feel like the baddest bitch in the universe but now they ende dup feeling at peace, calm and in control.

I definitely feel the same way. I thought I'd feel powerful and like no one could touch me. I tried to force that on myself, but obviously, it didn't work. Instead, through the right understanding of loa, I ended up feeling right. I don't know how to explain it, but there was this sense of euphoria in the back of my mind like everything now was alright. I felt a sense of security and treated myself with a kind of gentleness I never received before.

That is because I gave myself permission and stopped a strict mental diet of checking every thought, affirming mindlesslly like a parrot ( as nevielle would put it) and blaming myself for the 3d.

Now reading about loa does not feel like work, I get excited to read loa posts from certain bloggers that helped me understand Neville's teachings.

So, to recap this post:

your only power and responsibility you have and can have is you. There is nothing you need to change or can change, but the conception of yourself. You can only accept or deny, only feel or observe.

The way you leave the 3d alone is by leaving the outer man alone. Let him be, and don't make him go around looking for something he is too limited to see.

If you're spiraling because of it, you're either using the 3D self go look or you're using imagination to change your circumstances.

Loa isn't just a tool you use and leave once you get what you want. It's a journey that requires the death of your limited self, your previous beliefs, and the bravery to face yourself.

#loa #law of assumption #loa affirmations #affirmations #affirm and persist #neville goddard #manifesting #manifestation #void state #loa methods

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grandprixwinnerlandonorris · 8 months

Text

Paris | Pierre Gasly¹⁰

Pairings: Pierre Gasly x fem!actress!reader

Summary: Pierre comes to visit you in your hotel room, and you know what always happens when you two get together...

Warnings: smut, explicit, descriptive, fwb situation, drastic change of pace, degradation, praise, edging, delayed orgasm, dom!Pierre, orgasm denial, basically everything you can think of this story probably has it

Word count: 5058

A/N: this is several moths old and filthy! Like it's the filthiest thing I ever wrote. For the sake of the story, let's pretend Pierre's family home is in Paris, thanks. Pierre's nickname for the reader is princess so there's a lot of that.

You were in your hotel room in Paris in the middle of unpacking when you heard a knock on your door. You'd be here for several days in France to film on location and wanted to make sure your clothes didn't get wrinkled, so you hastily set down the shirt you were holding before going to answer the door, already knowing who it was.

"Hey you," you said and prompted yourself on your toes to place a kiss on his cheek and give him a hug; he awkwardly hugged you back. "Come on in." you moved aside to let him through and closed the door behind him.

He immediately grabbed your head and put his lips on yours.

"Don't give me that crap ever again, I've waited weeks to see you." he said. "Kissing my cheek and bullshit."

You let out a laugh. "Sorry, we were in the middle of the hallway, someone could see. We're both famous, you know."

"No one even knows you're here." he looked around. "Why are you even staying in a hotel anyway? I told you, you can stay at my parents' house."

"And I told you, I don't want to inconvenient them. Besides, your mom doesn't like me." you continued to unpack, busying yourself by folding shirts and putting them away.

"What?! She likes you, she just..."

"Pierre," you rolled your eyes. "You talk about me all the time, no wonder the woman hates me."

"Did she ever tell you or did something to make you think that way?" he furrowed his brows.

You abruptly stopped in your tracks upon thinking of Pascale's stern advice to not toy with Pierre's affections. That had been an awkward conversation, since you weren't exactly certain what she knew about the two of you; Pierre who always ran his mouth and risked making it seem like you were a couple. But mothers often possess insight beyond what any mortal can explain - and somehow she already knew.

"Nope." you shook your head and folded your pants. "Besides, where would I sleep? In your childhood bedroom?"

"Mm, I would very much like to see you in my childhood bedroom." he hugged you from behind. "And maybe even see you wearing one of my old jerseys in it. Just the jersey." he moved the hair on your shoulder and placed a kiss on your neck.

You lifted your shoulder up, squirming, and removed his hands from around you.

"Don't do that." your folded pants gave you a reasonable excuse to walk away from him and put them away in the closet.

"Do what?"

You turned around to face him. "That..." you gestured with your hands. "Boyfriend girlfriend stuff. We're not that."

"I missed you."

You sighed and ran a hand through your hair. He walked closer to you.

"Haven't you missed me?" he placed his hands on both sides of your neck, his thumbs running across your jaw. "Huh, princess?"

"I have." you tiptoed to close the gap between you.

His lips captured yours in an instant. His hands moved to cup your face and bring you even closer. The warmth of his mouth reminded you just how much you craved him. Your hands reached for the collar of his shirt and knotted into fists there. He kissed you slowly and gently, your tongues tangled together, but it was not gentleness you wanted. Not from him, never from him. You opened your mouth to deepen the kiss, but he only groaned softly into it, slowing you down.

"Slowly, princess." he whispered over your lips. "I want you to tell me just how much you missed me. To show me just how much..." his lips brushed all over your face. "To tell me, where you missed me the most." he rested his forehead on yours, his thumbs caressing your cheeks.

You sucked in your lips and let out a shaky breath. "My..." you swallowed. "My neck..."

You didn't have to tell him twice to move his head to the side and place a light kiss there. You closed your eyes, shivering at the touch.

"Like this?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, exactly like that..." you moved your head, allowing him more space and giving in to the sensation.

Your hands sought out his locks and intertwined with them. He kissed your neck, eliciting soft sighs from you, then lavished attention to the spot behind your ear that made you quiver. His teeth lightly grazed on your sensitive skin, leaving a subtle imprint.

"Where else, princess?" he lightly scratched you with his stubble.

Instead of verbally answering him, you pushed his head down to your cleavage. You heard him chuckle, burying his head between your boobs. He kissed and sucked on the exposed skin of your chest, making his way up to your collar bone, biting and marking it.

Placing your hands on his shoulders, you pushed him down to his knees. He looked up at you and smiled, naughty gleam in his eyes. You took his hands and dug them under your shirt. Your breath hitched when his fingers curled around the bare skin of your waist. His palms started traveling upwards, lifting your shirt with them. The whole time he was staring up at you with those piercing blue eyes, your knees wanted to give out.

He leaned forward; you felt his breath on your stomach and then the brush of his lips. Prompting himself up a bit to be in the level, he slowly began placing kisses all over your stomach area. You gripped his hair, letting him know he was on the right path to drive you insane.

"Pierre, undo my pants..." you said; he seemed to be taken by surprise, but obediently did so and waited for further instructions, looking up at you. He knew you wanted him to pull them down, he just wanted you to say it. "And take them off."

His fingers dug into the waistband and rolled them down. While doing so, he placed a kiss to your hip bone. He gently removed your jeans and tossed them to the side, his eyes back on you again. He took a sharp breath in when he saw you wearing baby blue underwear, but quickly got a hold of himself. He gripped your waist and kissed the other hip bone, sucking on the skin and making a light purple bruise.

"What's next, princess?" he asked.

Oh god, this was torture.

"Caress my legs," you gulped. "With your hands."

He smirked then placed the tips of his fingers on your ankles. He dragged them up over your calves to your knees then dived with his palms into your thighs. Your muscles tensed and you shivered. A faint smile on his lips gave away that he liked it.

"Touch me, with your lips."

He placed a kiss to your left knee and made his way upwards, slightly parting your legs. You breathed through your hung open mouth with your eyes closed. He stopped when he reached your groin and you felt just his hot breath on you. You glanced down at him to find him already looking up at you, smiling. You ran your fingers through his hair.

"Keep going." you whispered.

He buried his face into your other thigh, making you gasp. He could probably see how wet your panties have gotten, but you could now feel them. He didn't even properly touch you and you were already soaking through, it was embarrassing.

"Pierre," you called and made him look at you. "Touch me."

Of course, Pierre wouldn't be Pierre without a little tease. He first ran his fingers around the area where you wanted him to touch you.

"Pierre, please... I need you."

"How bad, princess?"

"So bad... Pierre, please—" you were getting all whiny from the anticipation.

"Shh, calm down, princess, there we go..." he pressed his digits over your clothed pussy and you could finally breathe again.

"Oh, my god, yes... Thank you." you whined.

He chuckled. "You're my good girl, you know that?" he asked, drawing slow circles over your clit.

"Y-yes..."

"My needy good girl." he moved your panties to the side.

Finally, a naked touch. You parted your legs a bit more, spreading them wide to give him better access. His arms pressed against the inside of your thighs as he maneuvered his body for closer contact. A warm breeze cooled your moist skin and brought a red flush to your cheeks. You threw back your head in ecstasy as his rhythmic movement stirred you inside and out.

"Do you want my finger, baby?"

"I want two." you bit your lip to stop from smiling.

"Eager." he smirked, positioning two fingers at your entrance. "Ready?" you nodded your head and he slipped them inside.

A sigh of relief escaped your lips as he began to move his fingers inside you. His movements were initially gentle and slow, but when you grinded your body against him, the speed increased. You match him thrust for thrust, swaying in synchrony.

"Pierre... I want to feel you... your mouth..." you panted.

He stopped his fingers, curled them deep inside of you and then pulled out. He took off your panties next and discarded them aside. Separating your legs, he kissed around before giving your pussy a kiss, making you shudder. Starting with kitten licks, he teased you before fully running his tongue over you, but slowly, very slowly. Your breath caught up in your throat from the feeling. He rolled his tongue between your folds with such pace that was driving you nuts.

You buried your hands deep into his hair, moaning his name. He then decided it was time to bring fingers into play again. He was rhythmically fucking you with his fingers while sucking on your clit at the same time. He drove you to the point of screaming, your knees giving out and only holding onto his shoulders for support prevented you from doubling over.

"Get on the bed, love." he led you to the bed backwards and laid you down.

He kissed a trail up your body, taking off your shirt and moving on to exploring your chest. He wrapped his arms around you, undoneing the clasp of your bra before throwing it aside. His mouth then focused completely on your breasts, sucking and nibbling on your nipples while his hands squeezing them in pleasure. Your hands pushed down on his shoulders, guiding him where you wanted to be touched as he moved lower with his lips and tongue.

He positioned himself between your legs, his head right above your pussy. You prompted your hips up only for him to push them down. He lowered his head, his lips brushing your clit and hot breath making you whine. Opening his mouth, he slowly licked you up once again. His tongue circled all around you, making soft moans escape your lips. This time there was no fingerplay involved, just him sucking on you.

"Give me your hands." he murmured, not separating from your core.

"Why?"

He got a hold of them before you even got to process what was happening. When he reached to interlock your fingers that's when you quickly pulled away.

"No, sorry, I don't do that..." it was too intimate for you. The feelings you held for Pierre couldn't be returned in kind. You wanted to save hand-holding during these moments for when you were completely sure of your emotions, even if it wasn't him.

You noticed his jaw clench and eyes change to a darker shade of blue, but he said nothing. Instead, he pushed your legs back and started devouring you like crazy. You yelped in surprise and yelled his name. That was his trigger, you triggered him. Slow and gentle Pierre was gone.

His tongue lapped around much more rapidly, he sucked harder and even used his teeth to graze you. He was mercilessly eating you out. You couldn't control your moans nor your breathing. He held you in a position you could barely move. The only thing you could do was scream out and squeeze your own tits for some kind of relief.

Soon, your legs started to shake, a pit forming in your stomach and he knew you were closer for you were calling his name repeatedly while begging. But he only sucked on you one last time and pulled away.

"Oh, why, Pierre, I was so close..." you whined and squirmed on the bed.

"I know," he said. "Good girls get to cum. You're not one of them."

"Fuck you." you spat. "I can just make myself cum." you sat upright.

"Great! Do it then." he replied, walking away and taking his shirt off. You frowned and looked after him. He turned around. "Well, what are you waiting for? I don't have all day." he said, undoing his pants and taking them off.

He leaned on the dresser just in his boxers, watching you. You positioned yourself so you were on full display for him. Not breaking the eye contact, you licked four of your fingers, making them nice and wet for your cunt. You played with your pussy, running your fingers up and down your folds, stretching you out and exploring yourself before you started rubbing on your clit. You exaggerated your moans, grabbing your boob and squeezing it in pleasure.

You saw him grip the edge of the dresser, but still he did nothing. The bulge in his boxers was pretty evident even though he tried to hide it. You decided it was time to add some more fingers to the play. Since he wanted to watch, you'll put on a show. You slid two of your fingers into you and sucked on the other two to moisten them for your clit.

His jaw tightened when you started playing with your clit again while also fingerfucking yourself. You let out a very loud moan, almost pornographic. Man, you were really good at this when you had an audience. He put his hand over the bulge, trying to keep it under control, but he was probably just palming himself over the fabric.

Soon, that pit in your stomach started forming again and he knew by your behavior that you weren't faking it. You threw your head back, your legs shaking and moans uncontrollably leaving your mouth.

"That's enough." he hissed, but you didn't listen. You kept going, you were just on the edge. "I said, that's enough." in just two steps he was by the bed, taking your wrists and stopping you.

"What the hell?!" you yelled. "You said—"

"You don't get to cum. Not until I say so. Now get down on your knees, you dirty little slut." he practically pulled you down to the floor by the hair.

You sat back on your knees before him, looking up and waiting. He rubbed himself over his clothed dick a few more times before stripping down. His cock sprung out, almost hitting you in the face. Your mouth started salivating at the sight. You shifted on your knees just wanting to grab and suck it.

“Open your mouth for me—no, no, you don’t get to take it. Only good girls get to take my cock, but you decided to be a disobedient little slut today. No, not even sticking out your tongue will help your case. Now you’re going to get a taste of your own medicine and watch me play with it.” his hand stroked down his length as he moaned.

"Oh, Pierre, please..." you begged and whimpered; your hands itched to touch him.

“Oh, you can beg all you want, it’s only going to make me stroke it faster. But watching you play with yourself made me throb in the places I didn’t even know is possible, I’ll give you that. I’ll have that image in my head for days—oh, fuck…” he let out a long groan. “Oh, this feels so good, princess. My hand, wrapped around my dick… Do you think you could do a better job, huh?”

"Yes, Pi, please, let me just have a taste..." you pleaded.

“Oh, you just want a taste?” he chuckled. “But no, princess, no.” his hand moved faster, making him moan louder. “Well, maybe if you beg and plead hard enough.”

"Oh, Pierre, please, please, please..." you gave him your best doe eyes.

"Okay, princess, you're not even trying right now. I know you can beg better than that."

"Please, let me suck your dick, please. I'll take it like a good girl and never ever disobey you again. I am your fuck toy to be used as you please. I will make you feel so good. Please, daddy, let me have your dick." you didn't mean to call him daddy, but you got so into your speech that it slipped your tongue.

"Mon dieu, the sounds of you begging really turns me on. You know just how to get what you want, don't you? That's what you did to get us here, didn't you, princess?" he talked in between moans. "Fine, you can have a lick. But just a lick," he warned. "Stick your tongue out more."

You prompted up like a child that just got a Christmas present. You licked his head and all the way down his shaft, tracing the veins that popped up, never breaking the eye contact. The gold cross necklace rose with his chest as he breathed.

"Fuck, princess, suck it. Suck the tip. Just the tip." he panted.

You wrapped your lips around his pink head, sucking like you wanted to take his soul. His hands were in your hair, pulling on your roots. You never heard him moan like this, his face twisted in pleasure. You circled your tongue around him to stop yourself from smiling.

"Mon dieu, princess, just take. Take it whole. I need my cock in that pretty little throat of yours." he himself pushed your head down his length, groaning. "Open wider." another groan. "Oh, suck it, princess. Keep sucking, show me that you've learned your lesson."

You took as much as you could of him in your mouth. You bobbed your head up and down, warming up your throat for a deep dive. His fingers curled into your hair every time the tip hit the back of your mouth. He whined and whimpered with his head thrown back.

"Now, princess," he said breathily. "Princess, look at me. I'm going to fuck your mouth, alright?" his hands already positioned themselves to lock your head in place. You could only nod your head, looking up at him, your eyes pleading with him to do so.

He started thrusting himself into your mouth, hitting the back of it repeatedly. You gagged and choked on his dick, your mouth overflowing with saliva that ran down onto your chin. Your eyes stung with tears and and you felt like you couldn’t take a proper breath. He would pull out and instruct to spit on his dick upon noticing your struggles.

"Look at me while I fuck your mouth. Aw, look at you, can't even fit it whole. Is it too big for you, princess?" tears rolled down your cheeks when he forced himself on you. "Don't cry, my princess, you know I would never give you what I know you can't take. God, your throat feels heavenly. Fuck, I'm going to cum." he groaned.

"Yes, daddy, come down my throat..."

"Wouldn't you like that?" he chuckled as his movements slowed down. "I don't know if I want your mouth to make me cum or your pussy."

You begged him, begged him with your eyes to give you a taste of his cum.

"Oh, you want it so much, don't you? Oh, yeah, you fucking do. I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum down your fucking throat and fuck you for way longer after, ugh." he trusted in you in between every word.

As he groaned loudly, his shaft soon disappeared inside of you and you relished in the warmth that surrounded you. You eagerly swallowed every drop and even begged for more. You lapped up every last bit of him from his tip, leaving it spotless.

"Good girl." he praised, running his fingers through your hair.

Moment of break was over. He picked you up and threw you onto the bed on your stomach.

"Ass up for me."

You complied without having him to repeat himself. Rewarding you with a nice slap, he teasingly slid his cock between your folds. His tip rubbed against your clit, tempting you to orgasm right then and there.

"Pierre, please..." you whined.

"Please what?" he said, sliding down.

"Put it in, fuck me." you cried out.

He didn't do it right away, but eventually he gripped your hips and pushed himself into you. Without letting you adjust, he started ramming into you. And why would he? You were already way too familiar with every inch of his body.

"Is this what you wanted all along, you dirty little slut? This dick inside of you? Finally getting it, huh?" you could only moan in response. "God, you're pathetic. The way you begged for it, like you've never had dick in your life. You love it don't you? You love my dick. You love me fucking you. No one has ever fucked you this good, isn't that right, princess?" you shook your head. "God, you can't even form words, that's how good I make you feel. Only me."

Still, you wanted more. You needed more. You took your hand and pressed it against your clit, rubbing fast.

"Move that fucking hand away." he slapped it off, then grabbed both of your wrists and locked them behind your back. "Good girls get to help themselves, but you don't. You think just because you sucked my dick so good you're in my good graces again? No, princess, you're still a long way to go."

You moaned in (dis)pleasure. You let him take control. God, you just hoped the rooms around were empty cause you both have been screaming all afternoon.

"But princess, I'll be so kind and tell you in advance," he grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked it backwards, leaning into your ear. "I'm going to fuck you on every single piece of furniture you see in this room."

Oh god, just that sentence alone could send you over the edge. Your eyes rolled backwards and you just let go, whimpering and whining. After a while, your body started going limp under him, the gap between your thighs wanted to close and walls tightened around him.

"Oh, you're so close already?" he mocked. "And you want to come?"

"Yes, please..."

He only laughed wickedly. "You know you can't." he stopped moving all together, edging you for the third time that day.

He took you by your forearms and pulled you onto his chest. You could barely stand, but he tugged you off the bed with him still inside you, and led you backwards to the coffee table across the room. He sat down on the edge with you on top of him.

"You said you missed me, yeah?" you leaned back on him, trying to come to your senses. His hands firmly held your waist and lips brushed against your neck when you nodded your head. "Now show me exactly how much you missed me. Bounce." he slapped your thigh.

You took a deep breath in and leaned forward, putting yourself in a position you could easily jump up and down his dick. You used his knees for support, establishing a rhythm.

"Aw, come on, princess, I thought you missed me more than that." he cupped your breast and grazed your neck with his teeth. You whined and sped up. "That's my good princess." he whispered. "And good princesses get rewarded." he wrapped his arm around you, pressing the tips of his fingers over your clit.

You leaned backwards, grabbing him by the nape of his neck and whimpering into his ear.

"Oh, you missed me that much, haven't you? You missed me so much you want to cum again?" he hissed.

"Yes, Pierre, please..." you pleaded, rolling your hips on him.

"I'm sorry, princess, but I will have to disappoint you again." you couldn't move anymore so he took matters into his own hands or better say, your hips and started guiding them up and down.

Your whole body was shaking, your head was hanging low, but he wasn't done with you. Not yet. He pushed you off his dick and stood up. Picking you up in his arms, he carried you to the dresser where he sat you down. He separated your legs wide and slapped your pussy with his dick. You leaned back on the wall and bit your lip. Taking you by the legs, he yanked you forward onto his dick again. Wrapping them around him, you pushed him even deeper inside you.

He slammed into you with all his might, making you delirious, not even able to scream anymore, just chant his name under your breath. His mouth got a hold of your nipple, biting and sucking while his fingers pinched the other one. You squealed in surprise, arching your back and losing your fingers into his hair. He moved up to kiss your lips, resting his forehead on yours. You were both sweaty and panting. You looked down, his dick going in and out of you, hitting all the right spots.

"What are you looking at, princess?" he noticed. "You like seeing it disappear deep inside of your tight little pussy and making you feel like a perfect little slut you are, huh?"

"Yeah..." you could feel your cheeks burning with embarrassment. All you wanted was to hide your face into his chest.

"No need to get all flustered now, you know I love you like that." he picked up the pace a bit and in response, you pulled him by the cross necklace into a kiss.

Your orgasm was coming soon again and he felt it. He slowed down, scooping you up and carrying you to the armchair. You groaned into his shoulder.

"I know, princess, I know. Just a little longer, I promise." he caressed your hair.

He sat you down, positioning you on top of him.

"Ride me now, come on, princess, I know it's your favorite. I saved best for last." every atom in your body refused to move from overstimulation, but somehow, you found it in you to rock your hips back and forth. "Yes, princess, ride me." he encouraged. "God, you feel so good." with his hands on your waist, he helped you keep the pace. You even started bouncing a little. "Mm, you're doing so good, keep going." he moaned.

But you couldn't. You threw yourself onto his chest and he instantly wrapped his arms around you, taking over. With only a few more pumps, your whole body started trembling on top of his, your walls tightening like never before. You were on the verge of screaming.

"I'm going to cum." you said.

"No, not yet, princess, hold it." his face twisted in reaching his own orgasm.

"Pierre, please, I need to cum, I need to cum right now!" you yelled.

"Just a little bit longer, princess. Just hold it and we cum together, alright?" he didn't wait for your answer, he kissed you to shut you up. "Now, princess, let go now." he said and pushed himself deep inside of you.

Your moans echoed off the walls as you fell onto him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. You collapsed onto his chest, burying your face in the crook of his neck, still joined together and sweaty from the intensity of it all. His arm was draped over you while the other one stroked your hair, his lips whispering sweet nothings. You could feel his dick still inside of you, twitching ever so slightly.

The only sound that could be heard was that of your heavy breaths. As if to confirm how intense the moment had been, you moved your hand to feel his heart beating rapidly beneath his chest. He kissed your temple and you sniffled.

"Hey," he said, rising you up. "Hey, princess, look at me. Are you crying?" you, in fact, were crying. "Did I... Did I fuck you to tears?" he smugly smirked and you laughed.

"Yeah, you did." you confirmed and he pulled you in for another kiss.

"It was that good, huh?"

"It was." you laid back on his chest as he ran his fingers down your spine.

"It was a bit rougher than I intended to," he admitted. "but you took it like a good girl. I'm sorry if I did hurt you." he kissed the top of your head.

"Nah, it was alright." you lazily replied. "We should do it again later." you smirked.

"Wait, really?" you nodded. "But no, no later for you. You should take a rest. I'm going to fix you a bath and take care of you now."

Your groans of discomfort prompted him to help you up and usher you to the bathroom. There, he filled a bathtub with hot water and bubbles for your relaxation. He then took a shower while you lay there, but when you invited him in for other activities, he told you to keep it light. He certainly had his moments of dullness. After his shower, he went off to look for clothes in the bedroom, leaving you alone in the bathroom. Glancing out of the window, the sun seemed to be just about ready to dip below the horizon.

"Pierre?" you called.

