🏁 Chickee 🏁

★ SMUT TAGS; rough sex, dirty talk, nicknames (sweetheart, good girl), body worship, cunnilingus, thigh riding, overstimulation, service top wriothesley, somnophilia, creampie

When you swiped right on Wriothesley all those years ago, you hadn’t really meant to.

In fact, it was Charlotte’s doing—your pink-haired, loud-mouthed work bestie who claimed you looked like you desperately needed to get laid. Blunt as she was, you couldn’t exactly argue, so you let her take your phone, roll her eyes at your half-filled bio, and start swiping with the same precision she used to schedule back-to-back meetings without mercy.

Charlotte had a reputation in the office: the matchmaking goddess. Every coworker she’d paired had at least made it through dinner without a red flag, which was more than most apps could promise. That’s the only reason you didn’t protest when she shoved your phone back into your hands, screen glowing with a photo of a very tall, very muscular, very attractive man.

“Wriothesley,” she read aloud smugly. “Twenty-nine. Lives downtown. Loves dogs. This guy’s your soulmate, I can feel it.”

Eh. You didn’t need a soulmate. You just needed a distraction.

So you nodded. She swiped. A flurry of hearts flooded the screen, and then: “It’s a Match!”

You didn’t expect much from that first date.

This Wriothesley person took you to dinner at some unassuming bistro near the edge of the city. He agreed to pick you up somewhere in the main district at your request. He told you that the restaurant wasn’t anything special, but the waitstaff greeted him by name and he tipped them double what you’d ever dream of spending on yourself. He also came with a dark coat and a voice so low it made your wine glass hum with each word.

You’d gone in expecting something casual—maybe even forgettable—but turns out, that date wasn’t a thinly veiled pretense for a one night stand. Wriothesley dropped you off at the main district again saying he’d enjoyed your company, and hoped he’d get to see you again next time.

Those last few words stuck with you though. Next time. 

It wasn’t until the third date that you found out what he did for a living. You were sitting across from him in a dim booth, half-drunk on a tequila sunrise and the way his frost blue eyes crinkled when he laughed, when you finally asked. 

“I work security,” Wriothesley said simply. “High-profile stuff. Government-related.”

That could’ve meant a dozen things, but the weight in his voice said it wasn’t just checking badges at a door. 

“Well,” you said, offering up a sheepish smile. “I sit at a desk and answer emails for a living. So... not quite bodyguard-to-the-stars level.”

It was meant to be a joke, light and self-deprecating, but part of you meant it. His life sounded like something pulled from a spy thriller, whereas yours felt like the static in between radio stations. But Wriothesley didn’t laugh. He tilted his head, brow furrowing just slightly.

“Sounds exhausting,” he commented dryly. “I think I’d last five minutes before walking out.”

The way he said it made your cheeks warm because it wasn’t the words themselves, but the way he looked at you when he said them. Like your life, your effort, your everyday still mattered. Maybe that was the moment you first started thinking this could actually go somewhere.

Things didn’t explode into love right away. 

There were no grand declarations or slow-motion kisses in the rain, but Wriothesley texted you every night, called you whenever you were both free, and took you out more than you expected. And when he stayed the night for the very first time, he made breakfast and folded your laundry before you could even protest. It was slow and intentional, set at a pace that never set alarm bells in your head, and somehow, that made it better.

A year in, he gave you a toothbrush in his bathroom. Two years, the two of you exchanged keys. By the third, you were fighting over paint swatches for a shared apartment with sun-warmed windows and enough closet space for both of your lives to unfold side by side.

Little by little, you and Wriothesley built a home, not just a place to sleep. The kind of home where laundry is always halfway done but no one minds because you both chip in without being asked. With the quiet rhythm of brushing teeth side by side, splitting chores when the world feels too heavy, and falling asleep tangled in limbs that speak more love than any words ever could.

It’s not glamorous, not like the movies. But it’s yours. 

Even now, with the city in the midst of one political flare-up after another and Wriothesley wrapped tightly around Neuvillette’s every step like the shadow of a well-muscled bodyguard, your routine never breaks. He still comes home and peels off his coat like it weighs double what it should. He still presses a kiss to your hair—even if his lips barely graze your scalp before exhaustion pulls him under. 

You’ve always been each other's safe place. When you're worn thin by the drag of a 9-to-5 desk job that leaves you staring at screens more than anything meaningful, Wriothesley’s quiet presence soothes you in more ways than one. And when he's bruised by the weight of guarding a man as important as the mayor, you're there for him, too. 

But these past few days?