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to go grab dinner with me?"

"Sure, my princess needs to refuel after all that exercising she just did." his smirk revealed he was teasing you.

You rolled your eyes and smiled in spite of yourself. You still tried to persuade him to go further than a dinner date later that night, but he refused your advances. Not even your tight black mini dress could alter his decision. He kept insisting that you needed to rest and take it easy—blah, blah, blah. But the look on his face and his tight pants said something different anyway.

538 notes · View notes

sycamorelibrary754 · 8 months

Text

We're a Family

Summary: You and Natasha are taking your first vacation since the birth of your 5-year-old daughter. While you and Natasha are off on a romantic getaway to Paris for your anniversary, how will your Avengers family handle watching your daughter for the weekend?

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Comfort, Romance

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: Some mentions of grief.

A/N: Thank you so much for the positive feedback on Come Home to Me! I hope to keep writing as I feel inspired and have time. This story takes place after the events of Endgame. Tony survived defeating Thanos with the Snap, and Steve brought Natasha back after returning the Soul Stone to Vormir.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Natasha questioned for the third time that Friday morning, as you gather the last of the essentials together for your 5-year-old daughter to take to the Avengers Compound. You and Nat were taking your first vacation together since the birth of your child in celebration of your wedding anniversary. Understandably, your wife was struggling with the idea of leaving your daughter. It was all you could do to convince Natasha to drop her off at preschool, let alone leave her overnight.

“Love, we’ve talked about this. It’s only for the weekend, Mila is going to have a great time. Besides, there is nowhere safer for her to be than surrounded by Avengers. You trust them with your life”, you remind her reassuringly as you rub gentle circles on her back.

“Exactly. My life, not my child,” Nat muttered.

It had been five years since you gave birth to your and Natasha’s daughter. From the moment you both laid eyes on her your whole world changed. Soon after, Nat transitioned into semi-retirement with guidance from Clint. She was still available for daily mission consultation or if the situation was dire, but you and Mila are her number one priority now.

You heard little feet padding down the hall, as your daughter runs into your bedroom. Her red curls bounced up on down on her head “I'm ready Mommy and Mama!” Mila squealed.

“Oh, Moya Lyubov, you look so pretty! Did you dress yourself this morning?” Natasha asked, getting down to her level.

“Yes! I wanted to match Auntie Yelena!” as she showed off her mini black vest that Yelena made her for her last birthday, worn expertly over her pink tutu.

“Auntie Yelena is going to love it, sweetheart. You’re going to have so much fun with your aunts and uncles this weekend,” hugging her tight.

After packing your luggage in the car, you make the short drive to the compound. FRIDAY greets you as you exit the main elevator. “Good morning Ms. Romanoff, Ms. Y/L/N.” The team is awaiting your arrival in the common room.”

“Thank you, FRIDAY,” you replied, as Mila lets go of Natasha’s hand and runs ahead of both of you, having been here several times already in her young life.

As you enter the room, you see Wanda and Vision in the kitchen as the smell of freshly baked cookies wafts through the air. Peter and Kate are playing video games, Bucky and Sam are playing cards with Clint, and Steve is quietly reading Moby Dick.

“Little spider!” Yelena called out as she entered the room and Mila runs into her arms.

“Auntie Yelena! Do you like my outfit? I got dressed all by myself!”

“I love it malyshka, so much cooler than Mama’s outfit,” Yelena says, as she side-eyes her older sister with a smile. “We are going to have so much fun this weekend.”

“Yeah, about that”, Natasha interrupted. “Mission briefing in five.”

“Mission briefing? Love, we're going on vacation, not a stakeout.”

“Yes, but they have the most important mission of all, watching our daughter.” motioning to the group in front of you.

Your heart warms at how protective your wife is being. This is the Black Widow. A woman who would run into a collapsing building or intercept an alien invasion without batting an eye, but the moment she became a mother, everything changed. She vowed to give Mila everything she never had as a child. To break the cycle of uncertainty and pain that the Red Room forced upon her. Truthfully, you were so proud of how far Natasha had come. From growing up believing love was for children, to giving nothing but love to the both of you.

Just then Tony and Bruce entered the living room arguing over their latest nanotech calculations, with Pepper following closely behind.

“Hey, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, park it,” Natasha said.

“Ah, Rushman, wonderful to see you as always,” Tony says, winking at Nat. She rolls her eyes in response, as Tony and Bruce give you a hug before sitting down and Pepper picks up your daughter.

“Come on sweetie, do you want to go play with Morgan?” Pepper asked.

“Yay!” Mila cheered as they walk down the hall to Morgan’s room.

“Okay, some quick do’s and dont’s for this weekend. No guns, no repulsor rays, no arrows, and no using our daughter as a beta test subject for any new experiments. When Thor gets here, no Asgardian beverages in front our child. Mila’s bedtime is 7 pm and she likes it if you do the characters' voices when you read her a bedtime story. Oh, and if she has trouble falling asleep, a lullaby usually does the trick. Got it?”

“Geez, this is almost as bad as Budapest,” Clint whispered to Kate.

“It’s going to be alright Natasha,” Wanda reassured. “We’re a family. You know we would do anything for that little girl. Please, go and enjoy your anniversary. No one deserves some special alone time more than you two”, Wanda says as she hands you a tin full of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies for the trip.

You put your arm around Natasha and kiss her cheek. “Wanda is right, my love. Mila will be fine.”

Just as you complete the sentence, Mila ran back into the room. “Mommy, Mama! Morgan has Puss and Boots: The Last Wish, and we’re going to watch it tonight before bedtime.”

“That sounds like so much fun, sweetheart! I know you are going to be a good girl for your aunts and uncles and Mommy and Mama will see you on Sunday night, okay? We love you so much.” you said.

“Okay, Mommy. I love you!” She said as she hugs you so tight. Natasha knelt to kiss your daughter on the cheek and squeezed her hand three times. Their special way of saying I love you. After one last hug and kiss, you walk to the Quinjet. Tony having offered one for easy and convenient travel.

*^~^*

By the time you arrived at your hotel in Paris, it’s almost dinner time. After some sightseeing, you two enjoyed a gourmet candlelit dinner under the Parisian moon and a romantic stroll under the stars. When you got back to your room, you received a text message from Clint with a photo of your daughter asleep on her bed. Lovingly cuddled up under a blanket with Yelena.

“See, she’s okay”, you said lovingly as Natasha smiles widely at the picture of her little girl and her little sister.

As you lay in bed that night, you feel more grateful than ever to be here with the love of your life. Both of you had learned firsthand to never take anything for granted.

You were one of the lost souls left behind after the Blip. Struggling with the loss of your loved ones, you began attending Steve’s Brooklyn Support Group once a week. It was after one of those meetings that you were first introduced to the Black Widow.

Natasha hesitated at first to let anyone in. She was too scared to lose anyone else and was convinced that nothing should take away from her commitment to bring everyone back. However, she still found herself finding any excuse to attend Steve’s meetings. Whether that was to bring homemade peanut butter sandwiches for the snack table or shyly offering to give you a ride home.

You weren’t a hero or a super soldier. You didn’t remind Natasha of the guilt she carried over the last five years as the fallout from the Blip continued. You were just yourself, and that was what Natasha loved the most about you. You began to visit her at the compound, and slowly but surely the walls came down for both of you.

When she told you about the Time Heist, you didn’t want to hear it. You couldn’t comprehend the thought of losing Natasha, but you knew that she believed in her heart that she owed it to everyone they had lost to try. When Clint returned from Vormir alone and dropped to his knees, so did you. Grief overtaking you all over again.

As the Battle for Earth became inevitable, the team hid you in a safe house off the grid. Days went by and you lost track of time, stuck in your grief and unaware of what was happening. It wasn't until a knock on your door awoke you in the middle of the night that you dropped to your knees again. This time in shock at the sight of Natasha on your doorstep. Tears streaming down her face, she told you they had won. Tony defeated Thanos with the Snap, and Steve performed a miracle by bringing her back upon returning the Soul Stone to Vormir.

So much life had happened since then. You were married in a beautiful autumnal ceremony shortly after Nat returned, bought your own house, and five years ago and twelve hours of labor later, you welcomed your daughter into the world that your wife sacrificed herself to save. You couldn’t believe how much you loved them both. Fading back into the present moment, you gently move a strand of Natasha’s unbraided red hair away from her face. Her hands move effortlessly to the nape of your neck, and you lose yourself in her touch.

*^~^*

It’s Saturday morning back at the compound, and Mila is eating blueberry pancakes when Clint strolled in from his morning workout.

“Hey, squirt! Those pancakes look amazing. Did Auntie Wanda make those?” he asked, reaching for the extra plate of pancakes on the counter.

Before Mila can even respond, the plate glides quickly away from him, enveloped in Wanda’s red magic. “Auntie Wanda did make those, but they’re only for adorable little girls named Mila. Is your name Mila?” Wanda said to Clint, with a raised eyebrow.

“No”, Clint grumbled.

“Then make your own breakfast, Hawkeye,” Wanda sighed, patting him on the back.

After breakfast, Sam and Bucky take Mila outside to play. Meanwhile, Steve is in his room working on a mission report when FRIDAY interrupts his concentration. “Mr. Rogers, I’m picking up an elevated heat signature from your shield just north of your location.” Steve looked curiously out the window to see Mila giggling as she slid across the grass. She is sitting on his overturne shield pulled by a rope tied to the back of Red Wing.

“My shield is not a toy!” Steve yelled out the window.

“Oh, hey Cap! It does make a great sled, doesn’t it?” Bucky answered, pretending not to hear what his best friend said, as Sam laughs out loud.

Steve shakes his head to hide his smile. You meant the world to him, having spent countless hours processing your grief together in that dark and dank recreation room in Brooklyn. He was honored when you and Natasha asked him to be Mila’s godfather. His shield was made from Vibranium, after all. If his goddaughter wanted to play with it, he knew no harm would be done.

That afternoon, Peter arrived at the compound to work on his newest suit upgrade with Tony. Mila is engrossed in coloring at the kitchen table with Auntie Kate when Peter walks in to get a soda.

“Hey Mila, what are you up to?”

“Coloring, do you want to help us?” Mila asked happily.

Peter nodded, and for the next twenty minutes, they got lost in her Disney Princess coloring book. After adding pretty sparkles to Elsa’s Frozen dress, Mila noticed Peter’s Spider-Man suit sticking out of his bag.

“Pretty!” Mila said with wide eyes.

“You like it?” Peter asked.

“Yes, is this how you fly? Mama says you can fly!” Mila declares.

“Something like that” Peter chuckled and tousled her hair.

Down in the lab, Tony had been waiting for Peter to arrive for a half an hour. Unusual, as his protege was normally annoyingly punctual. Running out of patience, Tony asks FRIDAY for Peter’s current location.

“Mr. Parker is in the kitchen with Ms. Bishop and the young Ms. Romanoff, sir.” Tony rolls his eyes as he trudged up the stairs.

“Hey Hawkette, have you seen Peter? He was supposed to — “

Tony stopped in his tracks as he sees Peter swinging from the ceiling with Mila on his back. Kate was too busy filming the entire spectacle on her phone to notice Tony standing there.

“Wee!! Faster, Uncle Peter!” Mila shouted as Peter’s web carries them across the room to the top of the bookcase.

Tony’s eyes follow the pair around the room. Putting on his best poker face, “Okay. I won’t tell Romanoff or her better half, but if you break it, you pay for it. That includes the kid.” Tony warned.

“Sure thing, Mr. Stark” Peter giving Tony a thumbs up.

“And for God’s sake, at least put some pillows down on the floor!” Tony hollered as he walked back to his lab.

*^~^*

In the city of love, you and Natasha took a Saturday evening cruise down the Seine River. It was magical. You had seen the Musée d’Orsay, the Notre Dame Cathedral and had just reached the top of the Eiffel Tower when your phone alerted you to an incoming FaceTime from Carol. You swiped, her face appearing on the screen.

“Hey, you two, I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to be on Earth-616 tomorrow for a meeting with Fury and thought I’d drop in on my favorite couple. Wait, where are you?”

“Paris for our anniversary! Our first vacation alone in over five years. Can you believe it?” you said giddily, as Natasha puts her arms around your waist and lovingly kisses your cheek.

“Wow, that’s wonderful! Where’s your little mini-me?” Carol asked.

“With the team, actually if you’re going there anyway could you just make sure that everything is good with Mila?” Natasha inquired.

“Of course. You know you never have to ask.”

“Thank you, Carol”, you gratefully respond. We’ll be back tomorrow evening, so I’m sure we’ll see you then.” Carol gave you a mock salute, before you ended the call and put your phone back in your coat pocket.

“You look so beautiful, dorogaya. After all this time, I still can't believe you’re mine.” Nat waxed poetically, as she removed her scarf and wrapped it around your neck. Natasha could not look more beautiful in the glow of the Eiffel Tower. You decided this is the perfect moment to give her your anniversary gift. You slowly hand her the red velvet box you had snuck into your satchel. Her green eyes went wide at the sight of it.

“Detka! We said no gifts this year, this trip is gift enough.” Nat facetiously scolded.

“I know, but I still wanted to do something special for you,” you said sheepishly.

Natasha opens the box to reveal a simple and delicate gold heart locket necklace. Upon opening the pendant, she is greeted by a candid photo of all three of you. One that Clint had taken during your last visit with his family in Iowa. Nat was sitting on Clint’s front porch with a smiling Mila on her lap. You are leaning behind her with your arms wrapped lovingly around her neck. It had quickly become one of your favorite photos of your small, yet precious family.

“This is so beautiful, Moya Lyubov. Can you put it on me?”

You move Natasha’s braid away from her neck and clasped the necklace in the back. The heart locket fell directly on top of her own heart. It looked perfect on her. You're not sure who leaned in first, but your lips met in a kiss that made your stomach flutter like it was the first time. You couldn’t be happier than you were in this moment.

*^~^*

The Sunday morning sun is slowly breaking through the compound windows. Yelena was pouring your daughter a bowl of Cheerios and singing along to the sound of American Pie coming from her phone when The God of Thunder made his entrance through the Bifrost. Mila jumped and started to hide behind her Auntie Yelena, but ran toward him when she realized it’s only her Uncle Thor materializing in front of them, leaving his trademark on Pepper’s Persian rug.

“Must you do that every time? You’re becoming more of a poser than my sister.” Yelena remarked.

“Of course,” Thor said nonchalantly. “It is the only entrance fit for the God of Thunder.”

He reachesd down and lifts Mila up with one arm, “Odin’s Beard! You’ve gotten so big since the last time I saw you, Mila.” Thor declared

“I know! Did you bring me a present Uncle Thor?” Mila squealed.

“Yes! Now, let’s see here… Asgardian Ale, Mead, no… ah, here it is!” He handed the little girl a small snow globe set in gold with her name engraved elegantly on the base.

“Wow. Pretty snow globe….” Mila whispered.

“It is indeed”, Thor said, sat cross-legged on the carpet in front of the little girl. “This is a special Asgardian snow globe. Look, see the rainbow bridge inside it?” He pointed. “Most importantly Lady Mila, if you shake it, I shall be there in a flash. If ever you need me, I will be there.”

“Thank you, Uncle Thor!”, Mila said as she wrapped her arms around his neck. I’m going to show it to my Teddy Bear!” Running to her bedroom.

“You spoil her, you know”, Yelena stated with a smirk, as she began to clean up the kitchen.

“I know, but she is such a grand example of goodness and joy in such a tiny human. She deserves the world.” Thor declared.

Carol arrives shortly after lunch. After a short meeting with Fury in the conference room regarding upcoming mission targets, she finds your daughter in the compound courtyard. She is wearing her vest to match her favorite auntie, as Yelena demonstrates the newest tricks Fanny has learned.

“Roll over! Good girl, Fanny!” Yelena praised the dog. Mila takes a treat out of one of her vest pockets with her tiny hand and tosses it to the Akita.

“Well done, Mila! Before you go home tonight, I will show you what else you can hide inside those pockets,” winking at her niece.

“Fruits and veggies right, Yelena?” Carol deadpanned as Mila runs over and jumps into Captain Marvel’s arms.

“Auntie Carol! When did you get here?” Your daughter giggled.

“Just a little bit ago. I talked to your Mommy and Mama last night. They miss you so much and can’t wait to see you when they get home tonight.” Carol shared before kissing your daughter on the cheek.

*^~^*

The sun was setting on your third day in Paris. You and Natasha spent the afternoon exploring the mysteries of the Louvre. You had always wanted to see the Mona Lisa in person, and Natasha was determined to make it happen. Even if it meant pushing through a crowd of tourists who got out of the way quickly when they realized the Black Widow was the one asking them to kindly move the fuck over.

You made the short walk back to your hotel and are enjoying a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries when Natasha’s phone dinged.

Carol: Hey lovebirds, all good here. Mila is doing great and is so excited to see you when you get back. However, I have a feeling you may want to check her vest pockets when you get home for some “special” presents courtesy of Auntie Yelena. 😘

Natasha giggled, showing you the text.

“The important thing is that they’re bonding,” placing a delicate kiss on her temple.

Following Wanda’s scrumptious dinner of Chicken Paprikash, your daughter was watching Frozen II. Vision attempted to explain the science behind snowflakes to her when Tony strolled into the lounge.

“Hey, kiddo do you want to come down to the lab with me and see the new suit modifications the Jolly Green Giant and I are working on?”

“Yay!” Mila said excitedly, jumping up and down.

“Sir, I believe Ms. Romanoff indicated there was to be no experimenting with young Ms. Mila whilst she is in our care.”

“Relax, chrome dome. We’re just looking at the new holographic mockup.” Picking up Mila and carried her to his lab.

*^~^*

A few hours later, Natasha landed the Quinjet and takes a deep breath as she reached across the console for your hand. You both stare out at the lights of the team living quarters in the distance.

“This has been a wonderful anniversary. I love you so much,” you said. “I know it was tough for you to leave Mila for three days, but not only did we have a beautiful anniversary, but our daughter got to spend meaningful time with her family that she will always remember.” You pressed a kiss to her knuckles as Natasha caresses your cheek.

“You were right, dorogaya. This was perfect. I’m sorry I was so nervous about leaving her. I just… never thought I would have my happily ever after. That little girl and you are my everything. It breaks my heart every time I leave either one of you.”

“I know, my love”, you said quietly. Now, let’s go get our daughter and go home.”

You walked into the compound to shouting and the sound of Fanny and Lucky barking. Natasha was about to reach for her spare Widow Bites when you both heard your daughter laughing.

The two of you entered the common room to the sight of your daughter running through the compound. She was dressed in her pajamas and one of Tony’s Iron Man helmets; a can of whipped cream in her little hands. Yelena and the rest of the team are hot on her heels; puffs of whipped cream flew behind her.

Kate skidded to a stop in front of both of you. “Oh, you guys are back. Awesome! Umm, we made ice cream sundaes for dessert. Mila enjoyed hers, as you can see”, Kate motioned, breathing heavily.

Mila took her last lap around the couch when she caught sight of you and Natasha.

“Mommy, Mama! You’re here!!” she squealed, running into Natasha’s arms.

“Hi, Moya Lyubov, we missed you so much!!” Natasha said as she wraps Mila in a big hug before passing her to you to do the same.

“It looks like you had fun with your aunts and uncles this weekend,” removing the helmet and brush a red curl away from her eyes.

“I had so much fun, Mommy! I got to eat yummy food, ride a sled, fly, and Auntie Yelena helped me hide special treasures in my vest pockets. Oh, and I got a magic snow globe with my name on it!” Your daughter rambled happily.

Natasha looked at you slightly skeptical, wondering if your sweet little girl was exaggerating. With your family, you were never quite sure.

“Wow, that sounds amazing, kotyonok!” Are you ready to go home now?” Nat asked as Mila gives you her best puppy dog eyes.

“It’s okay sweetheart, we’ll come back and see everyone next weekend. Why don’t you go get your Teddy bear?” you suggested.

“I’ll help her with her things,” Yelena said, scooping up your daughter and walking to her bedroom.

“We can’t thank all of you enough for taking such good care of her. I know she would stay here forever if we let her.” You said as you move through the group hugging every one.

She is always welcome here, you two know that.” Wanda said, confident she was speaking for the entire team.

A few minutes later, Mila reappeared with her unicorn backpack and Yelena in tow carrying a couple more bags than what you dropped her off with. You shake your head, knowing full well that the team spoiled her with gifts. Natasha squatted down to Mila’s level and puts her hand lovingly on her back. “Can you say goodbye and thank you to all of your aunts and uncles, dorogaya?” she asked. Mila walked around the room and hugged everyone. It warms Natasha’s heart to see her family embrace your daughter with so much love and affection.

Mila fell asleep five minutes after you put her in her car seat. When you arrived home, Natasha carried her to her bed. She carefully set Mila down and pulled up the covers. You both place a gentle kiss on her forehead and quietly tiptoe out of her room. You make your way to your bedroom, deciding to leave the unpacking for the morning, both too jet lagged. Natasha sat up in bed reading with her glasses sliding adorably down her nose when you turned off the bathroom light and crawled into bed beside her.

“I couldn’t have asked for a more romantic anniversary, my love” you admitted as you carefully removed her glasses from her face and gently kiss her lips. “But there is nowhere I would rather be than at home with you and our beautiful daughter.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Returning the kiss.

As Natasha starts to fall asleep, she can’t help but recall the journey that brought her here. She used to have nothing. Indoctrinated into Red Room with no free-will. A ledger soaked with blood that she wanted more than anything to wipe clean. Then came the shot Clint didn’t take, the chance that Fury did, the found family that ultimately led her to you, and the miracle that is your daughter. Her family would always be there for her, and you and Mila were happy, healthy, and safe. She was better because of it. At last, Natasha Romanoff was at peace.

822 notes · View notes

hard-core-super-star · 7 months

Note

Hi rubix, love your writing btw!! so would I be able to request a wandanat x reader fic where it’s readers birthday and they don’t usually have time or people to celebrate with so Wanda and Nat decide to change that for this year and whisk her away to somewhere like Paris to celebrate and have a great time with some smut at the end 🫣

It’s my birthday in a few days and I’m in dire need of this 🤧

romance is not dead, if you keep it just yours [W.Maximoff; N.Romanoff]

pairing: top!natasha romanoff x bottom!reader x switch!wanda maximoff

summary: your girlfriends set out to make your birthday as memorable as possible.

warnings: smut -> minors, you know the drill, bye [threesome; smut so soft it borders on spicy fluff; like...one inch of plot; grinding; fingering [R receiving]; the daddy and mommy kink is implied but not explicit lmao; wanda's low-key a brat because...yeah :) ; clothed sex AGAIN because i think it's neat, okay?; cheesy ending...again]

wordcount: 2.2k

a/n: hi, lovely anon, thank you for the kind words! i hope i'm not too late with this but either way, i hope you had a fantastic birthday! also, you get the honor of having requested my first ever wandanat fic so that's cool. this was my first time properly sitting down and writing for them so let me know what you think! i really hope you enjoy <3

* * * * * * *

“Guess what.”

You look up from the book in your hands to find two pairs of expectant eyes on you. You’ve seen your girlfriends wear many faces since you met them and yet it never fails to surprise you when you catch a glimpse of the genuine joy they wear around you.

The one that makes your heart skip several beats and earns them both teasing comments from the rest of the team.

“What?” You ask as your eyes flicker back and forth between them and the proud grins on their faces.

Wanda playfully rolls her eyes at you. “That’s not how the game works, detka.”

“Come on, go easy on her,” Natasha comes to your aid for once, a subtle hint that even she must be excited about whatever news they’re hiding.

“Yeah, what Nat said.”

You and the redhead share a look that draws a soft chuckle out of your girlfriend. “Remind me how I’m the one who spoils y/n again?”

“Can you stop stalling and tell me what you’re hiding already?”

Your question earns both a glare and a laugh before you’re finally given the answer you’ve been searching for. Your girlfriends may love you more than anything else in the world but that will never stop them from teasing you like their life depends on it.

“So impatient…yes, fine, we convinced Tony to let us borrow one of his stupidly fast jets for tomorrow.”

Two pairs of green eyes watch your reaction expectantly only to find your face twisting into confusion. “Why?”

There’s a beat of silence where they both stare at each other, silently trying to figure out how to proceed. Clearly, they weren’t expecting you to question the exciting news they had brought to you.

It happens in a flash.

One second you’re sitting alone in bed and the next, your girlfriends are on either side of you, contradicting touches landing on your arms. It’s strange how easy it is to tell them apart. How cautious Natasha’s fingers still are when they trace random patterns onto your skin compared to Wanda’s gentle pressure as trails down to grab onto your hand, unmistakable tendrils of red magic moving to put your forgotten book back onto the shelf.

Natatsha’s the first to break the silence, all her earlier playfulness gone and replaced by subtle concern. “y/n, it’s your birthday tomorrow.”

“So?” You shrug. “It’s just another day.”

Wanda tightens her grip on your hand and successfully steals back your attention. “Nonsense, malyshka. You deserve to be celebrated.”

“Guys, it’s not a big deal,” you assure them. “I really don’t need anything. Plus, I have too many things to do.”

“Not anymore.” A sweet kiss is placed on your lips before you can voice your complaints. “We’re stealing you away tomorrow.”

“But what about-”

“Already talked to Steve.”

“And-”

“Kate will understand.”

“How-”

“Stop looking for excuses, detka.” Natasha rolls her eyes as she pulls you closer to her. “You’re coming with us.”

You want to argue, you truly do, but then Wanda’s gluing herself to your side, eager hands slipping under your shirt, and you quickly come to the conclusion that spending all day with them is the best way to spend any day.

Including a birthday.

Especially since you’re more than used to treating it like every other day of the year. It’s not that you don’t like celebrating it, you’re just always too busy to make real plans and no one’s ever thought to surprise you before.

But of course, your girlfriends aren’t like anyone else.

Which is how they manage to get you onto one of Tony’s jets, reminding you of the existence of time zones and how you have to leave right now if you want to make it to your surprise destination on time. You don’t really mind either way but you’re pretty sure you haven’t seen them this excited about something in a while so you go along with them anyway.

The jet ride seems never-ending despite how fast the aircraft is supposed to be. It doesn’t help that you’ve been having trouble sleeping peacefully the past few nights and Wanda’s running a hand through your hair in the way that makes you melt.

“You’re allowed to go to sleep, you know?” Natasha whispers with a teasing smirk. “We still have a long while to go.”

“Whose idea was this again?” You grumble as you drop your head down onto the redhead’s shoulder.

“Don’t be a brat, love. You’ll thank us when we get there.”

You bite back the rest of your complaints and sink into the sweet arms of a dreamless sleep. You miss the way your girlfriends watch over you the entire time as well as the long list of things they each want to see and the various ridiculous ways in which they propose to get everything done.

They ultimately agree to let you choose once you’re awake again…something that backfires when the jet finally lands and you’re still far off in dreamland. They go back and forth on whether they should wake you or not, especially since it’s morning where you've landed and the jetlag will definitely destroy you.

You look far too cute to rouse though so Natasha gathers you up into her arms with ease and carries you in her strong embrace the rest of the way.

When you finally do wake up, a few hours have passed and you're safe inside the lavish hotel room Wanda reserved using one of Tony’s endless credit cards. The change in scenery startles your drowsy mind before you feel familiar arms pulling you close.

“Look who finally decided to join us,” Wanda says softly as she easily pulls you onto her lap.

“Hi,” you mumble, tucking your head into the crook of her neck.

“Hi, darling. How's the birthday girl feeling? Still sleepy?”

“A little.” You let out a soft sigh as your girlfriend’s hands travel inside your loose shirt, slender fingers tracing random shapes onto your warm skin. “I’m sorry I ruined the trip.”

She scoffs and the sound instantly reminds you of Natasha which pulls a small smile onto your face. “You didn't ruin anything, detka. It's your birthday.”

You don't say anything in response and your girlfriend is quick to pull your thoughts away from their current trajectory. She keeps exploring your waist with one hand while the other one comes up to playfully tug on your hair.

“How about you stop hiding and look at your surprise, hm?”

It’s unclear whether it’s her words or her grip on your hair that makes you obey but neither of you mind. You reluctantly lift your face from its hiding place and let the green-eyed woman guide your gaze toward the large window of the room.

You gasp the second you realize where you are. “You guys brought me to Paris!”

Your excitement manages to break through your exhaustion which earns you a laugh from your loving witch. “Only the best for our girl.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Maybe a little.”

You turn your head at the sound of Natasha’s voice, eager hands reaching out for her instantly. Your silent request is instantly fulfilled and the redhead easily slips into bed next to Wanda.

“I can't believe you would do this for me.”

“Believe it, malyshka.” She leans forward and easily captures your lips with her own.

Wanda huffs as she’s left out of the moment, her hands wandering under your shirt once again. You're too lost in the kiss to notice where her fingers are going until they brush against your nipples.

The sensation makes you jump which makes you grind against the witch’s thigh in a way that leaves you gasping for air.

“That’s cheating,” Natasha warns after she pulls away from you.

“What happened to spoiling the birthday girl?”

This time, you're the one who gets left out of the moment as they fight for the control that always rests in the Russian’s hands. They get caught up in their knowing stares and bruising kisses, leaving you aching and panting for their attention.

It’s a game they love playing with you but you’re far too desperate already to last much longer without their hands on you.

Thankfully, Wanda decides to take pity on you. She gives your hardened nipples a soft tug, smirking against Natasha’s lips when she feels your hips buck once more. “I think someone’s feeling a little needy.”

The redhead turns to look at you, a perfectly raised eyebrow painting her face with the stern humor you've come to know so well. “Is that right, kotenok? Are you feeling needy?”

You nod, all the heat in your body rushing down from your face to between your thighs. “Please don’t tease.”

“Aw, look at that, Nat. You're not going to deny her when she looks like that, are you?” You're not sure if Wanda’s actually being genuine or not but you don't really care as long as she’ll help you get what you want.

“Who’s the brat now?” She chuckles before reaching out for you, pulling you onto her lap, and leaving behind a pouty Wanda. “Come here, let me give you what you want.”

The Russian is true to her words and wastes no time in sliding a hand past the waistband of both your pants and your underwear. Your complaints about the lack of sink-on-skin contact between you are forgotten as Wanda situates herself behind you, plump lips trailing feather-light kisses up your neck.

A gasp tumbles out of your lips once Natasha’s fingers finally find your drenched cunt. She moves slowly, almost too slowly, but you already know she’ll be quick to remind you to be patient if you dare whine.

“You don’t have to be so cautious, detka,” Wanda whispers against your flushed skin. “It’s your birthday, remember?”

“Don’t listen to her, it’s always so much better for you when you’re a good girl.” She easily slips two fingers into your waiting hole, barely holding back a laugh as your pussy swallows her digits.

Your hands grip her shoulders for stability while they both work in tandem to make you lose the last bits of control you still have over yourself.

The witch’s hands find their way under your shirt yet again except this time she’s gripping your hips and helping you move in time with the redhead’s movements. It’s the slowest, most agonizing, of dances and yet the pleasure has you arching your back in seconds.

“Look at you,” Natasha coos, taking a mental picture of how delicious you look writhing in Wanda’s arms. “You’re so pretty when you’re like this, malyshka.”

Your walls clench the second you hear the affectionate petname and the Russian can’t resist the urge to lean forward and attach herself to your neck. Her thrusts are still slow and steady but then finally, her thumb begins to circle your puffy clit.

Your head falls back against Wanda’s shoulder and she laughs as you practically go limp from the pleasure. “You’re gonna break her, ‘Tasha.”

“She likes it.” She punctuates her point by curling her fingers just right and pulling out a string of moans from deep within you. “Don’t you, darling?”

“Mhmm, please don’t stop.”

They share a look you don’t see but you do feel the evidence of yet another standoff. It’s like Wanda just can’t stop herself from pressing all of Natasha’s buttons when they’re like this. Which means it’s your job as their devoted girlfriend to let them turn your pleasure into a competition.

And they do just that.

Wanda’s grip on your hips tightens until her nails are digging into your skin and she’s practically forcing you to ride Natasha’s fingers. Natasha, for her part, increases the speed of her thrusts, launching you closer and closer toward your orgasm. She’s still drawing it out of you, though, still balancing speed with soft kisses and murmured praises.

It’s a strange combination but it works perfectly. Just like your relationship with them. It’s something that transcends words, something that can’t be explained, merely felt…and it’s also exactly what brings you to the edge.

“Nat…please…”

“Please, what, detka?” Wanda responds for your girlfriend.

“Can I cum? Please?”

You half-expect them to make you beg for a little longer but it seems your special day has left them more merciful than usual. Natasha’s lips make their way up your neck and onto your jawline until she reaches your lips and gives you the permission you’re searching for.

“Go ahead, cum for us.”

You’ve heard the words thousands of times and yet they make you fall apart like nothing else. The slow build-up finally reaches its peak with one more swirl of Natasha’s thumb against your clit and you literally fall face-first into your orgasm.

“Such a good girl, love. Always so good for us.”

Your response comes in the shape of a muffled whine as you bury your face into the redhead’s neck.

The sound makes both of your girlfriends smile and Wanda moves to sit on Natasha’s other side while they wait for you to recover. “I guess we’re not leaving the hotel any time soon.”

“Are you complaining, Maximoff?”

“Shut up.”

Their bickering makes you giggle. “Wanda’s being a brat again, Nat.”

“I know.” The green-eyed woman turns her head to press a barrage of kisses against the side of your face. “I think that means she can’t join us in the shower.”

The comment draws another complaint out of the young witch and you happily rest in your girlfriend’s arms while they start up another playful argument you’ll eventually have to get in the middle of.

You don't mind though, there's no other way you'd rather spend your birthday than with them.

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intheorangebedroom · 4 months

Text

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 2

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.

Two months have passed since your first time at the motel with Frankie. What has changed, what hasn't. Who are you now?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 PLEASE, see series masterlist for extensive trigger warnings.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 How are you all? Gentle reminder that our Reader is an OFC. In this chapter, we get to know her better, and there are indirect physical descriptions of her. Sincerest apologies to anyone who knows Tampa. I did a lot of research, but I'm afraid my ignorance will still show… I swear I did my best. Raul is real, though. He's a friend of a very dear friend and he lives in Paris.

@frannyzooey my love, as always, I am in your debt. Thank you for your help. I love you more than words 🧡

I hope you enjoy this one, Orange besties, it made me sweat blood, @dreamymyrrh and @pedrit0-pascalit0 had to listen to my constant whining to put me on life support. Ily 🧡

Word count: 8.6k

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Chapter 2: Closer

The traffic is dense, but you spot Ava’s red Toyota as soon as it turns into E 7th avenue.

On any given Saturday, the upbeat neighborhood is bustling with cheerful crowds of leisured weekenders and hip thirty-something. On this particular Saturday, the first after Thanksgiving, the streets are a vision from hell.��

There’s a constant ballet of cars pulling in and out along the curbs. On each side of the avenue, the sidewalks are swarming with jittery shoppers, frenetically prospecting for good deals on potential Christmas gifts. You’re willing to bet that most of them will stretch their budget thin on useless, meaningless knickknacks. Generic trinkets without soul nor purpose but that will, for the first half hour of ownership at least, fill the void in their consumers’ existence.

The traditional Christmas tree of unholy proportions is up and sparkling. Wrapped around the iron porch columns, electrical garlands blink in rapid sequences like luminescent spasmodic snakes. Storefronts are decorated with more or less taste. The temperature has dropped twice below 70. It’s that time of the year.

The merry season usually finds you adding a generous helping of anxiolytics to your daily cocktail of little helpers. This year, however, you haven’t popped a pill in days, and everything feels… more. Louder, too vivid, more oppressive. Sensations magnified and emotions amplified. Which is, after all, what you were aiming at when you unilaterally decided to taper off your intake.

Ava miraculously secures a free spot on the other side of the avenue, about a hundred yards in front of yours. You watch her parallel park, the maneuver surprisingly sloppy, given the parking assist technology the brand-new hybrid car is equipped with, and you wonder if you really needed to spend that much money on it.

In front of your own parked car, pedestrians agglutinate at the crosswalk. When the light turns green, they move as one, like flocks of extras on a movie set, coming to life on cue when the director yells “action!”

They’re not extras, however, each one of them is the main character in the movie of their life. Together they form a constellation of individual and interconnected stories, while you stand at the margin, forever exhausted, willfully forlorn. At best, a supporting part in Ava’s fantastic tale of eccentric adventures, but more likely a backdrop in your father’s gripping success story.

Although, your narrative has changed drastically over the past two months. You now got a part in your own right, unfolding in between takes.

You wait until Ava gets out of her vehicle before you exit yours, reluctant to leave the hushed safety of your old sedan’s cab, even for the few minutes it’ll take you to meet with her and step into the coffee place.

You wave at her from across the busy street until she sees you, but when she proceeds to jaywalk over to you, reckless and entirely indifferent to your pleading expression, you have to avert your eyes. There’s a crosswalk right in front of you, god dammit.

She levels up with you and pecks a kiss on your cheek, hitting your cheekbone with force, more headbutt than demonstration of affection.

“Hey,” she says, barely stopping in her tracks before she pushes open the glass door to the coffee shop.

“Hello, pup,” you answer fondly, your words lost to the street’s bustle.

Inside, the artificial air instantly pulls at your skin. The atmosphere is cool but dry, saturated with the smell of freshly grounded coffee beans and greasy-sweet pastries. The high-ceiling, cement floor, wide open-space is packed. The brick walls reverberate the ambient noises, and the late morning sun beams brightly through the large floor-to-ceiling windows, evenly spaced along the lateral walls. People sit in small parties around the white designer tables, sipping iced coffees from tall red paper cups with white snowflakes, large shopping bags at their feet.

Trying your best not to shrink and shrivel from the multiple overwhelming stimuli, you focus on Ava’s back, walking behind her as she leads the way to a free table at the rear of the coffee shop, between the counter and one of the windows. There’s a regal quality to her gait and the way she carries herself, not unlike your father, the resemblance enhanced by her preference for masculine clothing, and you have to love the irony, given how much she hates the man. She has your mother’s beauty, though. The same luxurious dark hair, fair, flawless skin, and wide green eyes, her frame tall, her figure athletic. She’s the masterpiece. Next to her, you look like a clumsy first draft, with blurry edges and hesitant features.

She throws her jean jacket on the back of her chair and collapses on her seat with a theatrical sigh.

Across from her, you sit down gingerly on the edge of the hard wooden chair, balancing your weight around the sore and delicious ghost sensation of Frankie between your hips.

“You look good,” you start.

“Yeah, you too!” she exclaims, like it’s unexpected, “tired but like, good. Are you getting any sleep?”

You smile, waving your hand dismissively.

“Don’t we have to go to the counter to order?”

“No, it’s fine,” she answers, “they serve at the table. I’m having an oat milk matte, what do you want?”

“An espresso, I think.”

Right on cue, a young woman dressed in a black cropped top and black skinny jeans presents herself at your table and proceeds to tap in your order on a rectangular electronic device. Her long acrylic nails hit the screen with a rapid succession of click-click-click. The sound brings you back to your parents' dining-room, the large table standing like an angular island on the shiny square of reflective tiles, in the middle of a shag carpet ocean. Your mother’s nails, painted in Revlon Desirable #150, rattling impatiently over the lacquered surface of the dining table near her untouched plate and a glass of G&T sweating with condensation. She never ate her food. She drank even when she was pregnant.

Your fingers find the back of your knee and pinch the thin skin there, so hard you flinch.

The waitress waltzes off, and Ava returns her full attention to you.

“I’m happy to see you,” she offers, and you smile softly at her uncustomary expression of affection. Your chest expends. “It’s been a while.”

There’s no reproach in her tone, but you are usually the one expressing ill-concealed concern over her long silences, and the reversal in your dynamic throws you off. Guilts gnaws at you. You choose defense.

“You were away.”

“Yeah, but like, I came back three weeks ago.”

Three weeks. Your smile fades and you slump in your chair, running a quick mental calculation.

Time has never been an easy concept for you to grasp, but until recently, you’ve managed to remain afloat and functioning, on a practical level at least, amidst a society that revolves around schedules and timetables. The watch on your wrist, yearly organizers, recently and reluctantly replaced by the iCal app on your phone, sticky notes, tin boxes filled with tickets stubs… All clutches to your failing memory, anything to keep you tethered against an overpowering and primal instinct to escape, let go, drift away. And perhaps, most of your exhaustion stems from this endless swimming-race against the current.

Lately, your inability to remember appointments, to navigate time and hold an effective grasp on reality has reached a new high. For the past two months, your life has revolved around Friday nights and the sound of a red pickup truck pulling in and out of a decrepit motel’s parking, tires screeching on the gravel. Inside this timeframe, your entire life is contained. Around it, the days stretch, spiral, and blend. And you’ve lost all motivation and interest in any counter-current swimming.

You frown slightly, scanning her face, but she doesn’t let on anything out of the ordinary. After all, if she genuinely worried, if she so badly needed to see you, she could have given you a call. You were the one to reach out and ask to see her this morning.

Something’s different about her, in the way she holds herself straighter on her seat, with her legs crossed and her head tilted to the side, exposing the undercut she got before the summer. You’re still not entirely sure if this was the bold fashion statement she claimed it to be, rather than a dramatic reaction to her girlfriend moving back to New York. With Ava, it could be both. She’s not wearing any makeup today, her face looks disarmingly young, and the concern she’s expressed, however subtle, churns your insides with guilt and affection.

You plaster a polite smile on your face.

“Well, I’m here now. It’s good to see you, too. Tell me, how was New York? How’s Polly?”

The waitress returns with the pastries and beverages you ordered, and Ava begins to narrate her two-week trip to the big city. She speaks fast, punctuating her words with large gestures to describe the cultural buoyancy, the hip neighborhoods and her thrifts finds, the street food and the refined, cutting-edge restaurants, how everything is bigger there, faster and better, how she fell safe walking hand in hand with Polly, the clubs, the galleries, the weather, crisp air and chilly winds from the north, a refreshing, comforting seasonality to pace the existence.

“I was fucking crying when I boarded the plane back, you have no idea.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” you sigh, shaking your head. “You don’t miss her too much?”

She doesn’t answer, and something in the way she avoids your gaze makes you frown again.

Polly and you have always gotten along well. You genuinely appreciate her solar personality and her worldly conversation. Their encounter four years ago had been the silver-lining in an otherwise horrendous year. The happy, coincidental consequence of a chain of events that had been years in the making.

When Ava dropped out of college halfway through her freshman year, it provided your father with the excuse he had been waiting for to kick his own child out of his house. You had seen it coming. In fact, you had spent your entire adult life shielding Ava from the paternal discontent, investing all your strength into becoming the son and successor he had wished for, and that neither of you could ever be.

Ava, however, had never put in the effort. She didn’t fit into the family portrait. She never had. You didn’t want her to, and she simply couldn’t. Too rebellious, decidedly unconventional, and, well, queer, to boot. Your father had spent years formatting you and there she was, standing proud, strengthened by your unconditional support, a glaring highlight of your diverging values, a breathing reminder of his failure with you both.

In the aftermath of the fall-out, Adrian had refused to take her in, and she had spent days out of your sight, sleeping god knows where. Eventually, you’d dug your heels in, as you only ever did when Ava was concerned and her wellbeing on the line, and obtained that she move in with you. The cohabitation hadn’t gone smoothly in the least. As usual, Adrian was more concerned about potentially upsetting your father than making you happy. You were once again caught between crossed fires.

The strained situation with your fiancé notwithstanding, Ava couldn't spend her time sitting idly at home. You had pleaded with her for weeks before she agreed to resume her studies. Only this time, it had to be with your funding. The realization that you didn’t have any consequential money of your own had been brutal, even though it shouldn’t have been a surprise: you lived in Adrian’s apartment, and were employed by your father, who refused point-blank to let you sell some of your company shares, knowing the money would go to his estranged daughter.

All you could afford was Hillsborough Community College, but things had eventually taken a turn for the better when Ava and Polly had met. Polly was teaching psychology, waiting for a tenure that she would never be granted. Because of the 20-year age gap between them, she insisted Ava graduate with her BA before they started properly dating. And when they did, the improvement in your sister’s mental state and overall balance was immediately noticeable.

Calm and collected, affectionate and thoughtful, Polly grounds your young sibling. She eases her anger and channels her energy into creative and fruitful endeavors, without snuffing her rebellious temper.

And now, despite Ava being almost fully independent, with a job and a place of her own, you don’t know what you’d do if they were to break up. If one of them were to decide that a long-distance relationship is not what she wants.

You lean forward, your hand coming to rest over hers, warm and smooth. “Hey pup, what’s up? Is everything ok between you two?”

“Oh yes,” she quickly assures you, withdrawing her hand, “and by the way, she sends you her best.”

Understanding downs on you like a bucket of ice. You suddenly feel stupid, pathetically naive, forever one step behind. Leaning back in your chair, you let out a short, soundless huff. What you’re facing is not a breakup, but the likely possibility that Ava will soon move out of town to follow Polly to New York.

Ava is talking again, about New York you’re guessing, but you can’t focus on her words. Behind your impassive eyes and your attentive smile, your mind reels and wrestles with a downpour of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Pride flares in your chest at the prospect of your baby sister setting roots in a city as intimidating as New York, but it tugs at something else, something you’re too scared to consider, and an ugly feeling you’re reluctant to acknowledge.

Would she hesitate before leaving you behind, after you’ve prioritized her freedom over yours? After you stayed so she could fly away? And wouldn’t it be the point?

Your eyes travel up along the trail of small tattoos adorning her forearms. Dominos, tea cups, a white rabbit with round glasses, a flamingo, several thin arrows, a broken heart in flames.

What’s your purpose, if she’s not here anymore? If someone else is looking after her? If your sacrifice is no longer necessary nor justified?

“How was Thanksgiving dinner? Did you have fun talking about politics with Richard?”

You wince involuntarily at your father’s name. She never refers to them as “mom” and “dad.” She hasn’t for a long while. But today the sarcasm doesn’t fool you, no more than her feigned indifference.

She’s not truly asking if you had to bite your tongue and smile through conversations that make you nauseous. She knows well enough you’ve got just enough political convictions to carry you to the voting poll, but hardly a step further. Listening to him is painful, but you get by, and your shameful silence buys you necessary peace.

No, what she wants to know is if your family inquired about her. And you don’t have it in you to answer that no, no one has, not last Thursday, not for the past four years, not ever. Not your indifferent father, nor your inebriated mother. Not your bigot grandparents, not your egotistic aunt and her gold-digging husband, not even the housekeeping staff.

You shrug noncommittally.

“Who were the guests of honor, this year?”

The question makes you groan and briefly close your eyes at the memory.

“Adrian’s parents.”

“No?! Fuck! They really want this marriage to happen, don’t they? Looks like you’re not gonna be able to dodge much longer.”

She smacks her hand over her thigh, letting out a short staccato of a chuckle, as if the subject of your confinement through marriage was a laughing matter. You glare at her, crossing your legs and folding your arms over your chest, but the shifting in your demeanor goes unnoticed.

Suddenly, her levity riles you up. She got away. You didn’t. And the only thing that carried you through this year’s Thanksgiving dinner is the perspective of being fucked senseless by a stranger on a dirty motel floor the following night.

For a brief moment, you’re tempted to bite, and retort that, contrary to her, you didn't spend the holiday on your own. But the truth is that you envy her the privilege, and she knows it.

Taking a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to calm your growing nerves, you stir the conversation towards another topic, finding neutral ground with her job. You’re stalling, and you’re not even good at it. You sit restless on that damn hard chair, squirming uncomfortably, sweat prickling under your armpits in the chill artificial air, eyes flicking down to your watch every other second.

“Do you have to be somewhere, or something?”

Your head shoots up. Again, you have no idea what she’s talking about, or how long she’s been rambling for. This is ridiculous. You are being ridiculous.

“Listen, Ava, I have to ask you something. A favor. I have to ask you a favor.”

Her eyes widen at your sudden change of tone but she nods. “Hit me.”

“I need you to… I need to be able to tell Adrian that I spend… that I spend Friday nights at your place. Actually, I’ve already been doing it for a while. He thinks we see each other on Friday evenings. I just… I need more time. I need the night.” You grip your shin with both hands and dig your nails in. “It really doesn’t matter anyway, he’s not home on Fridays, he plays poker and he never comes back until like, 3 or 4am, and I just need— I need to be able to come home after him. Not, like, every week. Or yes, maybe every week. Just in case. If ever. You know?”

She remains completely still and silent as you wrestle your words out of your throat. Her face hardens, her wide, green eyes strained on you. She gauges you in silence for another moment, while you rub your clammy palms on your jeans under the table. Above the table, you do your very best to maintain a casual air.

“And what exactly is it that you do, on Friday nights?”

You anticipated the question, of course you did. You swallow around the sharp stone stuck in your throat. Your eyes dart down to your espresso cup. It’s empty.

“I’m just taking a bit of time off for myself.”

More time, to commit his body and his face to your long-term memory after he’s left you, depriving you of his heat. The tiny bits of him that add up to form the formidable sum of the man he is. The locks that curl around his ears. The dip in his collarbone. The little target tattooed on his hand. You’re never sure which hand it’s on, you need more time, that’s all. And you won’t lie to her, not exactly. You set your mind on that early on. But you will not tell her the whole story.

A large shit-eating grin slowly parts her plump lips.

“Are you telling me that Richard’s favorite daughter is getting some side dick on a weekly fucking basis?”

“Jesus, Ava, why do you always have to be so crude?”

“But you are? Right? You are getting dicked down, every fucking Friday night? Right? Are you on Tinder, or something?”

“I’m not—” you start, but her excitement is louder than your exasperation. She uncrosses her legs to lean toward you, propping her elbows on the table and threading her fingers together, talking over you.

“Why didn’t you tell me? For once that something cool–”

“Because there’s nothing to tell,” you retort through clenched teeth, raising your voice. Her mouth hangs open in shock. You don’t give her time to recover. “And look, if you don’t want to do that for me, it’s fine, it’s not like anyone is going to call you to ask if I’m with you.”

She takes the blow, leaning back in her chair. “Wow. You really thought this through, didn’t you?”

You don’t answer, shame and anger burning your cheeks.

“Why you’re telling me now, then?”

“Like I said. In case.”

“I case what? In case I find myself on a Friday evening in the same place Adrian takes his cuntsluts?”

You steel yourself and stare at her.

“Something like that, yes.”

—

Two months.

Two months of lies and deception, shoving your bright secret deep down inside you, shrouded under a veil of routine and normalcy.

Nine weeks, split into six days of stretched out hours, swirling languid and excruciating, like smoke from a cigarette stub in a room without air, and one day of counting. The minutes, your steps, your breaths, your heartbeats.

Saturdays, worn-out, appeased, pleasantly aching. Sundays rising slow like a lurking threat. Mondays-Tuesdays-Wednesdays merging, dragging and useless. People talking to you, expecting words, when your mind is filled with two glistening bodies entwined in golden hues. A tremor on Thursdays, the nearing promise, and by Friday morning you’re all frayed nerves and aching want, tapping into your pent-up emptiness for focus and patience.

Friday evenings sliced up into a ritualized sequence of actions.

At 6pm, you leave your office and head toward the employees' underground parking. There are 37 steps from your desk to the two silver-doors elevators on the landing. Seventeen stories down, including 2 underground levels, and 58 steps from the elevators to your designated parking place. It is crucial that you don’t allow the pace of your steps to catch up with the racing thumps of your heart.

From downtown Tampa, it’s an hour and thirty-six minutes drive north on the 589, before you reach the motel. An hour and fifty minutes, two hours top, if the traffic’s bad. There might be faster alternative routes, but you don’t use the GPS, so you don’t know about them.

Once you’re there, you park in front of room number 7, the one with the missing brass number. You stuff your phone into your purse, which you slide under your seat.

You exit your car and walk towards the reception in short, hurried strides, cursing the tight skirt that hinders your steps and gives your posture a subdued aspect, which is probably why your father imposes the garment on his female employees.

The reception is a square room with an old humming AC unit, dark-brown fabric wallpaper, yellowing popcorn ceiling and a counter behind which sits Raul, the night clerk. Raul is a short man in his mid-60s. His dark eyes are reshaped into tiny concentric boot buttons by the thick lenses of his small, round glasses. His light brown, straight hair is styled in a bowl cut. He only wears beige Henley’s with rolled-up sleeves and indigo painter overalls. You’ve never seen his shoes.

Every week, Raul hands you the key to room number 2 without lifting his boot-button eyes from the charcoal drawing he busies himself over behind the counter, and tells you in a thick accent that “everything has already been taken care of.”

Every week, you thank Raul, grab the key from his stretched out left hand, and chance a glance over the counter to see what he’s drawing. Mountains, infallibly, week after week, the scenery only varying in shape and shades of anthracite.

And every week, as you exit the reception, you feel Raul’s boot-button eyes strained on your back through his round glasses.

When you step inside room number 2, you flick up the two toggle switches by the door, turning on the lights and the overhead fan, and you go to the bathroom to wash your hands and check your reflection in the antique black-edged mirror.

Then, you return to the room and you sit on the bed. That’s where you wait for him.

You don’t undress, you don’t lie down, you don’t undo the bed.

You know what he’ll do to your clothes. Anticipation trickles down along your spine all the way to the ripe heat between your thighs, and it travels right back up to tug up at the corners of your lips, but you press them together, lips and thighs, as you wait.

He comes in after dark, preceded by the sound of tires on gravel and that of his boots stomping on the porch and he’s here, Frankie’s here, the rush of night air from outside when he storms into the room wafting over your face.

He greets you with a hoarse voice, like he hasn’t used it all week, and he takes a couple of long strides towards the desk, where he sets down his cap. You peer at his reflection in the framed mirror when he combs his fingers through his dark curls, tense jaw, creased brow. You study his broad shoulders, the rippling muscles of his strong back, when he takes off his jacket and drapes it on the back of the chair, swift, precise gestures. It’s his own ceremonial, you let him have it, his transition into this world that you share. The confine of this room. Brown carpet, yellow curtains.

When he turns to face you, at last, it’s always with a heavy, grating sigh, a sound so rough and primitive to express his relief, his hunger, the limit of his patience. You stand up slowly, unfurling in slow motion from your sitting position on the edge of the bed, eyes on him, forever and always. His want radiates from him in colorful angry waves, like a tangible, virulent aura, black eyes boring into your skin and you welcome it as it pours out of him and creeps up to you like thick fumes.

You stand tall in the charged stillness of the motel room, offered, but not quite yet within reach, waiting for him to come and seize you.

“Take off your clothes,” he says as he comes closer, tilting up his chin. The command rumbles low and guttural from his throat, and those words are your cue. You clamber out of your statuesque stillness, twisting your ankles out of your pumps while he tugs at your blouse, as he crashes his lips onto yours.

His first kiss is voracious, unescapable, your face trapped between his cupped hands, and you’re engulfed in the taste of him, drowning in the scent of him, leather and soap and musk. And something metallic you have no name for. It’s intoxicating, you’re floating, losing both bearings and balance, like when you were thirteen, and you’d sneak to the downstairs pantry to drink your mother’s gin before dinner.

On some Friday nights, you’ve already made it back to your glass prison when you notice a tear in the seam of your shirt, or a missing button. “Take off those fucking clothes, I wanna feel your skin.”

“Yes,” you answer with parted lips, parted heart, parted life, jaunty fingers working your skirt open.

Beyond that point, neither of you talks much.

It’s his name –Frankie– falling from your lips, a long but quiet whimper when you come, a whine of pleasure-plain when he inches into you, a moan when you plead for more, a whisper when you promise you can take it all.

It’s his clipped orders, sharp and short.

Open up

Push back into it

Let me hear you

I want you to come on it

And two words, always the same since that first time in the parking lot.

Stop me.

Stop me when he pins your hands above your head or folds your arms in the small of your back, his fingers like shackles around your wrists, and he lines himself up. Stop me before his saliva drips down his tongue in fat drops between your breasts, and he straddles your chest. Stop me, when he closes a fist in your hair and slides you down along his hard length, your chest caving in under your gag reflex, beads of tears like precious shiny diamonds clinging to your lashes. Stop me when he angles your spine backwards with a sudden tug on your hair, when he bands an arm across your belly and ragdolls you to the floor to fuck you harder and deeper. Stop me when he ties your wrists to your ankles with the black zip ties that bite into your flesh.

Stop me with the flat of his hand pressing down between your shoulder blades, Stop me with his thumb teasing your tight ring, Stop me with your legs around his neck.

Those two words, a beacon guiding you through the week that precedes.

Sometimes, when you’re alone, you repeat them to yourself.

“Stop me,” you say, low and quiet, facing the mirror when you're applying makeup, staring straight into your eyes, so intently it twists your reflection.

“Stop me.” A whisper, and a slow-spreading, carnivorous smile that splits your face in two because someone, at last, wants you beyond reason.

Stop me. You will never stop him.

He fucks you twice, three times a night, before he leaves you covered in him, sated and sprawled on the rumpled bed around 2am, with a nod and a husked, “I’ll see you next Friday.” He sounds calm at last. Drained.

Once he’s gone, in the rumbling of the pickup’s engine and the screeching of the tires, your mental countdown to the next Friday is reset. You crouch into the narrow bathtub of dubious cleanliness, and ruefully wash him away in the trickle of hot water. You try to hold on to the thought of him, even more so than to the feeling of his touch. That’s what the soreness is for. It will stay with you until Monday at least.

But in your memory, his face is blurred. Only his sad angry eyes stand out, dreamlike, entrancing.

There's a conflicting distance beyond his hunger. An underlying restraint beyond his roughness. Withheld intimacy. A reluctance to give into your softest touches, when his forehead briefly rests on the plane of your chest, and you circle his neck, or carefully run your fingers through his sweat-soaked curls.

It doesn’t take a PhD in psychology to understand that if he wasn’t in here with you, he’d be somewhere else, doing something worse.

Some weeks, you go through strings of sleepless nights and restless days of anguish, your mind spiraling to the agonizing thought that you are nothing more to him than an empty and interchangeable vessel into which he can fuck his rage.

With masochistic thoroughness, you pull taut a red woolen thread to connect the clues of your insignificance.

He doesn’t name you. There are no sweet names, no terms of endearment, and he certainly never calls you Marion. The sounds he produces when he’s inside you, that’s your reward. Deep guttural grunts, and if you’re lucky enough, they resonate through your whole body when he holds you tight and close.

He never comes inside you. Where do you want it? he pants, when his hips start to fall out of pace. “Mouth,” you quickly answer, always, a greedy match for his gritty ways. And most times, he obliges. Flips you around or scoot over you and shoves his pulsating cock into your warm, wanton mouth.

But sometimes, he doesn’t. The thick pearly white ropes of his spend spurt over your back, your belly, your chest. That’s when he’s got a mind to rub it into your skin. That’s when you want to believe he might have chosen you to be here with him.

In those scarce instances, you are tempted to rely on your instinctual understanding of your relationship. Far from the toxic codependency that, according to Ava, you feed into with Adrian, what you share with Frankie is elsewhere entirely. Week after week, he presents himself before you, visibly wounded, willing to offer exactly as much as he needs to receive. The balance is perfect. No travesty, complete equality. The purest form of interaction. The most honest transaction you’ve ever taken part in.

And thus, no matter how remote he may seem on some nights, no matter how dark his eyes, how clouded his gaze, or how brutal his hold, you can’t help but feel safe.

The feeling thrums underneath your skin and finds an echo in his bloodstream. You hear it in your shared silence, when you lie side by side on the bed and stare emptily at the ceiling, chests heaving, bodies cooling off. When a shiver rakes through you, he gets up and turns off the overhead fan. Walks over to the bathroom to bring you a glass of water.

He’s given you everything you wanted and didn’t know how to ask for.

And when he looks you in the eyes, he doesn’t blink.

Stop me, he says, and what you hear is, Trust me.

He’s been quick to learn your body, and he’s greedy with your highs. He keeps you pinned down onto the threadbare linen with his mouth fastened around your cunt until your legs tremble and your throat is hoarse with your repeated high-pitched moans, the stubble on his cheeks scraping the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. Bestowing pleasure, drinking it right back.

Your body expands into new sensations, after years of a dormant existence, curled up within your outer shell into the tightest ball, the smallest possible shape. You’re spreading, stretching into your limbs, filling them in. Growing nerve endings that shoot farther along your extremities with each fiery kiss, each starving touch, each orgasm, like trees rooting in beautiful, intricate ramifications.

The wild creature nestled between your lungs has a mind of its own. You’re developing emotions unknown to you until now.

The tranquil contentment he leaves you with when he steps back into the night and closes the door behind him rapidly fades over the following days. By Sunday evening, there’s nothing left of it, and you find yourself shivering, deprived of his heat, unsettled, agitated.

Your mind wanders to her. The faceless, nameless woman he drives back to after you’ve fucked each other free of your pain.

Envy, tinged with hatred, pours ugly inside your chest, pressing against your rib cage, hindering your breathing, its heavy particles tainting your oxygen.

Does he handle her with reverence? Does he use sweet names to beckon her into his embrace? Does he spit in her mouth, does she beg him to? Does he rub his spend into her skin, or does he stuff her pussy full of his seed?

Whenever you loosen the grip on your thoughts, you’re brought back to a large reception room on the last floor of another glass prison, stilettos wounding your feet, strangers with empty smiles and cruel eyes drinking from crystal champagne glasses. The excruciating misery of having to interact with Adrian’s colleagues, laughing at golf jokes you did not understand, desperate to fit in. Fighting your survival instinct, to tether yourself and not present a blank stare to those people you were supposed to impress. As Adrian’s fiancée. As your father’s daughter.

The effort seemed worth it, then. You were in love. Or so you thought. In hindsight, you’re not certain anymore. Reinterpreting your past is a temptation you try not to succumb to. In more then one way, you still love him.

There was a hushed tremor in the faceless assembly of tuxedos and cocktail dresses, and you saw her entering the room, parting the crowd. Slender, swaying, lush honey blonde locks and incandescent hazel eyes. Junior partner at Adrian’s firm, quickly climbing the ranks, flawless makeup and oozing self-confidence, she smoked Vogue cigarettes and when your gaze returned to Adrian, everything fell into place. You knew with a chilling certainty that this formidable young woman was fucking your boyfriend.

Adrian had had a couple of flings in the past, but this one was different. He fell for her hard, a grown man in a teenage-like trance. Your blood left your face when you realized everyone else in the penthouse, and most likely in the firm, could see what you were seeing.

You decided then and there that you were never going to marry him, regardless of what he or your father would threaten you with.

But even then, what you had experienced wasn’t jealousy. You’d felt trapped, and yes, betrayed. Wounded, in what little self-esteem you possessed. Thoroughly defeated. But you did not feel jealous.

You understand it now, and every time you think of Frankie’s touch grazing the faceless woman. Every time you torture yourself into considering the nature of their bond and the depth of their attachment.

Would Frankie look at you the way Adrian looked at her? With blunt desire, unabashed, irrepressible thirst? With belonging? Would people around you know? Would they identify you as lovers?

After all, a single glance had been enough for him to take you from a bar, to a parking lot, to a motel. To make you desperate to mean something to him.

Does he miss you outside your shared time? Does he think of you? Does his mind wander to your skin in the blue morning hours, does he try to name your scent?

Deep down, you are no fool. If there’s one thing you’ve always known in this life, it’s your place.

But some Friday nights are more dangerous. They give you too much hope. Prompting you to call your sister, for instance, and risk your little secret so you can spend more time in the small room with the yellow curtains. Wrap yourself in the dirty sheets that bear his musky scent, instead of jumping into the shower. Linger into that breach of your life’s continuum. Extend the delusion.

Last Friday, he buried his face into your core and drew violent waves of release that he kissed back into you, swirling his tongue into your mouth to coat it with your taste.

His face was shiny with your slick and his body glistening with sweat in the soft yellow hues from the bedside lamps, when he got up to the desk and slid his belt out of the loops of his pants.

Your eyes grew wide, but not with fear.

He placed you face down on the bed, with your arms along your chest, and he trapped your body with the belt. You accompanied his movements, docile, curious, without apprehension. The metal buckle was cool on your feverish skin, and the leather smelled like him.

Stop me. He was hard and thick, and he fucked into you in long, thorough strokes, dragging the round tip of his cock along your clenching walls, slamming his hips into the swell of your ass. With his thumb pushing into your asshole and his hand around the belt to keep you where he needed you to lie still.

You came in seismic tides that quaked along your body in concentric ripples, from your wrung out core to the extremities of your fingers and toes. The sound that came out of your throat was unrecognizable, and perhaps it was his. Your mind tipped over into unconsciousness. When you resurfaced, his cock was rubbing in the cleft of your cheeks, his come leaking down the curve of your back, mixing in with your combined sweat, his chest pressing down onto your shoulder blades.

You felt his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, hot breath searing his choked up words into your soul.

“You’re a good girl. Say it. Say you’re a good girl.”

“I’m— I’m—“

“That’s it, say it for me.”

He was lying heavy on top of you, sinking you into the mattress, his belt buckle digging into your side. This was going to leave a mark.

“I’m a good girl.”

“You’re my good girl.”

You will never stop him.

—

Sitting on the edge of the bed, with your back straight and your ankles crossed, you wait. Eyes on the yellow curtains, darting beyond the dusty fabric into the warm December night. It’s yours. All of it. Yours until morning.

There’s the faintest hint of a bad taste sitting on the back of your tongue. Coppery, bloodlike. It comes in waves every time you remember how you twisted your baby sister’s arm into covering for you. But the night is yours. You swallow hard, force a smile. You want to be guiltless, for once.

“Polly says you’re overly secretive. That you like to live ‘hidden between the folds of life’, as she puts it. Something about culpability being a coping mechanism…”

The words, delivered flatly after you’d stubbornly diverted and defused all her questions, had cut through the most tender parts of your flesh.

“Is that her professional opinion?” you had retorted, your chin tilted up as if you were not bleeding inside.

You swallow hard again. If you close your eyes, if you concentrate, you can almost hear it. The pickup’s engine, bolting down the asphalt, bringing him into your needy arms. You can feel the heat radiating from his solid chest and seeping into your body through your palms, resting empty and upwards on your lap. Your tongue tingles with his tangy taste, a trail of goosebumps breaks across your skin, anticipating his caress.

Frankie.

The daydream that carries you through the week, carries you through that very last stretch.

Until the man himself storms into the room like bad weather. Dark, electric, a standing threat.

One look at his face and you know. It’s going to be one of these nights that make you doubt everything.

At first, the change in the script is barely perceptible. There is no gentle acclimatization, no ceremonial, no tacitly shared ritual. He doesn’t face away to let you observe his reflection in the mirror. But he looks like he hasn’t slept since last Friday. The crease in his brow is forbidding, his eyes are too bright, too clouded, circled in black and you’re dizzy with the distance you find there. Tension rolls out from his taut muscles underneath his clothes and you stand up, alert, if not entirely ready.

“Get naked,” he growls, tugging his gray t-shirt over his head, his trucker hat falling to the floor and tonight, you miss your cue.

Instead, you come closer, extending your hands towards him. You call him in a murmur, Frankie, but the wild thumping of his heart under your trembling palms cuts you short.

The light flickers in his eyes, so you hang in brave, hang onto the thread of your touch, sliding your hands up his burning chest. He stills. His gaze focuses on you for the first time since he came in. Your fingertips brush lightly along his collarbone, to the dip at the base of his neck, where they linger, underlining the hollow shape of it, skating around his neck to his nape. His brow shifts, his jaw ticks, and you draw him in for a kiss.

He jolts when your lips meet his. His hands grip your hips, rough and desperate. This is the part where you melt into him, surrender to his touch, but tonight the balance is tipped off. He licks into your mouth with a pained, muffled whimper, and your eyes remain open.

You’re powerless, powerless to get to him and bring him back to you from wherever the hell he may be. And his distance settles between your two bodies, an invisible partition. It stands erect and opaque, projecting its shadow over you when he lies you down on the synthetic quilt and dives between your hips. His ministrations are detached, performative, mechanical. There’s no contained urgency in his handling of you. Empty touches, empty silence, and you orgasm weakly, the sensation floating on the surface of you.

You can sense him, trapped behind his black eyes and this damn crease that splits his face above them, only you can’t reach him. He won’t let you. For every one of your attempts at a caress, at tenderness, is rejected by a shrug, a push of his hand, a shake of his head.

Sweat breaks on his forehead and dampens his curls as he becomes restless, showing none of the familiar signs of the relief he finds in your release, when he hums softly into you, lapping at your entrance to capture what you offer him, what he drew from you. Impatience and desperation roughen his grip on you. He shoves you to the head of the bed and you scramble, sliding on the slippery quilt, curled on your side, until you’re caged between his rigid body and the headboard.

There’s no warning, no Stop me, when he lines himself up with a stifled groan. You bury your face into the pillow and bite down on it to muffle the pain when he splits you open. He starts rutting into you with unrestrained strength, forcing through the vice grip of your tight cunt around his hard length. You try to relax into it. That’s all you ever want, for him to fill you up, to be inside you and around you, but that’s the thing: he’s not touching you. Not really.

Instead of gripping the curve of your hips, or kneading your breast, or lying between your shoulder blades, his hands are clenched on the headboard, white knuckled. His bent knee doesn’t quite touch your folded legs, his hips don’t even slap against the swell of your cheeks.

“Frankie,” you try, but your voice comes out thin as a ripping thread. It’s immediately drowned under the sounds filling the room, the creaking of the bed, his strained breathing.

“Frankie,” you call again, louder this time, reaching to the side to grab his thigh.

He jerks at the contact, sliding out of you with a hiss like you just burned him with a red-hot iron. You grab the side of the headboard to haul yourself up. Behind you, you feel him falling back on his knees. For a few seconds, you can’t bring yourself to move. You remain hunched over, fingers wrapped so tightly on the hardboard, your nails digging into the cheap, tender wood.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, and you turn around to face him.

Your heart sinks and chatters at the sight of him, of his glassy, pleading eyes that won’t meet yours. His chest heaves with exertion, and the weight of something else. He grazes a palm over his face, tilting his head down.

“I hurt you. I fucking hurt you, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Tonight, this is it. These words are your cue.

“No,” you start, scooting closer to him as he shakes his head, exhausted, isolated. The gesture no longer carries the warning it did as he was about to succumb. It’s a measure of his failure, of the depth of his defeat, and it chills you to the bones.

“No,” you repeat, stronger, and you offer him the only lifeline you know.

Closing the physical distance, you straddle his lap and wrap your arms around his shoulders. When his body stiffens, you harden your hold.

“Frankie… Frankie…” you coo, again and again, like his name holds the solution, and all of your devotion. You say it as you press your forehead to his, as you rub your cheek against his stubble, as you nuzzle the sharp edge of his nose, and trace his plush lips with yours.

Until his shoulders sag under your embrace, until you feel the choked up breath that quakes his chest, you keep repeating his name. A few minutes, or an infinity of seconds, time doesn’t matter anymore. The night is yours, your skins are glued together in the soft yellow light.

His arms circle your waist, hesitant at first, but you encourage him, raking your fingers through his hair, twining them into his soft curls. He lets you, he gives in, tucking his face in the crook of your neck. He inhales you there, raising the soft hair on your nape. His voice is broken when he speaks.

“I’m not–”

“Frankie don’t, please don’t,” you cut in.

You know the words that are piling bitter and desperate on his tongue, know them on an instinctual level. You feel them swirling, black and hopeless inside his head, you’ve known them from the very beginning, recognized them in the sadness of his angry stare. And you won’t let him pronounce them inside this room you share, you won’t let him give them any kind of substantiality. Not between your arms, not against your skin.

“I’m not hurt,” you begin, pulling back to see his face, to look into his eyes and sink your words of hope and faith into him, past the barrier of remorse and regret, “I want everything you–” but his brow furrows deeper as he clenches his eyes shut, and you trail off.

Panic briefly floods your brain. You’re acutely aware of your shortcomings and limitations, of all the things you’ve never been taught growing up. How to translate feelings into words, how to express compassion, how to care for others. How to be heard.

You take a deep, shaky breath, your breasts pushing into his chest.

“Look at me, Frankie baby. Look at me. Let me–”

Let me in. Let me be yours. Let me mean something.

Your plea dies on your tongue when his eyes shoot open. They shine with unshed tears, pierced by a ray of light from the bedside table, and for the first time, you see that they’re not black. They were never black. His eyes are brown, a deep, rich, precious mahogany brown. The color paints your vision, it flows into your bloodstream and courses along your veins. It spreads into your heart, gets tangled in your soul. Around you, the whole world disappears, along with everyone in it. There is only him, his mahogany eyes brimming with tears, and the feeling of his hot, damp skin against yours.

His arms wrap tighter around your back, his warmth seeps into your bones. His hands find purchase on your curves, drawing you closer.

“I want you so badly to be real,” he whispers, quiet and pained, like he can’t ask you this much, but you know that, for him, you’re willing to be.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again.

Swallowing down the tremor in your throat, you give him a tender smile, tinted with gratitude, colored with praise. You cup his face, fingernails scratching at the heart-shaped patch on his jawline. His eyes flicker down to your lips, and you give him what he needs, leaning in to press them to his.

Underneath you, his length throbs with unreleased hunger, and you sway your hips over it. He moans against your lips, the vibration trails down to your core like hot, liquid amber. His tongue peaks out, and you open up for him, like you always have, like you always will. A grating sound comes out of his throat, an echo of your gratitude, a mirror of your pain, a reflection of your loneliness.

He breaks the kiss to lift you up gently, helping you find friction with his cock sliding between your folds, where it pulsates hard and thick against your clit. Your limbs turn to molasses, toffee soft and sticky, but your hips lock into a slow, languid rhythm, slick pooling down on him as you stroke him between your two bodies. His right hand skates up flat along your spine, to settle on your nape.

He draws you in closer, closer than you’ve ever been. His heart beats inside your chest, enveloping the purring wild creature you still can’t name or tame.

“Make us come, baby.”

A dry sob undulates up to your throat. Your eyes fill with hot tears, they spill against his temple. Mahogany explodes inside your brain. The night is yours.

“Yes, Frankie.”

“Make us come together.”

****

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tosomeonessomeone · 4 months

Text

Ocean.

words・2.1K/pairings・Hyunjin x reader / genres・angst, fluff? / warnings・ none His recent Instagram post sparked my inspiration, and when I heard the song "Oceans" by Jeena, I felt it resonated perfectly.

In the heart of Paris, a city that pulses with life even in the quiet hours, I found myself standing by the Pont Neuf, the oldest standing bridge across the Seine. The streets around me buzzed with activity as people hurried to their destinations, their voices blending into a cacophony of sounds that filled the air.

Under the enchanting veil of a Friday night, the sky above Paris shimmered with the twinkling lights of countless stars. And there, amidst the urban hustle and bustle, I stood alone, a solitary figure bathed in the gentle glow of the streetlights.

With the ancient stones of the Pont Neuf beneath my feet, I looked up, my eyes drawn to the celestial marvel of Jupiter, gleaming brightly in the expanse of the night sky. Its presence seemed to hold a silent promise of adventure, beckoning me to lose myself in the mysteries of the universe.

As the cool breeze swept through the streets, carrying with it the faint scent of the Seine, I felt a sense of tranquility wash over me. For in that fleeting moment, beneath the canopy of stars, I was reminded of the beauty that exists in the quiet moments of solitude.

The city lights danced around me, casting shadows that played along the cobblestone streets. And as I stood by the bridge, entranced by the timeless beauty of Paris at night, I found solace in the simple act of being, embracing the vastness of the universe that stretched out before me.

As September draws to a close, memories flood your mind like waves crashing against the shore. It was during this same month that you first met Hyunjin, a passionate soul whose fire burned fiercely. Your encounter sparked something within you, a flicker of hope that perhaps you could weather the seasons together.

Seated in a cozy cafe on a crisp September evening, you find yourself lost in reverie, thoughts drifting back to that fateful day. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the gentle hum of conversation around you, setting the stage for reflection.

Suddenly, the cafe door swings open, and Hyunjin breezes in with an infectious energy that lights up the room. Spotting you sitting by the window lost in thought, Hyunjin approaches with a warm smile.

"Hey there! Mind if I join you?" Hyunjin's voice carries a playful charm that instantly lifts your spirits.

Surprised but delighted by Hyunjin's arrival, you welcome him with open arms. As Hyunjin settles into the seat opposite, a sense of nostalgia fills the air, tinged with the magic of your first meeting.

Lost in conversation, you and Hyunjin reminisce about that unforgettable day, recalling the autumn leaves and the crisp September breeze that brought you together.

*A year ago*

As September painted France with the vibrant hues of autumn, you found yourself strolling through the corridors of a museum, captivated by the masterpieces adorning its walls. The air was alive with the whispers of history, each brushstroke telling a story of its own.

Lost in the beauty of the artwork, you paused before a particularly striking piece, your eyes tracing the intricate details with reverence. It was then that you noticed someone beside you, equally engrossed in the painting's allure.

"Quite breathtaking, isn't it?" a voice remarked, drawing your attention away from the canvas. You turned to find a stranger standing beside you, his eyes alight with the same admiration that mirrored your own.

You offered a tentative smile, struck by the familiarity in his gaze. "Absolutely mesmerizing," you replied, unable to tear your gaze away from the artwork's magnetic pull.

The stranger nodded in agreement, a shared appreciation for art bridging the gap between you. "I've always been drawn to the way artists capture the essence of life within their work," he remarked, his voice soft yet impassioned.

"Likewise," you replied, feeling a connection spark between you like a flame in the darkness. "There's something profoundly beautiful about the way art transcends time and space, speaking to the soul in ways words cannot."

The stranger's eyes sparkled with intrigue, a silent invitation to delve deeper into the mysteries of the art world. "I couldn't agree more," he said, a hint of curiosity coloring his tone. "Do you come here often?"

You shook your head, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. "No, actually. This is my first time visiting this museum. I suppose I was drawn here by the allure of the unknown."

The stranger's lips curved into a smile, his gaze warm and inviting. "A fellow seeker of the unknown," he remarked, his words tinged with amusement. "Well, I'm glad our paths have crossed today."

And in that moment, amidst the hallowed halls of the museum, you knew that your encounter was more than mere chance. It was the beginning of a journey filled with shared passions, whispered conversations, and the timeless beauty of art that would bind your hearts together in the months and years to come.

"And the way you smiled when our eyes first met," you muse, your voice tinged with fondness. "It felt like the beginning of something special."

Hyunjin nods in agreement, his eyes alight with affection. "It definitely was special. You brought so much light into my life, you know? I never expected to meet someone like you."

The warmth of Hyunjin's words envelops you, filling your heart with gratitude for the serendipitous encounter that changed your life forever.

Your hands intertwine across the table, a silent promise of solidarity and love. "Here's to weathering the seasons together, through every storm and every sunset," Hyunjin declares, his gaze unwavering.

"Cheers to that, my dear," you echo, your heart overflowing with love. In that moment, as you share a tender smile, you know that your bond is stronger than any memory and that your love will endure through the changing seasons of life.

But as time passed, your relationship with Hyunjin became tumultuous, marked by tears and turmoil. His intensity mirrored a raging fire, while you, like the ocean, sought to soothe and calm. Yet, despite your efforts, he remained locked in a cycle of passion and pain.

One evening, as the weight of the tension between you hung heavy in the air, you found yourselves sitting across from each other in the dimly lit confines of your shared apartment.

Hyunjin's brows furrowed with frustration as he paced back and forth, his movements agitated like flames dancing in the wind. "I just don't understand why you can't see things from my perspective," he exclaimed, his voice laced with exasperation.

You watched him, the ache in your heart matching the intensity of his words. "Hyunjin, I'm trying," you replied softly, your voice a gentle whisper against the storm brewing within him. "But we can't keep living like this, constantly at odds with each other."

He turned to face you, his eyes ablaze with emotion. "I know, I know," he muttered, his tone heavy with regret. "But it's like I can't control it. The fire inside me, it just consumes everything in its path."

Your heart ached at his words, the depth of his pain echoing in the caverns of your soul. "I understand, Hyunjin," you murmured, reaching out to touch his trembling hand. "But we need to find a way to break free from this cycle, to find peace amidst the chaos."

He sighed, his shoulders slumping with the weight of the world upon them. "I don't know if I can," he admitted, his voice raw with vulnerability. "But I don't want to lose you, either."

Tears glistened in your eyes as you met his gaze, the ocean of your emotions crashing against the shores of his fiery resolve. "We don't have to have all the answers right now," you said softly, your words a lifeline in the darkness. "But we can start by facing this together, one step at a time."

And in that moment, amidst the tempest of emotions that raged within you both, you found solace in the knowledge that love, like the ocean, has the power to quench even the fiercest of flames.

His words echoed in your mind as you recalled the depth of your connection, the highs and lows that defined your love. Hyunjin’s fiery temperament clashed with your tranquil nature, leaving you both adrift in a sea of emotions.

In the midst of a heated exchange, Hyunjin's voice reverberated with frustration, pleading for understanding. "Why can't you see things from my perspective, huh? You're always so calm, so distant!" he exclaimed, his tone filled with desperation.

Attempting to maintain composure, you responded in measured tones, urging for a more peaceful resolution. "Hyunjin, yelling won't solve anything. We need to talk about this calmly," you reasoned, hoping to soothe the rising tension.

Yet, Hyunjin's anguish persisted, his words a poignant reflection of his inner turmoil. "But you never understand! You never feel the way I do!" he lamented, his voice tinged with sorrow.

Reaching out with empathy, you acknowledged the struggle of navigating differences in temperament. "I do understand, Hyunjin. I just express it differently. We're different, but that's what makes us work, isn't it?" you offered, seeking common ground amidst the discord.

Amidst the emotional turbulence, Hyunjin confessed his feelings of isolation, expressing the weight of his emotions. "It's hard, though. Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning in my own emotions," he admitted, his vulnerability laid bare.

As the echoes of your conversation lingered in the air, you couldn't help but feel the gravity of the moment. You couldn’t stay in the suffocating atmosphere of your shared studio any longer. With a heavy heart and a mind clouded with uncertainty, you stepped out into the cool night air, walking aimlessly through the labyrinthine streets of the city until you found yourself standing on a bridge.

In the quiet of the night, with only the soft murmur of the river below to keep you company, you found solace in the solitude. The city lights shimmered like distant stars, casting fleeting shadows upon the rippling surface of the water.

As you stood there, the weight of your shared history with Hyunjin hung heavy in the air, tugging at the edges of your consciousness. You couldn’t help but contemplate the depths of your bond, the intricate threads that kept you tethered together even in the midst of turmoil.

In the silence of the night, you longed for peace—for a moment of respite from the storm that raged within your hearts. The bridge stretched out before you like a lifeline, offering a fleeting glimpse of serenity amidst the chaos of your thoughts.

With each passing moment, you felt the weight of the world slowly lifting from your shoulders, replaced by a sense of clarity and resolve. You knew that the road ahead would be fraught with challenges, but in that solitary moment beneath the starlit sky, you found the strength to face whatever lay ahead.

As you stood there, alone yet not entirely alone, you whispered a silent prayer into the night, hoping for a glimmer of hope to guide you through the darkness, and a beacon of light to lead you back to the shores of peace and tranquility.

With each whispered prayer, you surrendered to the mysteries of the universe, trusting that in its infinite wisdom, it would guide you towards the shores of peace and understanding. For beneath the canopy of stars, amidst the vastness of the cosmos, you found solace in the certainty that your love was a force as timeless and enduring as the universe itself.

You knew, deep within your heart, that this moment of solace wasn't the end of the journey. In the midst of turmoil, clarity whispered to you, reminding you of the intricate dance between your calming waves and his fierce fire.

Standing beneath the starlit sky, engulfed in the tumult of your emotions, a familiar presence by your side stirred your senses. Though no words were exchanged, you sensed his presence, an unspoken acknowledgment of your shared turmoil.

Tears welled in your eyes, silent messengers of the emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. And then, in the stillness of the night, Hyunjin stood before you, his silhouette a reassuring beacon amidst the darkness.

Gently, almost instinctively, he reached for your hand, his touch a balm to your wounded soul. With a tenderness that spoke volumes, he drew you into his embrace, enveloping you in the warmth of his love.

In that moment, as his arms encircled you, you felt a sense of peace wash over you, a fleeting respite from the storm that raged within. In his embrace, you found solace, a sanctuary amidst the chaos of your emotions.

And as you nestled against his chest, the weight of the world melted away, replaced by the quiet comfort of his presence. For in that sacred embrace, you knew that together, you could weather any storm, navigate any tempest that threatened to tear you apart.

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onetimetwotimesthreetimess · 4 months

Note

Hi!

Alec breaking out "becoming the Consul" news to Magnus and Magnus's reaction to it. Also, some flirting and fluff surrounding it.

The first official task Alec fulfils as the new Consul of the Clave- In Exile is to ensure that everyone finds a place to sleep for the night.

Their world is currently burning, and tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that is going to be another crisis in itself.

But for now, they all need to rest.

Some of them shift into the New York Institute temporarily. Some shadowhunters have families across the world so they go there. Clary opens up a few portals for the ones remaining to move to other institutes.

So many of them are still left adrift and Clary alone cannot open this many portals. Alec sees the worry and exhaustion on her face and decides that this is it. They would need a few warlocks to get this process done.

But they don’t have anyone right now. What happened in Alicante, is still between the shadowhunters. The rest of the shadow world does not know yet.

Alec has decided that tomorrow morning, they will announce it to the world. And then the rest of the Downworld can decide which Clave they want to be a part of.

He knows, with a guarantee that would stand with him. The downworlders have decided not to be part of the council meeting because of the registry.

It’s not a question of who they will choose. But albeit, everything needs to be official.

As they wind down, even amidst the chaos, Alec had requested his siblings and friends to not inform Magnus about it.

Alec wants to be the one to tell him. He’s dying to witness the look on his face.

Izzy had whined because she already had a party planned at his loft. But she’d understood.

From tomorrow onwards, Alexander Gideon Lightwood will belong to the world.

Tonight, he just wants to be Magnus’s.

“Clary, you okay?” He asks her softly.

She smiles at him. “I am, boss man.”

He blushes, “Shut up.”

Clary peers at him and he sighs because he knows that she knows that he wants to ask something from her.

“What do you want?”

“A portal.”

“To the loft?”

He shakes his head. “No. Paris.”

Clary raises an eyebrow, “Why?”

“Can’t tell you.”

Her face changes, and a grin appears on it. In moments like this, he loves her like anything. She reminds him of his siblings. Of people he’d sworn to protect.

And people who annoy him more than anything.

“If you want a portal, you need to spill.”

“I hate you.”

“I’ll live,” she grins.

“Fine,” he accepts defeat because he needs that portal right now. He shifts closer to her and tells her everything. He’d assumed she would act cocky, but a gentle and soft smile appears on her face.

“You two deserve this,” she breathes and opens up a portal for him.

“Thank you,” he kisses her head and enters through the portal.

“Alec!!” She says loudly as he’s about to leave.

“Yeah?”

“Get that dick.”

Alec rolls his eyes and turns back.

He’s at Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, a small park situated in North-Eastern Paris.

They came here for an evening stroll last year. There’s no specific reason Alec chose this place. Just that it was in Paris.

There’s a whoosh behind him and he turns, and Magnus enters through a portal.

“Alexander?”

As easy as breathing, not even voluntarily, his face breaks into a smile as his eyes land on the man.

“Hi, baby.”

Magnus closes the distance and stands infront of him.

“Everything okay?” He asks. “Why did you call me here? Not that I mind a late-night picnic here. But how did the meeting go? You told me you will tell me all about it when you come home.”

Before he tells Magnus all of it, he needs something else. Alec throws his arms around Magnus’s neck and breathes him in.

The image of Cohort children with swords in their hands still haunt him. It’s been a terrible, terrible day and Alec needs to just feel Magnus for a few minutes.

“Sweetheart?” Magnus speaks softly against his neck but he wraps his arms around his back and pulls him closer.

Alec relaxes against his body and revels in the comfort.

The world might be going to shit but Alec’s world stands as perfect as always.

They pull back a few moments later and Magnus cups his cheeks. “Hi, my love.”

He smiles back. “Hey.”

“Is everything alright?” Magnus asks, raising his hand and brushing Alec’s hair with gentle fingers. “I can’t imagine everything went well today.”

“It didn’t.”

“How did it go?”

“You want the long version or the short version?”

Magnus replies sufferingly, “I cannot pretend to care about Clave politics so the short version.”

Alec chuckles softly, “The Clave broke-up.”

Magnus raises an eyebrow, “Broke up?”

“Yep.”

“Like the Backstreet Boys?”

He chuckles before nodding. “Sort of?”

“Explain.”

“You said you wanted the short version,” Alec replies, entwining his fingers with Magnus as they start walking next to each other.

“About boring political stuff. Not the clave breaking up,” Magnus yelps.

He briefs Magnus about what the Cohort, led by Zara Dearborn did.

“That’s awful,” Magnus’s voice sobers up and be clenches Alec’s hand in support.

“Hmmmm.”

“So half of the Clave is in-exile here. And the other half is there.”

“Yeah.”

“And there are two Consuls. And two governments ruling the shadowhunter now.”

He nods his head.

Magnus sighs dramatically, “So, twice the drama? The world has to deal with two Consuls now?”

A huge grin appears on his face, then. “Well, you would only have to deal with one. The exiled one.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t want to side with the Clave in Idris,” Magnus challenges.

Alec raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, fine. I would bleach my hair blonde before doing that.”

Alec pictures Magnus as a blonde and he wants to tell him that Magnus could pull off even that.

“So, tell me. Which new oppressive tyrant am I going to be dealing with for the next few years.”

“Oppressive tyrant?” Alec says with a mischievous smile on his face.

“Well, Jiya was fine and it was not unbearable to work with her. But you never know with shadowhunter,” Magnus says. He turns towards Alec and then adds, “Present company excluded.”

“It’s someone you know.”

“I know a lot of people,” Magnus says offhandedly.

“Someone you know very intimately,” he teases.

Magnus pauses. “Why does this feel like a trick question?”

It’s a new moon night so there’s absolute darkness everywhere. But standing next to Magnus, there’s always so much light.

Magnus twirls him around easily and Alec’s body moves into a circle as he giggles.

He can’t contain his happiness.

“It might be a trick question.”

“I knew it.”

“So, who is it?”

Before Alec tells him, he wants to tell him something else.

“You know it was here, in Paris, when I realised that we need to change the Clave.”

Magnus furrows his brows.

Alec shakes his head and fond memories flood his brain. “I was with Helen and Aline. During your whole cult fiasco.”

“Not my cult.”

“Sure.”

“Mean.”

“Anyways,” Alec breathes. “I realised then that the Clave needed to be changed from within. And then we couldn’t wait for someone else. It was us who was going to fix it.”

Magnus brings his arms around his waist and kisses his mouth softly. “And you are doing that. With the Alliance. And everything you do. And I am incredibly proud of you.”

A huge blush appears on his face. He cups Magnus’s cheek and sighs, “So much of it was because of you.”

“You could have done all of that without me,” Magnus assures.

The thing is that; maybe Alec would have. Maybe he would have been the man he was even without Magnus.

He’s just glad he doesn’t have to.

“I did it for everyone,” he exhales. “But especially for you.”

Magnus narrows his eyes at him. “What’s got you in this mood?”

Alec smiles. “I know your history with the clave and the consuls has not been easy. I just hope you have a good one with the new consul.”

“Can’t promise. Which brings me to my question again?,” Magnus asks. “Who is this new guy?”

He pulls back a little and lets out his hand. “Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn, I wanted to introduce myself.”

A confused smile appears on Magnus’s face, knowing Alec is gearing up for theatrics.

“Please do, shadowhunter,” Magnus smirks. “Who are you and how do you know me?”

“Everyone knows you,” Alec replies before a confident smile appears on his face. “I’m Alexander Gideon Lightwood, new Consul of the Clave in-exile.”

Magnus pauses as the confusion on his face grows before it breaks into a huge wonder.

“Are you—“

“Yes,” he nods his head frantically.

“You’re the Consul.”

“I am,” he giggles.

“Alexander Gideon Lightwood,” Magnus shrieks as he pulls Alec’s body against his. “You brat.”

He throws his head back in laughter as Magnus kisses his face. Over and over and over again.

“I am so proud of you,” Magnus breathes a few minutes later, when they’re done dancing and kissing. “There is no else better suited for this.”

“I love you.”

Alec already has plans for a hundred new laws. He’s not naive enough to believe that all of them will see the light of the day. But there is one, that Alec would lay down his entire life for.

He’ll tell Magnus about it tomorrow.

“I love you, too,” Magnus kisses him but they’re both smiling so hard that it’s a little difficult to be able to kiss.

“I can’t wait to tell the kids.”

“They will be so happy.”

“They don’t even understand what it means,” Alec chuckles.

“And yet, they will be happy.”

“I am happy.”

“You are?” Magnus raises an eyebrow, still smiling, still wrapped up around Alec.

“Very much so.”

“I like you happy,” his boyfriend, and if he’s able to do what he wants to do tomorrow, his future husband replies and Alec closes the distance between the two.

Alexander Gideon Lightwood, Consul of the Clave sounds nice.

But Alexander Gideon Lightwood-Bane sounds better.

#ooofff what precious babies #malec #magnus bane #alec lightwood

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sungbeam · 1 year

Text

𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐬

model!choi chanhee x fem!assistant!reader

you were just supposed to be his assistant, but at some point, you'd come to mean a lot more to him.

6.4k words (WHOOPS my hand slipped), technically s2l, fluff, angst if u squint, slight pining?, kissing, model stuff and first world problems 😔✨, like one curse word, barely proofread

a/n: istg it wasn't supposed to be like this ;-; it would have been longer but i got impatient </3

Choi Chanhee once made a girl cry because she had forgotten his phone in the car. In his defense, he hadn't gotten much shuteye the night prior, but Kevin liked to always remind him of that instance.

They said that was the first, true moment the tabloids began painting him in a new light.

'Choi Chanhee, Model-zilla, Hits the Streets of Paris for Fashion Week Once Again'. 'Choi Chanhee's Ex-assistants Come Forward with Shocking Experiences'. 'Satin or Silk: the Truth Behind New's Refusal to Wear Alexander McQueen'.

The last one didn't even make sense; Alexander McQueen only used silk, anyway, and Chanhee had walked in one of his shows a few years ago. Chanhee simply hadn't the time to pen the designer into his schedule since.

The one about assistants? Well, they were all entitled to free speech, but that didn't mean that he would spare them any mercy if they decided to blatantly lie about him. He could always trust Lee Sangyeon, his personal attorney, to take care of business, if and when any of his ex-employees decided that a good payout was comparable to spewing filth.

Then there was you.

Chanhee hadn't needed a new assistant in a little over half a year since you came along. Fresh out of university with a bachelor's in communication and punctuality, you waltzed into his life, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. You'd sat across from him, no-nonsense; he hired you right there. (He had not regretted it since. This was the last time he would let anyone but himself do the interview process.)

The best part about you was not that you always had his schedule memorized before he did, or that you appeared at his apartment before the car picked you both up with his favorite coffee order, or that you actually had decent taste in perfume—not… that he paid attention to what perfume you wore—but it was the fact that you could look him in the eye when he spoke to you, and you to him.

"—and you have a fitting with Chanel at five o'clock this evening right after that meeting with Maison Margiela about the perfume line. We'll have just enough time to—"

Wow, your eyes were pretty in this lighting, he thought. The two of you sat before the massive, floor-to-ceiling window in his penthouse apartment. The entire city laid sprawling at your feet while you sat across from each other at his breakfast table, eating blueberry muffins and drinking lattes.

And for some reason, all he could think about was how nice your hair looked again today, how brilliantly the shine in your eyes was from the sunlight, how impeccable your fashion sense was—even if it wasn't perfect, but that could easily be remedied. Chanhee would have to remind you to remind him to—

"Chanhee. Chanhee, are you listening to me?"

He snapped out with a flutter of his long eyelashes. He reached for his cup of coffee, delicately bringing it to his lips. "Hm? Of course, Maison and then Chanel. Did Changmin cancel our dinner or are we still on?"

A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips when he saw how your expression lightened knowing that he was paying attention. You idly stirred your latte around with a little silver spoon. "He says he's still good to go for tonight. Same place, same time."

A nod. "Good."

He nudged up the Prada sunglasses on his nose as he turned his head slightly to gaze out the open window. It was an awfully beautiful day out today. The sunlight was gentle, the skies were an azure wave of silk, sewn with clouds of white. "Yn, dearest, are we clear until the Maison meeting?"

You blinked. "Yes," you answered, checking your watch for the hour, "it's 10:32 right now."

"Mm, that gives us about five hours to refresh your wardrobe."

Your lips parted, and he smiled in amusement. There was something so adorable about your flustered state. "Excuse me?"

"Call it a little token of my appreciation," he sang, standing up from the table to deposit his empty plate and cup into the kitchen sink. "Could you call the driver to round the front?"

"Oh, uh, sure—"

"Thanks, love. I'll be back in a few," he called to you just as he disappeared into his bedroom to freshen up. You were left at the breakfast table, dumbfounded. You'd only ever gone shopping with Chanhee for him or for someone else. Not you. You were always on the clock when you were with him, and you figured he would probably take everything you bought today out of your paycheck, but…

You couldn't deny the flutter of excitement in your chest like the wings of a butterfly. This could either be the best thing that happened to you… or a complete shitshow.

There was something odd about walking into one of Chanhee's go-to leisure shopping stores—Dior—with the mindset that you were supposed to be shopping for yourself. Chanhee had asked the driver to pull up to the Dior storefront even as the regular paparazzi camped outside.

Your eyes gazed longingly at the Macy's across the mall.

Chanhee followed your gaze with a little scrunch of his nose. "Absolutely not," he clicked his tongue, dragging you out of the vehicle and to the sidewalk.

The press already dubbed you a "miracle" for being in his employ for longer than a day. But when they got shots of him literally hauling you into the Dior… you could imagine what they would all claim now. This was going to be a whole lot of cleanup, but you had learned after months of working with Chanhee that he was way tougher than he looked. He also didn't mind biting back.

When the two of you were safely stowed away within the guarded interior of Dior, you breathed easier.

Straightening, you greeted the staff members with a shallow bow, who did the same to both you and your boss.

Chanhee wiggled his fingers in silent greeting, then beelined for a white, quilted blazer on a mannequin. A worker scrambled after him to talk about the piece while another stuck by your side to make small conversation.

"How was your morning?" They asked you pleasantly.

"Oh, it was quite nice! How was yours?"

"Pretty quiet," they smiled. They were about to say something else when both of you were interrupted with Chanhee calling your name.

His eyes were pinned to you from over the rim of his sunglasses. Draped over his arm was a tapered coat of some sort, a dress, and… oh, god no. "Yn, come here."

You could already hear your wallet crying. "Chanhee, I literally cannot afford a single thing in here—"

He pressed a palm between your shoulder blades and steered you in the direction of the dressing rooms. "That's besides the point because I can afford them; that's what matters."

Surprise made your footing falter. "Huh?"

"Silly Yn-ie," he teased, "did you think I was gonna bring you all the way out here to not treat you?" Before you could say anything else, he was shoving the items into your arms, and your body into the grandiose space of the Dior dressing room. He winked over his glasses. "Now hurry and put them on. I wanna see!"

He ripped the curtain closed, and you stood there for a moment.

In your hands were the jacket, the dress, and a pair of shoes that probably cost you more than your entire bank account combined. You blew out a puff of air, just as you heard a staff member offer him a glass of champagne on the other side of the curtain.

"No getting out of this, Yn," you muttered to yourself, then began hanging everything up."

Chanhee was no stranger to the effect he had on people. In fact, he wielded it like a dagger. It was how he had gotten so far in this industry in the first place other than his immaculate good looks, of course. The face of an angel and an attitude of the devil—at least, that was what one article had said about him. He quite liked it, actually.

There was something wholly different about his effect on you as you stood beneath his scrutinizing, heated gaze, as you tried on piece upon piece. He loved being able to unabashedly stare at you, to take in your flustered expression as you did little spins for him in the outfit of choice. For once, you couldn't look him in the eye, and when you had done so once, it had been when his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

It wasn't just the champagne he was tasting.

It was the next morning when you appeared in his home at 7 o'clock sharp, as usual, but with a new accessory hanging off your arm. It was one of the more low-key purses he had bought you yesterday—and to be honest, it was actually one of his personal favorites. It was a Chanel one, of course, and it complimented your pant suit quite nicely.

"Morning," you chirped, handing him his cup of coffee as he stumbled out of his room in a silk robe and with a yawn widening his mouth.

Chanhee smiled at the sight of you, graciously accepting the coffee from you. He leaned against the countertop next to you. "Good morning," he murmured lowly, peering at you over the rim of the cup, taking a languid sip.

He sighed as the caffeine began working its magic. "How are you this morning, dearest? Have a good night?"

You had set your purse down on the island, then moved away from him only to go check his refrigerator to see if he needed anything restocked. Always so attentive. "I had a good night. How was dinner with Changmin?"

"Lovely," he said fondly. "I see you are putting my gifts to use." His fingers danced along the gold chain draped along one end of the quilted leather.

He swore your cheeks flushed, but then again, his eyes had never tricked him for a second. "Ah, yes. Thank you so much for yesterday, by the way." The fridge closed softly, and you grabbed an apple from the basket on the counter to wash and munch on. "I really don't know how I can repay you—"

Chanhee dismissed you immediately, his wrist flicking outward. "Pfft, none of that. I told you it was all a token of my affection," he grinned, propping his chin onto his palm across the island counter from you. "And gratitude," he added. "I don't say this to just anyone, Yn, and I don't buy just anyone all that stuff—but I did it because I appreciate you."

Your chewing slowed and you swallowed. "Oh."

He said it so easily. God, was he lucky to have met you.

Knowing he had successfully rendered you speechless once more, he laughed lightly, deciding to change the subject. "What's today's schedule like?"

You immediately straightened; this was something you knew like the back of your hand. It was much more up your alley.

As you ran him through his activities today, you failed to notice the difference in his posture, the softer smile on his face, and the way his eyes could not leave you for a moment, not even to drink his coffee.

Grueling was an understatement. Today had been one of the worst days of your working existence under Chanhee's employ. You'd endured rough days and nights before, but today, it seemed to have been hassle after hassle after hassle. You probably got around thirty-thousand steps by how much you ran around trying to find emergency kits and emergency outfits and running to the emergency dry cleaner's.

As much as the fashion world enthralled you, sometimes you wondered how anyone could survive it.

Chanhee was just as maxed out as you were by the end. It was maybe three in the morning by the time the two of you collapsed into the backseat of his driver's car. Streets were barren at this time in the ungodly hours of morning, and your joints ached every time you breathed.

Chanhee was quiet as well as he leaned his head back against the headrest to allow his body some rest. He just barely managed to get through that last shoot—clearly the directors had no clue what they were doing, he thought with a dead look in his eyes. That was how he felt—dead. If it hadn't been for you swooping in with a creative direction…

You were brilliant; that much he was certain of. Without you, that shoot might have dragged on for another couple of hours, or Chanhee would have just walked out. Usually, he had a good sense and eye for things, but with everything that happened today, for once, he didn't have the energy to yell or direct.

He needed to treat you to brunch tomorrow, if he was even able to wake up in time—

His inner thoughts halted when he felt a sudden weight fall upon his left shoulder. He froze up.

Your head had slumped onto his shoulder, eyes closed and no doubt deep asleep. Your bangs had fallen out from the bounds of your ponytail and draped across your face as you slept. He could smell the Miss Dior on you with this proximity.

Chanhee smiled to himself, taking his other hand and brushing the hair from your face and gently caressing your cheek. "Cute," he murmured.

By the time the car rolled to a stop in front of his complex, Chanhee had made a couple of executive decisions.

He lightly roused you from your sleep, cooing into your ear, "Come on, Yn-ie. Let's get you to bed, hm?"

You hummed, lifting your head from his shoulder with a yawn. You rubbed your eye with no care for the makeup smudging. "Chanhee? Why're you still here?"

Normally, the driver would drop Chanhee off first and then you, especially when it came to late nights like this. But… what… was happening?

Chanhee helped you out of the car, thanking the driver while mustering up a kind smile for him. "You're too tired, love. I'm taking you upstairs to my place."

"Wait, I can't—" but you weren't physically protesting; your body ached and ached and ached. But this was your boss, your employer. This wasn't professional.

"Yn, you're exhausted," he countered, buzzing into the building and helping you inside.

You couldn't argue with him anymore. You just wanted your face to hit a pillow and be out for the night. "Okay," you mumbled, letting him press your face into his shoulder on the ride up the elevator.

"Good girl," he sighed. He tilted his head back against the elevator wall, one arm wrapped around your middle and the other cradling the back of your head. Just a little longer, then the both of you could finally get some well-deserved rest.

You would argue you had seen Choi Chanhee at some of his best and worst moments. He was one of the most beautiful human beings on this planet, and yet, none of the prior moments could even compare to when you stumbled out of his bedroom to the sight of his back to you as he fried eggs and ladled waffle batter into the maker in the kitchen. He had a big T-shirt hanging from his lean frame, as well as a pair of loose pajama pants on, and he crossed his arms over his chest as he waited for everything to cook.

Even at ten in the morning, the light pink waves of his hair looked immaculately styled. You almost forgot he hadn't gotten a perm in awhile.

The panic of waking up in his sheets instead of yours had faded when you recalled your conversation with him just seven hours prior. He had managed to wrestle you into an extra set of sleepwear he just had lying around (Gucci, nonetheless), before he deposited you onto his bed, then promptly curled up outside on the living room couch.

You swallowed. Now what?

It was then that Chanhee turned around with an innocent look on his face. You watched as it melted into something softer at the sight of you. "Good morning, dearest," he beamed, "sleep well?"

Drowsiness lingered at the corners of your eyes, but you somehow managed a nod. "Yeah, how about you?" You asked him quietly. Actually, that had been some of the best sleep you'd ever had. Something about his sheets with high thread count and the smell of Chanhee lingering on everything. But you weren't just about to say that to him.

"Well enough," he replied. He waved you over. "Come sit; breakfast is almost ready."

Your eyes widened a smidge. That was for you? Now you really needed to go home. "Ah, I appreciate it, but I've practically overstayed my welcome—"

He sent you a look. "Yn, come have breakfast with me."

You caved. Because at this point, you'd already screwed yourself over. And breakfast really did smell nice; what was the difference between Chanhee making you breakfast and you bringing him breakfast from the café down the street?

(You didn't even want to go home, as much as your logical brain was trying to urge you towards.)

So the two of you breakfasted, and for a moment, you could forget, for once, that you were just supposed to be his assistant.

Some things changed after that morning, and Chanhee found himself getting you to stay over more and more often. Even if he had to come up with something stupid like "You haven't watched the 2001 New York Fashion Week rerun?" For some reason, you bought into all his excuses, and even though he knew it was probably because you were always attentive to his needs, a part of him liked to fantasize that you felt it, too.

The pull.

Something had shifted after that morning when he made you breakfast and the two of you ate together at the breakfast table. Sleep had lingered in your eyes, and your hair was a mess, but it was soft and beautiful and… he'd never been so in awe at someone's "I woke up like this" look.

His heart had leapt at the sight of you in those pajamas with that subtle pout to your lips.

God, he thought he might sweep you into his arms and kiss y—

"New. Chanhee. Choi Chanhee—"

He blinked, lifting his eyes from his menu to meet Changmin's. "Hm?"

Changmin wrinkled his nose at him, adjusting the sunglasses seated atop his head to hang from the collar of his dress shirt. (How it managed to hang with two buttons popped open, Chanhee chalked it up to fashion magic.) "You're awfully quiet today. What, tabloids finally shut you up?" He joked.

Chanhee rolled his eyes. "One of these days, I swear, they will render me speechless with their ridiculous delusions," he muttered airily, half-heartedly skimming the menu again.

He and Changmin were seated at their usual booth in their usual restaurant at their usual time. It was their weekly dinner together, something they had kept up since their university days in order to keep themselves grounded. They, of course, touched base with all of their university friends often, but the two of them were two peas in a pod. They even refused to let Sunwoo in on these weekly dinners specifically (something the younger friend was undoubtedly salty about).

Changmin could figure out when Chanhee was occupied with something other than the present. Usually, he was all up and out of his seat dealing out gossip or what torture he and you had been… oh.

Changmin cocked his head to the side, nostrils flaring slightly as he tried and failed to suppress a sly smile. "How's Yn these days?" He asked nonchalantly, lowering his eyes to the menu in front of him even though he always got the same thing every time.

To his credit, Chanhee didn't even react. "She's lovely as always. Why do you ask?"

"I dunno," Changmin drawled, "you haven't gushed about her like you usually do. I feel like you hang out with her more than me."

Chanhee raised a brow at his friend. "She's my assistant; of course I'm going to spend more time with her."

"Yeah, but—"

"And she's a lot more agreeable most of the time."

"Hey!"

Chanhee grinned in impish delight. "You asked."

Changmin sent him a stink eye, huffing as he raised his hand up to summon a waiter. "Yeah, whatever. Okay, but you literally refused to go out with me the other night, and when I texted Yn if you had a schedule, she said that you two were at home!"

That got his attention. Chanhee pursed his lips together, sheepishness peering through his smile. "In my defense, she hadn't seen New York Fashion Week in 2001."

"You hated that year, Chanhee."

"Exactly."

Changmin sighed to himself, and just as he was about to add on, a waiter came by to take their order. Once that was done, Changmin laced his fingers over the table and leveled his friend with a pointed look.

"Just admit that you like her."

Oh, Changmin. If only you could hear the rapid palpitations of his heart when you called him out like that. Chanhee blinked innocently. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he swallowed.

It wasn't even two days later that Chanhee had you staying a little later at his place, once again. There was something jazzy and vibey playing in the background, while Chanhee finished up plating dinner and rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. You were over at the small table by the window pouring wine into twin glasses, your hair pulled haphazardly out of your face (for the most part) with a pearl-studded claw clip from Chanhee's personal PR box.

(You blatantly refused, but he then reminded you that he couldn't even use the clip himself.)

Chanhee didn't often think about sharing his life with someone, but it was moments like these—moments when he heard you hum under your breath, moments when the two of you could laugh about the day over dinner, moments when you weren't just his assistant but someone closer—that he could indulge himself. He wasn't a very domestic person; since childhood, he dreamed of places far away from home, seeing sights and experiencing cultures… but if he could come home to you? And experience this every time?

Suddenly dinner was over, and you were collecting dirty dishware and glasses to bring to the sink to wash.

"Yn-ie, hey, I can wash those—"

"No, no! You made dinner; I am washing dishes," you asserted, pushing him away from the sink when he tried to come up to you.

Chanhee broke into a laugh, coming up behind you to set his hands on your shoulders and rub the upper parts of your arms. "Okay, okay. Thanks, love," he said. He didn't even think before he pressed a kiss to your cheek and walked off to go to the bathroom.

Your cheek tingled where his lips had been, and you turned the faucet on to drown out the thrumming of your heartbeat in your ears. What was happening?

You felt like you were floating on air as you hummed to the music and washed the dishes, with the ghost of Chanhee's lips left lingering on your cheek. It served as a reminder of your growing affections for him. This was dangerous, dangerous territory, and yet… it was thrilling. It was new, bold, and delectable. It was Chanhee, for goodness sake.

He was the man you saw crying drunkenly over a cat video on TikTok, the man who lended you Gucci pajamas and his bed for the night. He was on the face of every magazine cover, always excited when you could read his mind about a certain piece of clothing. Everyone in the world wanted to be him or be with him. He was so out of reach, yet right in front of you.

Maybe it was the wine making your head buzz with this wave of unmitigated sentimentality.

You finished up with the dishes, drying off your hands with the towel hanging on the oven door. Chanhee sang your name out from somewhere deep inside his bedroom, and you followed his voice to his location.

He was seated on the rug in the middle of his walk-in closet, the white LEDs washing you with light. It was a far cry from the darkness of his bedroom and the warmth from the kitchen. Chanhee patted the spot next to him on the carpet, where he had a smattering of PR gifts littering the floor around him.

Curious, you lowered yourself next to him. "Are we sorting through PR stuff?" You asked, already making a mental catalog of all the things he'd probably want to keep and the things he'd want to donate.

Chanhee hummed his dissent, rising onto his knees and shuffling over to you. Your eyes widened as he stopped close to you and you held your breath. He raised a pair of twin diamond drop earrings from Tiffany and Co to your earlobes, eyes narrowed in consideration.

"No," he muttered, dumping the earrings into their box, then digging out another.

You scrambled to delicately put the earrings back into their proper holdings. "Chanhee, what are we doing?"

"You—" Chanhee returned with a pair of sapphire earrings this time, performing the same ritual as before, but this time smiling, "—are going to sit still and look pretty for me. I am going through the PR stuff for anything nice."

"Anything nice?" You parroted in disbelief. It wasn't like he just threw a pair of diamond earrings into a box like it wasn't nice, or anything.

"I've never seen you in pearls before," he said offhandedly. From a black velvet bag, he withdrew a string of pearls clasped at the end in gold. His mouth parted in awe, and you suddenly thought of how cute he looked. Chanhee, oftentimes, was attractive and elegant and spellbinding—but this Chanhee was adorable.

He eyeballed it around your neck, then moved to clasp the collar onto you. He brushed the stray strands of hair away from the nape of your neck, gently grazing the pads of his fingers along the warm skin there. The action sent a shudder down your spine, and you were reminded of the cheek kiss from earlier.

"There," he murmured, coming back around to inspect you from the front. "Looks much better on you than it would on me."

You scoffed, reaching up to touch the cool pearls seated on your collarbone. "I disagree wholeheartedly."

He had turned around to go digging again, but the grin he threw over his shoulder at you was a certified heart stopper. "Then we'll just have to go get me a matching one."

"This is the last time I'm letting a company get me lunch," Chanhee grimaced as both you and he feverishly dabbed at the sauce splattered on his cream silk blouse.

One of the interns working on today's interview and shoot had come to deliver him his lunch when you noticed that the sauce lid on top was a dark red and not the usual light mayo Chanhee always requested beforehand. That, as well as the fact that the lid wasn't fastened all the way. Suffice to say that when you were about to point it out, said intern became flustered at Chanhee's side profile and spilled his lunch onto him.

You made sure to send the intern away before Chanhee could react.

"This was the Burberry one Haknyeonie got me," he whimpered in devastation as he took in the mess of dark brownish-red on his chest.

"Hey, it's okay. The cleaner I usually go to can fix it up," you said, biting your lip and assessing the situation. You gave a sigh, straightening, then swiping at the dampness on your forehead. "For now, you'll have to change into something else."

Chanhee pouted. "I promised I would wear this one for the interview…" He glanced back over at the clothing rack in the far corner of the dressing room at the dozens of options he had, as well as the backups you had brought, when all he wanted was to wear the shirt Haknyeon had given to him.

You wondered how long you had until the interview. You wondered how fast you could run to the dry cleaners and how fast they could fix this, if only to make that pout on Chanhee's face go away.

He pursed his lips. "I'll change into the YSL one," he resolved, standing from his vanity chair to go grab the YSL blouse from its garment bag. "Y'know," he said to you as he disappeared behind the changing divider, "we'll probably see something about this in the tabloids sometime tomorrow, depending on how bored the press people are."

You leaned back against the vanity counter, mentally noting the time. Hair and makeup would be here soon since the interview was set for half past noon. Chanhee would have to wait until afterwards before he could eat lunch. You frowned, "It wasn't your fault, Chanhee."

"I know." You saw him drape the dirtied Burberry blouse over the top of the divider and you walked over to take it down and inspect the damage yourself. "But it doesn't have to be my fault."

Unfortunately, he was right. The press would do anything for a juicy story, even if that meant twisting the facts just a little. You abhorred those stories; you always saw Chanhee's eyes glaze over like a shield at the "model-zilla" headlines, when in fact, it had little to do with Chanhee's "attitude". You wondered if someone would blow up his reaction to this out of proportion—he hadn't said anything to the intern before they ran out of the room in tears, but you supposed if you had spilled coffee on someone with as much name power as Chanhee, then you would also freak out.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly, leaning slightly against the divider. A weight sank into the pit of your gut; you felt pathetic. These were one of the few things you couldn't just fix for him.

You thought you felt him lean back against the divider on the other side. "Nothing to be sorry for, dearest. It's just a shirt."

It wasn't just a shirt. It wasn't just the tabloids.

Chanhee, being the professional he was, carried on through the interview and subsequent photoshoot with elegance and grace. He wasn't in a bad mood, save for the slight melancholy in his smile when the intern's superior came by to apologize profusely and offer to have the blouse dry-cleaned for him. Chanhee politely declined—he only trusted one person with his items.

When you and Chanhee finally made it back to his penthouse suite, the sun had disappeared into the seams of the horizon, hoisting a bejeweled night into the sky. Chanhee collapsed onto the couch face-first while you dropped everything on the floor by the door and made a beeline for the refrigerator.

"I'm making tea," you declared.

Chanhee raised his head slightly. "Me too please."

You got the electric kettle started and brought out two porcelain mugs. While you waited for the water to finish boiling, you fished your phone out of your pocket to check your messages to see if the dry cleaners had alerted you yet as to the status of the blouse. On the way back, you had swung by to get the shirt to the dry cleaners. Hopefully it would be done by tomorrow morning so you could go pick it up.

Chanhee shifted and adjusted his positioning on the couch. He sat upright, leaning his cheek against his fist. "Yn-ie."

"Hm?"

"I'm lonely over here."

You huffed air out of your nostrils in a silent chuckle, but obliged him and went over to the couch. He raised his arms up toward you, making grabby hands and pouting. "You're lonely?" You repeated in amusement, slotting yourself next to him and allowing him to curl into your side.

"Well, not anymore," he said into your shoulder.

The apartment filled with the sound of water bubbling on the stove and the muffled sounds of the city outside the window.

With nothing said, you could imagine for a second that this was not your job, but your life instead.

You felt him move a little, his arms wrapping around your stomach. "Thank you," he murmured, "for everything."

Your chest tightened. "Of course," you replied simply. Because doing all of this for him was as easy as breathing air now. Taking care of him had become as easy as breathing air. It was just that simple.

He was quiet again, fingers fidgeting with the cuffs of your blazer. Something lingered in his mind.

"Yn…" He slowly brought himself to sit up straight, one hand braced on the cushion space between your bodies and the other on the back of the couch. His face was so close—you could see the baby pink hairs falling in his eyes, the bits of glitter on his eyelids, the length of his lashes brushing his cheeks. But there was something wobbling, shimmering in his irises like the ripples in a pool of water. "I think we need to talk."

Your voice was trapped in your throat. He was going to fire you. He was going to tell you that all of it had been a lie. He was going to—stop. Stop freaking out. You knew him. You knew him better than what the people on the outside only claimed to know about him. You gulped. "Okay."

Chanhee brought his hand up toward your face, but instead stopped short, his hand dropping. He wet his lip, head ducking for a second before meeting your eyes again. "You know how much I appreciate everything you do for me, right?"

Oh no.

You nodded shallowly, hands clasped in your lap. "Mhm."

"And you know that I would rather hurt myself before ever hurting you?"

You didn't like where this was going. "Chanhee—"

His eyes shuddered. "Just—just listen for a second. I promise I'll let you speak, just… I just need to get this out."

"I can't really think straight," you croaked. His cologne—god his cologne. You would die suffocating in his cologne, but he was so close and yet so out of reach.

You thought you saw hurt flash across his face. "Oh. Uh, I'm sorry—" He was leaning back now, and you were internally hitting yourself. You'd never heard Choi Chanhee stutter before.

You resisted the urge to say "come back". Come back, where you could pretend that he was yours. Shit, this had gone too far. "Chanhee, I think I have to quit."

Alarm shot his eyes wide open. "What?"

"I can't keep working for you because I have feelings for you," you blurted, staring him straight in the eyes. "I have to quit because the feelings—the want—I have for you are so strong and precariously unprofessional. And I'm sorry, because this was the best job I could've ever gotten, but—"

Chanhee grabbed your face and crushed his mouth to yours, effectively shutting you up. Shock had you freezing, but it wasn't long before you held him close and let him wholly devour you.

When he pulled away, his forehead was pressed against yours, the space between your lips near nonexistent. His hands were still cupping the sides of your face and his breathing was slightly labored; all either of you could feel, hear, smell, taste were each other.

"I love you," he whispered, almost inaudibly you thought you'd imagined it. But then he said it again, "I love you", and everything…

Everything settled.

"How could you?" After all, you were just… you. It seemed impossible that someone as high as he was could love someone like you.

His reply was simple, paired with a sweet return to your lips. "How could I not?"

You stood outside the massive, sky-piercing high-rise of Vogue headquarters, your heart pounding in your ears and your fingers drumming nervously against the seam of your dress pants. In about twenty minutes, you would be in the topmost office of the building interviewing for a chance to become CEO Anna Wintour's newest personal assistant.

"Well?"

You glanced over to your left where Chanhee stepped beside you, asking the driver to make a loop around the building and meet him back here in a few minutes. His hair, freshly dyed a silken midnight black, had grown slightly to mullet-length; and this morning, he was clad in a pristine white suit set in a classy contrast. A pearl collar sat on his defined collarbones like it was a throne. Beautiful, as always.

There were reporters lurking around here somewhere. That definitely didn't make any of this better for you.

You released a breath. "I've got this, right?"

He passed you a gentle, yet teasing grin. "Hey, you survived me. How much worse can she be?"

That made you crack a smile.

The two of you stood side by side staring up at the building for a moment longer. After you had quit being his assistant to instead be accepted as his partner, you and Chanhee worked to find you a new gig. You received about a hundred dozen job offers from lesser brands and big names when they all heard you were leaving Chanhee's employ on good terms. Anyone who survived Chanhee, and left with a stellar recommendation letter, was a hot commodity.

Chanhee reached for your hand, squeezing your fingers slightly. "Breathe, darling. You'll be in and out and hired before you know it."

He turned you around so you faced him. His tongue stuck out between his lips as he adjusted the pearl necklace around your throat, then the lapels of your jacket. "Wow," he breathed out.

"Huh?" You hummed with a smile in your eyes.

"You still take my breath away."

A nervous laugh fell from your lips, and Chanhee swooped in to taste it—that, your laugh.

"I love you," he murmured against your mouth. Nevermind all the press and paparazzi, or Anna Wintour, or anyone. This was just you and him, even for a little. You could imagine the headlines, but that was the last thing on your mind right now.

Your tongue swiped over his bottom lip to catch the last bits of him. "I love you, too."

There was a cunning glint in his eyes, offset by the soft smile on his face. "Okay, this is it. Call me if you need anything."

You began walking toward the entrance backwards. "What if I need you?"

His smile widened. "I said call me, didn't I? Anytime, anywhere." I'm yours.

tbz m.list

permanent taglist: @tayunji @im-a-big-mess @honeyhuii @y3jiishot @crazywittysassy @seomisaho @stopeatread @enhacolor @rnjfy @jaehunnyy @kpopjackie @spiderrenjunfics @soobin-chois @mingiholic @ja4hyvn @ethereal-engene @justalildumpling @vatterie @yogurteume @kflixnet

#kflixnet #the boyz x reader #choi chanhee x reader #chanhee x reader #the boyz oneshot #the boyz scenarios #the boyz fanfic #the boyz imagines #the boyz drabble #the boyz fluff #chanhee imagines #chanhee scenarios #chanhee oneshots #chanhee drabbles #chanhee fluff

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justjams2003 · 5 months

Text

Fast Pace-6

I do apologize to everyone who has been waiting so so long for this. I was shadowbanned and didn't want to upload anything while, because then you guys can't read it :(. But now, you guys can!

Summary: You're a hard-working Chef in Paris and after a freak accident run-in with Carlos Sainz, your life makes a 180. Let's just say with a certain agreement, you get your bills paid and in return stand in as Carlos' girlfriend for the press. But will you be able to handle the pressure and ensure the lines don't blur?

Pairing: Sugar Daddy!Carlos Sainz x Sugar Baby!Reader

Warnings: I've aged up Carlos, he is 33 in this fic. Smoking, smut, sexual themes, age difference, manipulation, control, slight obsession, the word 'daddy', tell me if I missed any

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics and @s-silk

Taglist: @httpjeonlicious, @f1lov3r, @messersandmesses, @hollie911, @oriconde08 @thehufflepuffavenger1 @fanboyluvr @thatgirlmj @whyamireadingthis @oriconde08 @depressedriches @roseseraj @skepvids @sain55wifey @distinguishedvoidlady @amatswimming @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @lazybot @dark-night-sky-99 @formula1mount @fangirl-dot-com @saintslewis

Word count: 2,9k

Masterlist

Part 5~Part 7

A loud thunder crack causes a few people in the restaurant's head to snap up to the sky. Including my dear Y/N. Is she scared of thunder? Caco did not tell me this.

Usually, my mind would immediately worry about the race. How will the rain affect the car? How will the rain affect the track? How the rain affect my driving? Not now, ever since saw her for the first-time racing has been at the far back of my mind. If Caco or any of the Ferrari team knew this, they’d want to get rid of her as soon as possible. But if she has to leave so do I.

Her big brown eyes look up to me with concern and it just makes me want to wrap her up in my arms and never let go. Now, I worry about her getting wet. She might get sick or slip and fall. I did not bring an umbrella. I bring up my phone and go to dial the driver, but I’m interrupted before I can make the call.

“What are you doing?” Those delicate brows of hers pull together while she asks me. “I’m calling a driver.” We haven’t finished eating, barely halfway through the meal but I’d kick myself if she develops a cold so soon in my care. There is a twinkle in her eyes and a smile pulls at her cheeks. “Why would you do that?” I can’t help but want to know what she is thinking.

“I don’t want you to get sick, querida.” I lean forward, wanting to take her hand and caress it, but I’m not sure if she’ll allow me yet. A small laugh, a gentle one, she’s clearly amused with me, escapes her lips. “I’m sure a little rain won’t hurt. I’m not made of sugar.” She shrugs and can’t imagine that someone has such little care for their well-being. Especially someone as valuable as her.

Consistently, my brow raises. “Care to explain the medical bills I paid then?” Her cheeks light up and her eyes drag down to her shoes again. Now that her hair is down, she insists on hiding behind it. But when her eyes meet me again, she seems to beg for me to forget about it. How could I ever forget anything about her? “In any case, for me you are made candy floss.”

“You know, that reminds me of a poem. The author of it unknown, some people accredit it to Shakespear but clearly, they did not pay attention in English class if they think that. The true poet is unknown, but some consider it to be Qyazzirah Syeikh Ariffin. He says that you love the rain, but you open your umbrella. You love the sun but hide in the shade. It goes on but later he says that he fears what it means to be loved.”

Her words are so captivating, and her mind is something that I’d get lost in. The words she speaks, to me it’s like listening to a professor. One who has studied years to know exactly what they are saying. If she was my teacher, I’d get 100%, because I’d cling to her every word. If I could have her talking forever, I’d make sure I will live forever so that I may hear every word.

“How do you know this?” I ask, needing her to say more. She gives the cutest shrug. “It was between cooking or teaching English. I thought I’d make more money cooking and my parents wanted me to choose something more stable.” My blood boils thinking her parents wouldn’t support her true dream. How could they not see the beauty I see?

“But do you like it? The cheffing I mean.” She seems to think for a moment, biting her lip. If she does it, one more time I wonder if I’ll have control. But I must, I can’t scare her off. I can’t bear to lose her. And I won’t. Not of my own doing and not by anybody else’s. I’ll give her the world and make sure no one can give her anything else or take anything from her.

“Um... I did, at the beginning. When I could move to the centre of France, Paris. When I got to be independent, but it soon turned out to be more than I bargained for. I quickly got sick, because I wasn’t eating well. My mind wanders and it would take my mother calling for me to realise I hadn’t eaten. And then I fell behind on the bills. The stress made me smoke more which made me sicker.” Ah I see.

The big world just got too much for my baby. She’s too small to know how to care for herself. I see now why she needs me so. Her mind wanders to a fantasy world. She wants to be someone big and important. And paramount people don’t have to worry about those small things like what to eat and drinking enough water.

“Are you feeling any withdrawals yet? I know it was a bit thing to ask but you must know that I just want you to be as healthy as possible. So that you can enjoy all the things in life I want to give you.” She gives a coy smile and shakes her head. “No, it’s the least I can do for all you’ve done so far. I thought I’d be stuck with that debt for the rest of my life.”

She rolls her eyes just thinking about it. I could see the moment the money was transferred that her shoulders got lighter, and her smile got brighter. I won’t let another thing in the world affect her like this. Nothing will ever again sit on her shoulders. “If you feel even slightly off tell me immediately.” She nods, hiding her face again.

It irritates me, I want to see her as much as I can. I reach up and tuck her hair behind her ear. I’ll have to get her some hair accessories, just to make sure she doesn’t hide from me anymore.

Because I can get her anything. She has me to provide for her and make sure that she stays in the most pristine condition. Now she can go of in her fantasy world and I’ll stay on earth to make her bubble doesn’t burst. “So, you don’t want to work as a cook anymore?” I need to ask, and I need to know exactly what her dreams consist of so that I may make it a reality.

Again, she bites her lip, and I can feel my trousers grow tight. How on earth has she been roaming this earth? How are people not fighting tooth and nail to be in my position? “I think I’d much prefer something...slower. Less stressful, you know? I’d like to cook, yes, but rather at home or maybe even have my own show!”

The excitement twinkles in her eyes again and I must know more. “When I was younger, my mother would teach me how to cook and I’d always imagine that I'm on a program. We’d watch master chef and I’d always imagine being Christina Tosi or Amandine Chaignot. But even then more than anything I wanted to be involved in fashion. In any shape or form. Even if I had to cook to the models.”

She laughs, ever so slightly and I can see the memories flash behind her eyes. Then it will be so. Then suddenly we can both hear a slight pitter patter fall on the roof top. Her eyes instantly snap right over my shoulder. Watching as the pavement turn from concrete grey to cloudy grey.

“As I was saying before. If it rains I am not afraid to get wet. If it snows I will not be afraid of the cold. And if I ever fall in love I hope I treat it the same.” I can’t help but lean in closer. I can’t help myself. In every sense I need to be as close as possible to her. Even if, for now, I don’t know if she wants me to be as near as I want to be.

But when she looks up at me with those big doe eyes, my actions become uncontrolable. Her gaze makes me feel like a prescious jewel being discovered for the first time. Even if it is her who is Painite, rarer than Diamonds, rarer than Emeralds. Her hands are just too resistable, her skin too soft. I take her hand in mine, but refuse to look anywhere but her hypnotic eyes.

I bring her knuckles to my lips and place a slow, gentle kiss. “You promise?” Her fair cheeks turn a rosy pink colour. She bites her lips and it takes everything in me not to kiss her. “I can’t make any promoses, Carlos. Emotions aren’t to be controlled or guarenteed. They are free and wild and only earned.”

“Then I will earn your heart.”

My heart breaks that I had to leave her, but my personal trainer had been blowing up my phone. I know he’s right. I know I have to keep my body up to standard for the racing. Even then, my mind is still with her. I had let her play in the rain after our late lunch. I could see in her eyes that she so badly wanted to play.

I told her that I’ll buy her everything all over again just to see her happy. Just to see her enjoy herself I’d let her rip the entire hotel appart. This did make her smile and it melted my heart. I didn’t care for the people staring, or the people taking pictures. All I see is the twinkle in her eyes and those cheeks become round with a wide smile.

When I left her, her nose and cheeks were rosy pink and she was cold to the touch. I told her to take a shower and bundle up. I was honestly struggling to keep my head straight while gyming. The thought of the water fallings over those soft curves of hers makes me hot and heavy. It makes me adrenaline go crazy and my mind fuzzy. My trainer said I hit a new PR on the weights.

I had been gone for at least an hour or two, but the sun had long since set. The girls I’d been with before, yes they were kind, yes they were sweet, but they just weren’t her. It was the moment I set my eyes on her in that restuarant, I knew I had to have her. They feared the public eye, they wanted nothing to do with the most important parts of my life. She craves it, she’s there whenever I need her.

I found her curled up on the couch. She’d taken the extra cushions and comforters and build herself a bed there. The blankets are all the way up to her nose. She’s curled into a little ball. Taking up as little space as possible. My heart flutters and my cock goes hard. I need a shower.

Why would she do that? Hadn’t I told her to sleep on the bed? Why does she insist on defying me when all I do is for her betterment? Terco como siempre. I prepare the bed, making sure there isn’t a single then wrong. I pick her up bridal style, up close I can hear the very light snores. She doesn’t wake, however, she cuddles up closer to me. And when I tuck her in nice and close and can’t help but notice how innocent she looks with her new pj’s.

She clings to my shirt when I lay her down, in her subconscious she needs me as much as I need her. More than the money, more than the fame, more than the job. She wants me, she needs me. I am nothing without her and I must make sure that I will never loose her.

After the shower, she’d thrown the duvet off to the side. She’d spread out across the bed and her shirt had ridden up right under her breast. And suddenly I need a cold shower again. Her skin is soft, like a freshly hatched dove. Her skin the same colour too and I can’t but want her to get more sun.

My hands move without control again. Her delicate curves are like a magnet to my body. I make sure to be as soft and slow as I can, to not make a noise. Just slightly hovering above her small body. My lips make contact with the arch of her collarbone, just small gentle kisses. I do not make a sound, but she sure does. Smalls whimpers and whines escape her lips.

Mi pequeña wants this. Still deep in sleep, but her hands grab for me. Yearn for me, like I do to her. Just soft, almost ticklish kisses on her collar. Worshipping her like I so badly want to. But, for now, I won’t take it any further. Call it but a goodnight kiss. I slept on the couch, otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to control myself.

“Dulce niña, what happened here? Did you hurt yourself while I was gone?” Carlos’ hands come up to your neck. You instantly notice how his hands are big enough to wrap around your entire neck, you’re sure. Your brows intertwine, you know what he’s talking about. You tried curling your hair, to look good if there are cameras, but clearly you need more practice.

His brows furrow and concern fill his eyes. The look in his eyes is the same as last night, in your dreams. You can remember his big stromg arms taking holding you. Of those storming eyes commanding you to scream his name. If he found out about these filthy dreams you had, you’d sink into the ground of embarresment. He’s a classy guy who hasn’t asked for anything more than a smile, now you’re the one thinking of his skin on yours.

Not only that but you woke up in the bed this morning, even after going to bed on the couch. You and your girls had been talking for longer than you’d realised, likely falling asleep while on the phone call. They’d been just as excited as you were about the whole day. Both of them swooning and wishing their partners would do and say what he does.

You heard him coming back while you were getting ready. “No, no, don’t start with that mister.” You say, jabbing him in his chest. He’s sweaty and had clearly just come back from the gym. It’s already 07:30. His eyebrows furrow together. “I told you that I’d sleep on the couch. You are a very important person and need your full rest.”

A smirk forms on his face and it only makes you more annoyed. He crosses his arms and leans back, clearly done listening. “You already take care of me, give me a chance to take care of you. Relationships are 50/50. Even the more...unconventoinal ones.” You can’t help but hold onto his shirt, really wanting to drive the point home. “I agree, you tell me what you want and I give it to you. 50/50.”

You fold your arms together and roll your eyes. “Vous êtes impossible.” Something compared to a growl escapes his throat. He pulls you close to him by the hips. “I like it when you talk French to me.” Then his hand grazes your collar again. “Now tell me, what happened.” Concern is etched into his eyes and his touch is as gently as can be.

You shrug, “I wanted to curl my hair, but I haven’t used the curling iron in a few years...” He looks confronted with your words. “If you know you can’t use it, why risk hurting yourself.” He tucks a strand of now wavy hair behind your ear. You shrug and look up at him, “I wanted to impress you.” He lets out a loud laugh and takes your face in his hands.

“You’re too cute. What’d I do to have someone like you share a hotel room with me?” His eyes look and it makes you feel so warm inside. “You paid me,” your answer is blunt but the truth. You’re still not entirely sure where you stand in this strange relationship. He laughs just like before, “That reminds me, I got you something.”

He then opens his gym bag and then pulls out a handfull of things. He hands them to you and you can see it’s a bunch of hair accesories. A gold headband, a gold claw clip and some scrunchies of various colours. You furrow your brows at him and he ecplains himself by taking the headband and carefully guiding it across your hair. “I don’t like how you hide from me. This should make sure that you can’t anymore.” Your cheeks go pink, he noticed.

“Can I ask you a really strange question?” You’re not sure why now you decided to ask the question that’s been forming in your bind. It just slipped out and when he looks at you like that you don’t have much control anymore. “Always.” He smiles, still fixing your hair. “Do I have to call you daddy?”

His hand stops and his eyes meet yours. He forms a slight grin and then pulls your closer by the shoulders. He bends down low and then whispers in your ear. “Only when you want something.”

My taglist is open, just ask!

#carlos sainz #carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz smut #sugar daddy!carlos sainz x sugar baby!reader #sugar daddy!carlos sainz #sugar daddy!carlos sainz x reader #formula one #formula 1 #f1 #formula 1 x reader #f 1 x reader #f1 xreader

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baeksqt · 5 months

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ending credits — elisa de almeida

elisa de almeida x fem!reader

(a/n: happy new year my luvvies (from the uk) ^_^ don’t mind me, just throwing some angst out here to begin the year)

word count: 700

genre: angst

Elisa sat across from you at the kitchen island, you searched in her eyes for her to say something more. The sunlight peeked through the blinds, the small cracks highlighted the freckles dotted across her face. Her eyes, which were usually gentle, now appeared empty and cold. It was becoming apparent that the bond you shared was slowly fading away, and you were both falling out of love.

Your voice wavers with fear and uncertainty. Asking the question that has been plaguing your thoughts for days, despite already knowing the answer, you can’t help but hope for a different outcome.

“Is this it?” You say, your voice barely above a whisper. A pause hung in the air, steeling yourself before speaking again. “Is this the end?” The words hang heavily in the air, suffocating you with their overwhelming force.

You felt helpless and alone, trying to come to terms with the fact that everything you knew and loved was about to crumble before your eyes.

“Apparently.” She was stone cold, she held your stare of desperation, feeling numb to your invisible cries for help. Letting out an exasperated sigh, running a hand through her hair, she rested her elbows on the counter. The halo you sat above her head slowly snapping, bit by bit.

You looked at her in disbelief, taken aback by her audacity. “You’re not allowed to be exhausted!” You exclaimed, feeling the despair and frustration rising within you. You began to pace in circles, your hands tangled in your hair as tears began to well up.

You turn your back towards her, allowing yourself a moment to catch your breath and calm your racing thoughts. The small ginger cat you had adopted, sauntered into the kitchen to wrap itself around your leg. Then, turning back to face her, you made a desperate plea. “Please, just stay.” You choked out, your voice shaking with emotion.

Elisa’s expression was one of annoyance as shook her head once more, shifting uncomfortably on her stool. “We should have done this months ago.” She remarked her tone laced with regret. You were caught off guard again by her words, your mind suddenly thrown into more disarray.

You stepped closer towards the kitchen island, eyes wide as you struggled to process the implications of what she had just said. “Months?” You repeated, anger laced in your voice. The weight of her admission hung heavily in the air between you, and you couldn’t help but wonder what could have been different if she acted sooner.

The Parisian nodded slowly, “You need to let me go.” Taking a small breath before continuing, her eyes never leaving you. “Let us go. There’s nothing to hold on to anymore.”

Despite being in the same house, it felt as though you both were worlds apart.

—

Months passed since the end of your relationship with Elisa. The once sizzling summer heat in Paris had now given way to the cool breeze of autumn. As you sat at the same kitchen island, Elisa was gradually packing up her things and moving them out of the apartment that you both used to call home. It was slow and painful, as each item she took away served as a painful reminder of what once was.

Despite the passing of several months, she still remembers your phone number by heart, as if it were etched in her mind. She recalls all those peculiar habits of yours that you used to find bothersome, but to her, they were simply charming and adorable.

Elisa was standing in your bedroom, looking around as she packed the last of her stuff. She couldn’t help but feel a sense of sadness washing over her, as she realised that this would be the last time she would ever be in this room.

Looking through the hallway, straight into the kitchen, she saw you sitting at the island, engrossed in your laptop. You didn’t even look up, lost in your own world. She couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment, as she hoped to share a final moment with you before leaving for good.

She couldn’t get you out of her mind even though she’s long gone from yours.

#elisa de almeida #elisa de almeida imagines #elisa de almeida x reader #woso imagine #woso x reader #baeksqt writes

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happiest-hotch · 1 year

Note

Hey my birthday is coming soon and in my dreams hotch will do something for his girlfriends birthday- hope you can write this 🤭

of course !! i hope you have an amazing day !!

It was a beautiful sunny morning when you woke up with a smile on your face. Today was guaranteed to be a good day, with Aaron at home and, marginally more unusually, your birthday. When you stretch out, you don't accidentally hit him and conclude he's not there. In his place, there's a note, and with your curiosity piqued, you grab it to read the elegant handwriting.

Happy Birthday, my love. Get ready for a day filled with surprises. Love, Aaron.

You grin, feeling a flutter of excitement and quickly get out of bed and make your way to the kitchen, where you find a delicious breakfast spread waiting for you. Aaron stands there, watching you with a soft smile.

"Happy birthday," he says, wrapping his arms around you and planting a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"Thank you, Aaron. You didn't have to do all this," you reply, feeling overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness.

"But I wanted to. Birthdays are meant to be celebrated, and you deserve the best." He tells you, his eyes filled with adoration.

After breakfast, Aaron hands you a small gift-wrapped box, waiting eagerly to see your reaction. You unwrap it to find a delicate gold necklace with a charm shaped like an 'A'. It's simple yet elegant, just like Aaron himself.

"Thank you," you say, feeling touched by the gesture. "An 'A' for Aaron?"

He nods. "You're welcome, my love. And you could always tell people it's for amazing." You laugh, shaking your head as you turn around and scoop up your hair so he can put it on you. "Just thought I should give you my initial before I give you my last name." He whispers into your ear making you shiver at his warm breath and with excitement for the future plans he's hinting at.

The day continues with surprises at every turn. Aaron has diligently planned a series of activities that are both thoughtful and exciting. From a picnic in the park to a private museum tour, every moment was designed to make your birthday unforgettable. Throughout the day, Aaron's presence and affection are constant reminders of how lucky you are to have him in your life.

As the evening approaches, you find yourself standing outside a luxurious restaurant. The setting sun casts a warm glow on the surroundings, and you can feel the anticipation building up.

Aaron smiles at you, his eyes twinkling. "Ready for the grand finale?" he asks, his voice filled with excitement.

You nod, feeling a mixture of excitement and curiosity. The maître d' leads you to a private dining area decorated with flowers and candles. Soft music plays in the background as you settle into your seats. Aaron has truly outdone himself.

As you enjoyed a delicious meal, Aaron reaches into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope. He hands it to you, his eyes filled with affection.

"Open it," he encourages.

Your eyes widen with surprise at there being another surprise, as if you haven't been spoilt enough already. You carefully open the envelope to find two airplane tickets and an entire itinerary.

"Aaron, I can't believe it. Paris!" You exclaim.

"I remember you mentioning how much you wanted to visit." He explains, a hint of excitement in his voice.

Overwhelmed with emotion, you launch yourself into Aaron's arms, hugging him tightly.

"Thank you, Aaron. This is the best gift I could ever ask for," You whisper, your heart filled with love and gratitude. "And you're going to take time off work? I must be pretty special."

He chuckles, nodding. "You are." He assures you. "You deserve the world, my love. And I'll do everything I can to give it to you."

#aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x you #criminal minds #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotch hotchner

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ahundredtimesover · 1 year

Text

Belong (05: Post-Credits) | MYG

Pairing: Yoongi x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: exes-to-lovers-to-exes-to-lovers; actress!OC x basketball coach!Yoongi; summer romance; “long” distance relationship; parallel timelines; angst, fluff, smut

Chapter (Series) Warnings: foul/explicit language; alcohol consumption & passing out, family drama, sport injury; dreams & moving away; allusion to depression; basketball and acting talk; 2014 and 2022 Yoongi; shy and nonchalant cocky whipped Yoongi; almost drowning, sexual content (kissing, oral, penetrative sex) (18+)

Chapter Word count: 5k

Series Masterlist

Status: Complete

Series summary: Being an actor has always been your dream. Pursuing it meant many things - leaving the town where you grew up, distancing yourself from your family that had fallen apart, and saying goodbye to the man who made you feel what home was like. When you decide to finally return after being away for so long, you meet Min Yoongi again, and you’re reminded of the summer romance from 8 years ago with the college basketball superstar whose broken dream pushed you away. As you find yourself spending time with him, you’re left to wonder if love changes, if it gives second chances, or if it’s just another illusion that will hurt the both of you the second time around.

A/N: Wrapping up this story and this world now, as I keep its meaning close to me, where this Yoongi was a source of comfort. Thank you to those who took a chance with this one. Please know that in the midst of deciding to stop writing, you told me I could keep going. 😌

It was nice to be able to write about a sport that I deeply love (yes, I am manifesting with the NBA game featured here 🤞🏽) and about a theme I’m personally experiencing. Yoongi told us to live in the present and that we can dream simple, gentle dreams, too. Let’s cheer each other on! 💜

Listen to: For All You Give (feat. Lucy Rose) by The Paper Kites || Playlist 🎶

1.5 years later

You walk past the hallways to head outside the airport, large luggage in one hand and a small one on the other.

Your phone rings and Jimin is on the other end, asking if your flight was alright and if the weather is good. You give him a lowdown of the past 18 hours, including your lovely encounter with a Korean-American family during your Minneapolis layover. Their 6-year old is apparently a fan of yours after you did a stint of hosting her favorite Korean variety TV show, and your heart soared when she told you that she wants to be funny and beautiful like you. You found it amusing that doing cute poses and laughing your way through every episode was entertaining enough for her.

“That’s adorable,” Jimin chirps. “I love how your fanbase gets younger every year. You started with grandparents and now you’ve got 6-year olds under your spell.”

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” You laugh. “I just hope these kids don’t watch my latest movie because it’s gonna terrify them.”

“Yeah, at least keep the variety shows to entertain the babies,” he chuckles. “I already told Hoseok that you want to guest-host again. There are a couple of shows that want you onboard.”

“Ah, that’s great,” you beam. “I need as much joy and laughter in my life after that last project. That took so much out of me.”

“It did, didn’t it?” Jimin hums. “But it’s got the media buzzing about you again. So much for that one so-called journalist who claimed that you’re one-dimensional and can’t do anything other than romance because you’re only good at being in love. Let me smack her face with all the good reviews about your latest role so she can shut her one-dimensional mouth.”

You giggle at Jimin’s words, his protective nature soothing you like it always does. You remember when that article about you came out after you starred in a mini-series, a project you had after the show you filmed in Paris, which did turn out to be your biggest break then. Your role in that drama had you falling in love with someone from a rival family, one of the show’s major plot points, and that journalist went off about your supposed versatility being premised on the emotions of being in love. You can’t really do much outside of it, she said, and it was that same day when you got the lead role for a psychological thriller, with the industry’s eyes on you to see if you’re able to handle a character that’s so different from what you’re used to.

And well, it’s safe to say you blew their minds. Even you didn’t think you could do that well, but you pushed hard, not only to prove yourself to them but to challenge yourself, knowing that there’s more to learn and showcase even after 10 years of being in the industry.

The reviews showed that you delivered. Critics praised your acting, saying how disturbed they felt during specific scenes, and that was a compliment for you, knowing that was the goal. The movie was even shown in a recent foreign Film Festival, and the praises are still coming; Jimin’s been the one sending you every article and post he could find, and he’s been nothing short of amazing when it comes to encouraging and praising you himself for another successful project.

It wasn’t without its difficulties though, as getting into character meant you had to immerse yourself in its darkness, in the disturbing themes that ate away at you sometimes. It was Yoongi who’d been the one to bring you out to the light every time - sending you flowers while on set, giving you a bath after every filming so you’re not left in your own mind, holding you close whenever you slept, and driving you out during days off. It was hard but it was worth it, as you felt liberated from all the negative emotions once filming wrapped up.

Yoongi was supportive all throughout - including all the promotions you had to do and the moments of doubt you’d have about your performance. He held your hand during the premiere and took you to the mountains for a weekend to escape it all for a while. Other than the amazing sex you had and the time away from everyone, you both spent those days wrapped up in each other’s arms, easing back to your normal lives that didn’t include you randomly crying at night or losing sleep from your tiring schedule.

You’d just wrapped up your promos for the film in Seoul and you’re also waiting for the next project while working on some endorsements and guesting on the side. But after the exhausting couple of months, you deserve a break, and you want nothing more than to focus on Yoongi, knowing he’s the one who’ll be needing your love and support this time.

Jimin breaks through your thoughts and asks if the car he’d arranged has arrived.

“Not yet, but Yoongi messaged that he’s 5 minutes away,” you respond. “Thanks, by the way. I know you had to arrange all this in such short notice and had to work with Hoseok to push back all my other schedules. I know it was stressful for you, too.”

“And who said I ever minded?” Jimin replies. “I’ve spent enough time with Yoongi to know how much he takes care and supports you, and that also means I know just how much his career means to him. I’m sure you already know but nonchalant and cool he may be, he’s incredibly nervous. I just know having you there is gonna make all the difference.”

“I know,” you smile, feeling emotional at the thought. “I’m just so happy for him. He’s been sending me photos since he got here and I could just see his eyes sparkling. I’m so excited to see him in action.”

“Me, too, at least from here. We’ll be tuning in and I’ll just pretend I know shit about basketball and the NBA,” Jimin laughs. “I guess it’s weird to be cheering for the commentator and not the players but oh well. Just tell him we’re rooting for him; Jin’s gonna host watch parties in his house. We’ll invite Jungkook and Namjoon so there’ll be people who can actually explain to us what’s happening.”

You laugh at Jimin’s rambling. It’s touching to know just how much your friends have come to support Yoongi as well. You’ve to remind yourself that not long ago, they were all wary of him, given the 2 times he let you go. But they’ve seen in the past year and a half exactly what that love you treasure really looks like. You always said it was transformative for both of you in different ways, and they’ve come to witness that, too.

They’ve seen how tough days for you were always made better whenever Yoongi was around, how negative voices were always drowned out by his gentleness and encouragement, how bouts of insecurities were easily mended by his belief in you.

That love got you regularly going home to Daegu to see his dad and to be with yours, and to make an effort to heal the wounds with your sisters.

That love also got Yoongi to be braver, to take chances and to make the most out of every opportunity he could find. It’s that love that supported him throughout the months that he wrote for that online sports magazine, until he became a regular guest at an online sports show. It’s what encouraged him to apply for a sports channel’s basketball analyst position; you remember the smile on his face when he got the job and the first time he appeared on TV to talk about the sport he’s loved for most of his life. It’s your shared love that got him to dream again - maybe coach a professional team in the future, perhaps become a household name in sports media. It doesn’t matter what form, you’d remind him, as long as it was in the world of basketball.

It’s that same love that’s going to hold his hand through the next 2 or so weeks, as Yoongi lives out a dream he didn’t think he’d have. As a 10-year old who’d imagined himself playing for the NBA too many times, he didn’t think that 20 years later, he’d be reporting on it as part of the South Korean media. He thinks it’s just as much a dream as any. This is the sport he loves, and he told you once that he can’t imagine his life without it.

“Oh, I think that’s him!” You tell Jimin, as you spot the maroon car that Yoongi said he was in. “Thank you again.”

“Just call me for anything, okay?” He says on the other end. “And enjoy Boston!”

You bid him goodbye and rush to the car that stops not far from where you are. Yoongi exits and you hug him immediately, falling into the warmth that you’ve missed this past week. You were at a promotional event in Busan when he left Seoul for the US a few days ago so you didn’t get to say goodbye, but it appeased you that you could spend your break with him here.

But more than anything, it’s the fact that you get to be part of his new world this time, and nothing makes you happier than being able to see that sparkle in his eyes that made you fall for him that first time all those years ago. There’s that confidence again, that drive. Yoongi is all kinds of beautiful everyday, but seeing him do something he loves has always been special. You’re glad you get to witness that again.

“I missed you, jagi,” he hums in your ear. How was your flight?”

“Good. I got a bit of rest,” you reply. “And I missed you, too.”

Yoongi smiles and gives your luggage to the chauffeur who loads them in the trunk. You both enter the car and sneak in a kiss for the seconds that you’re alone, and he smiles against your lips before turning to you.

“You seem excited,” he states.

“Of course, baby. It’s the big day tomorrow. Aren’t you?”

“I’m terrified, actually,” he chuckles to mask the nervousness. “But Mr. Chan called earlier to ask how I’m feeling and he’s been so supportive, saying that his sprained ankle must’ve been a blessing in disguise if it meant I get to take his place. I did the reporting the other day during Media Day and he said I did really well, asking the players and coaches really good questions. He said if I sustain this during the entire championship series, I could be well on my way to reporting more big games even in other sports.”

“Baby, that’s huge!” You beam, turning to him to see his shy smile. “You could be reporting on the Olympics, who knows! But the NBA… this is huge for you. The fact that you’re who they thought to replace him is a big deal. It means they really see something in you.”

“I still think it’s a fluke,” he sighs. “If Mr. Chang hadn’t gotten injured, it would’ve been him. It just so happened that the other guys are either on leave or on another assignment and I was… there.”

“Then you just saved their asses! It means you get to show them how good you are, and I know you’re good. I wouldn’t be paying attention to basketball if you weren’t calling it.”

“You’re biased though,” he laughs.

“Duh. Name one other sports commentator who knows his shit, is incredibly handsome, has such a soothing voice, and looks hot talking about people shooting balls?” You exclaim. “No one! Just you! Baby, you’re saving the industry!”

Yoongi thinks you’re adorable when you go off like this. He always knew you didn’t actually pay attention to his games before because your eyes were only on him. Whenever you’d both watch on TV, you’re often curled into his arms, remarking that he does that same jumper smoothly or that the players are either boring or too cocky. You understand the sport, though. He knows you’re interested because you get basic terms and ask him questions. Sometimes he thinks you just want to hear him talk or analyze a play; sometimes you just giggle when he’s pulling his hair or yelling over a stupid call or when his team’s losing, but regardless of your level of appreciation for the sport, he knows you love it because he does, and that means more to him than you’ll ever know.

He gives in though, knowing you feel strongly about his basketball commentary skills.

“Thank you, jagi. I at least know that if I completely fail at this, you’d still think I’m hot.”

“Baby, I think you’re hot all the time. You could even model or act, you know? The industry will benefit from this pretty face,” you wink.

“Let’s say hypothetically, I do act. What happens if I have an intimate scene with someone? What would you do?” He asks, arching an eyebrow because he can almost predict what you’re gonna say.

“I will cry,” you pout, causing him to laugh.

It’s all hypothetical, but he can tell you’ll really be upset even if it’s something he has to live with all the time. It’s something he’s gotten used to, though. He did survive watching your scenes with Pablo where you both cuddled “naked” in bed, although he admits looking away so many times. He also made it through your mini-series where you had multiple sexually tense scenes with your co-star. He admits he likes it when you’re more clingy and affectionate after each filming and episode, and he won’t complain.

But knowing how affected you’d be if the roles were reversed makes him a little soft. He remembers those summers years ago when you’d eye the girls who’d cheer for him during his games and how you always ran to him after to hold his hand and then kiss him intensely in the bathroom or his car. You would deny the jealous girlfriend allegations and he used to just laugh through it. It seems like nothing has changed.

“These lips are for me only,” you say, cupping his cheeks to hold him in place for a deep kiss.

“They are,” he smiles. “And I know at the end of the day, your lips are only for me, too.”

He kisses you again, no longer minding the chauffeur in the car who doesn’t seem to care that you’re being affectionate in his backseat.

“They are,” you hum. “They’re for your neck, and your chest, and—” you palm his cock — “for this.”

“Jagi,” he laughs, already used to your antics.

You’re usually like this after being away. You were apart for a few days and it’s been a while since you’ve been separated for longer than that.

“I just miss you,” you sigh, hugging him now and liking the comfort of his touch as always. “No one would massage my feet after walking in heels for hours and have a bath with me, no one would make me cum to sleep or kiss me goodnight.”

“Nice to know that’s all you miss,” he teases, earning him another pout.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do, and I miss those, too,” he hums as he kisses your forehead. “Thanks though, for coming here. I know that Jimin and Hoseok had to push back some of your schedules.”

“No issue at all. I wanted to be here, babe. This is a big deal and I’m… I’m just so happy for you,” you say against his chest.

“You know I wouldn’t have gotten here without you, right?” He replies, emotional now at how far he’s come.

It’s been years but the memory of his injury and his subsequent fallout from the sport comes and goes sometimes, so was losing you in the process. And then losing you again. But he’s here now, with you, the night before an important moment of his young career as a sports analyst, and he’s never felt more secure in his life.

“You’ve always been a fighter,” you look up at him. “And you’re here because of you.” You kiss him softly. “But I can also take credit, that’s fine,” you laugh. “But really, thank you for not giving up on your dream, babe. I hope you know that it gives me courage, too.”

That night, you climb into bed with Yoongi, the exhaustion from the long trip overtaking you. There’s warmth in his eyes when he looks at you, and he chuckles when you try to stay awake. It’s his soft lips against your forehead that bids you goodnight, and you fall into his arms, knowing that this is what you’ll be waking up to in the morning.

The next evening, you walk inside TD Garden, Boston’s sports arena, where Game 1 of the NBA finals between the Celtics and Phoenix Suns are being held. The energy is insane, something you’ve never felt before, and it’s making you giddy and excited. You can only imagine what it’s like for Yoongi, and the thought makes your heart warm.

You did see him taking long breaths earlier after he’d dressed up and prepared to leave, and much as you’d been so tired, you just had to hug him to calm him down and tell him that he’s gonna do great. He’s just excited, he claimed, but he’ll look for you in the arena; knowing you’re there with him will be enough to calm his racing heart.

He had to go earlier to cover the press conference and film for their segment in Seoul’s morning news channel. It’s just him, Hee-soo, and a small production crew but it’s all they need. As commentators, they get to call the game but also interview the players and staff, report it, and then write about it. It’s tough and stressful but it’s the kind of buzz that Yoongi lives for now, you can tell, as you eye him in his designated analysts’ table, looking around and taking in the energy of the arena. His smile is priceless. There’s pride in it, there’s acceptance. It looks like the smile of someone who fought hard to have a new dream, and someone who worked to achieve it.

Yoongi’s eyes go to you and you wave. You’re thankful for the connections you have that got you this ticket last minute, and even if you won’t pay attention to the game as much, being here to witness Yoongi call his first NBA match is too special to miss. You can’t imagine being anywhere else.

The game is an exciting one. You get into it with the crowd even if you don’t exactly have a team you’re rooting for but you cheer just the same. Your eyes constantly flit to Yoongi though, whose position isn’t far from where you’re seated.

You listen through the online channel so you can hear what he’s saying, and the way he describes the energy inside is on-point. He narrates the plays effectively; you could be looking away from the court and still feel like you’re watching because of how good he is. His voice is calm and measured, except towards the end when the game is close and his pitch increases and he matches the excitement of what’s happening. It’s intense and exhilarating, and when the final buzzer sounds, you turn to him and see that smile on his face again.

Tears form in your eyes as you feel overwhelming pride. Perhaps it’s similar to what he felt when he was with you during the recent Film Festival where your movie was shown and the audience gave your entry a standing ovation. He knew what you had to go through for that role and seeing your hard work paying off meant so much to him, as he got to hold your hand and tell you he was proud of you.

That was special, he said. So many times in the past, he wanted to tell you all that, and that you did well, and that he’s looking forward to the next big thing you’ll do, but he never had the courage to. That’s why he’d send flowers, he told you.

He also revealed how that came about - how he’d driven to Seoul for your first movie premiere with a bouquet of daisies but that he’d seen you with someone, and how he decided to leave it at the agency for you to receive. He almost took it back but you seemed to like it so he just continued with the tradition. You cried then, and he said he didn’t want you to feel guilty. But you were emotional because he still looked out for you and his care for you never wavered. The flowers gave you strength, and you’d told him you wanted to be like those daisies for him, too.

Seeing him now gives you that sense of fulfillment, that not long from now, you’ll be able to hold his hand and tell him you’re proud of him, and the chance to do that for someone you love is special beyond words. You’re glad you can finally do that for each other now.

Gentle dreams, you think. This life with him and all the simple things you do for each other and together are some of the biggest ones.

It’s quiet in the car on the way to your hotel, the fancier one you booked for both of you instead of the mid-range one they got for him. Yoongi is focused on his notebook, jotting down notes from his memory that he’ll have to write up later on.

He’s then glued to his device once you get to your room, with him seated on the couch and agreeing to your orders for room service for your dinner. It seems he’s going through the messages of praise from his colleagues and his friends. A lot of people tune in to the channel’s coverage of the NBA, and other than you, no one’s prouder than his dad and his brother.

You watch him from the bathroom door, appreciating the joy he exudes. It’s different from what you’d seen all those years ago. This is a man who went through various kinds of pain and had other people suffer because of it, something he still burdens himself with every once in a while. But he did the brave thing of dreaming again; sometimes you think that’s probably harder than when he gave up on the first one.

Yoongi shows you everyday that courage takes different forms. Sometimes it’s letting something go, sometimes it’s fighting for them. Sometimes it’s loving someone from afar and sometimes it’s flying thousands of miles to a foreign country and asking for them back.

But it’s always picking up your broken pieces and learning to love yourself despite and because of them. It’s finding something or someone you can’t live without and offering what you can, trusting that they’ll take you into their world because you deserve it. Courage is dreaming again, it’s loving again even with the possibility of getting hurt. It’s trusting yourself enough that you’re going to be okay if things don’t go your way.

You hear him call your name. You realize you’ve been gazing at him for longer than you intended, and so you walk towards him as he looks at you questioningly.

“I was just admiring how happy you look,” you say. “It suits you, and I’m just so thankful I get to see it.”

His face softens and he reaches out his hand, one that he kisses and he doesn’t say anything else. He just looks at you tenderly and your heart races at the sight.

You bend to capture his lips on yours, your movements gentle yet wanting. But it builds as time passes, until you feel him undoing the knot of your bathrobe, with him sighing in satisfaction when he feels you bare underneath. Your breath hitches when he cups your breast and you want nothing more than to have him right now.

You pull away then remove your robe, liking the way his eyes roam around your naked form and how he gulps at the position you’re getting into, as you get on your knees and spread his legs apart. His slacks get off first, and then his briefs. He removes the rest of his clothes as you take him in your mouth, his cock heavy and wanting as it reaches the edge of your throat.

You take your time, wanting him to feel good after what he’d done tonight, but he’s the one who pulls away, wanting instead to bury himself inside you. It’s what he does, as he directs you on the couch, entering you from behind while his fingers do their magic on all parts of your body. But he lets you both come together, on the bed as he hovers over you, his head no longer buried in your neck, with his eyes looking straight into yours as you both come down from your highs.

He kisses your lips tenderly as his I love you, and the way he holds you later that night says everything he can’t say.

Loving you is what he wants to do in his life. Loving you is courage.

You didn’t realize just how tiring covering the NBA finals would be. Considering their small team, Yoongi and Hee-soo work double time to get all the information they need to cover the games and write about them within a short period of time. They also have to fly back and forth depending on where the game is and you’ve liked tagging along, enjoying the amenities of your hotel and exploring the nearby area. It’s what you do in Boston and then in Phoenix.

And while a game 7 is great for the league and basketball fans, you can tell it’s taxing for Yoongi. He doesn’t complain though. It’s part of the experience; the first one tends to be very memorable, he says.

Both of you find yourselves in Boston's public garden the afternoon after the final game of the series. It’s been a crazy 24 hours, as Yoongi and Hee-soo had to do interviews and then report and then write about the game. You stayed by Yoongi’s side, attending to his needs and helping whenever you can.

It’s early morning in Korea by now and work can resume later, perhaps right before or during your early morning flight back home, but you’re both at what has become one of your favorite spots in the city. It’s nice and simple and quiet. The garden is also accessible. It reminds you of the park in Paris, the one where Yoongi had come to meet you, and you cried in his arms at the sight of the man you didn’t think you’d be able to be with again, but he braved through his fears to be with you.

“I like it here,” you say, as you walk past one of the many statues.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” He hums. “The pond reminds me of Paris.”

You turn to him and smile, letting him know you were thinking the same.

Yoongi watches you lovingly look at the flowers. Your head turns when you hear toddlers squealing on their parents’ shoulders. And you perk up at the dog that stops to sniff his leg. They’re all simple but they’re so unabashedly you - soft, charming, and everything he needs.

He thinks about all the things he loves about you as you smile and laugh at your surroundings. He’s been thinking about a lot of things, actually, constantly pinching his arm to remind himself that this life he’s created with you isn’t just some dream he conjured in his mind to get over losing you twice. You’re actually, truly next to him, living his new dream with him, as he dreams your dream with you. He doesn’t think he can get any happier than everyday he gets to live like this.

You told him a few times that he’s brave for dreaming a new dream. It’s scary to do that, you’d said, so are other things, like loving again and again, accepting the broken pieces of himself and loving every one of them. You’d said that he was brave for flying to see you and asking for you back, and while he agrees to some extent, he doesn’t think anyone can be braver than you.

You love intensely and genuinely; you love so certainly. You love like you heal, and you love yourself and others so you could heal as well. The way you loved him all these years has been filled with courage - you loved when it hurt, when it didn’t feel like he wanted to fight for you, when it felt like your love wasn’t strong enough to carry his burden. You loved so hard that there would be nothing to regret if the world ended the next day, and your love is so transformative that it created a home in his aching heart so that it could be strong enough to love both you and him after everything.

You turn to him and reach out for your hand as you head towards the exit, and he jogs to where you are and intertwines his fingers with yours - not loosely but securely; he wants you to know he’s never letting you go.

There’s no version of life that he’d let you go another time. And so when he gets a message from the jeweler that his order for a customized daisy ring is ready, Yoongi’s heart soars to know that he could at least give you - ask you - something that will let you know that he’ll choose this life over and over again as long as it’s the one where he gets to live the rest of it next to you.

You’ll both go back to Seoul, in the home you both created, in each other’s arms where you both belong.

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