You feel a little… disconnected.

Wriothesley has been working six nights in a row now—long shifts that come with the close-range security detail. Neuvillette has been attending summit after summit, hosting visiting officials with so much tension in the air you can feel it clinging to your boyfriend when he finally walks through the door. He’s more exhausted than you’ve seen him since you got together. 

You don’t fault him for it. How could you? He’s not just doing his job; he’s protecting someone. That’s who he is. That’s part of why you love him.

But gods, you’re tired too.

Sure, your job doesn’t have the physical strain his entails, but the mental grind has been eating you alive. There’s something about being around people all day—clients, coworkers, managers—that drains you in a way you can’t explain and lately, it’s been more than that.

You’re tense, too high-strung than you’d want to be. Your body aches not from work but from want. It’s because of the way Wriothesley’s voice scrapes low when he’s half-asleep. The way he brushes your shoulder when he’s passing by, his large hand spanning your back like he’s still half-protecting you even at home. The way he looks in the morning when his dark hair is mussed and his skin is still warm from sleep. 

You want him.

But every night, when he comes home, it’s clear: he’s spent. He doesn’t even make it to bed sometimes. You’d find him knocked out on the couch with his boots still on, his fingers slack where they’d been fumbling for the remote. And you’d just sigh and kneel down to untie his laces like it doesn’t hurt.

Like your needs don’t count quite as much.

You’ve started to think maybe they don’t.

He’s working harder. He’s serving the city. You’re just... clocking in, filling out spreadsheets, trying not to cry in the break room. It doesn’t feel like enough to justify this low, gnawing ache inside you; the crawling restlessness that no warm bath or vibrating toy or late-night distraction can quite soothe.

You miss him, and it’s not just physical. It’s not just sex.

It’s connection.

But you’re starting to worry you’re being selfish just for wanting it.

Tonight, it’s quiet again. 

You’re curled on the couch with your favorite blanket draped over your knees, all while the TV is murmuring some show you’re not really watching. The lamp you picked out a year ago with Wriothesley casts a soft gold glow across the living room, but it doesn’t feel warm tonight. Not when the other side of the couch is empty and the only sound is the ticking of the clock and the occasional rustle of wind through the balcony door.

You’ve already set out dinner. It wasn’t anything special, just something simple you picked up from the corner deli and left covered on the stove. But that was hours ago, and it’s probably gone cold already. You don’t even remember what time Wriothesley said he’d be back, if he even told you at all. 

You hate this feeling—this hollow, irrational ache blooming in your chest. 

You know he loves you. You know he’s trying. You’re not mad at him, but still... something tightens in your throat as you stare at the front door, willing it to open; wishing stupidly that just once, he would walk in and look as desperate for you as you are for him.

Your phone buzzes. It’s a message from him.

Leaving now. Be home soon.

You stare at the screen for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard before you finally type: Okay. Be safe.

You delete the heart emoji at the end.

By the time the lock clicks and the door creaks open, you’re still on the couch, pretending you weren’t just crying into your sleeves two minutes ago. You paste on a smile that feels too thin and look up as Wriothesley steps inside, heavy-footed and drained, like the city dragged him behind it all day and spit him back out.

“Hey,” he says, his eyes finding you immediately. “You’re still up?”

You hum. “Wanted to make sure you ate something.”

He sighs as he shrugs off his coat, hanging it by the rack. “You didn’t have to.”

You know. But you did. You always do.

Wriothesley walks over to press a kiss to your forehead. It’s automatic and familiar, but not quite present. And when your boyfriend pulls away to make for the shower, you feel something inside you falter. You bite your tongue hard because if you speak, it’ll come out wrong, whiny and ungrateful even if you know you’re neither. But still—

“Wrio,” you say quietly, almost surprised you’ve spoken at all.

He pauses just when he’s halfway out of his shirt, brows furrowing slightly in concern when he turns to look at you. “Yeah? What’s wrong?”

You open your mouth to speak, but hesitate when you nearly choke on the words. You can’t cry—not over this. Not when he’s exhausted, and he’s already giving you what little he has left.

“It’s nothing,” you lie, tugging the blanket tighter around your legs. 

Wriothesley doesn’t move for a moment, as if trying to decipher the tone of your voice. You half-expect him to dismiss it with a shrug, but then he walks back over and kneels in front of you, one calloused hand resting gently on your knee.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice gentler now. “Talk to me. You’ve been quiet all week.”

You blink rapidly. It stings. “So have you.”

That makes something flicker in his expression—guilt, maybe. 

You shake your head quickly, reaching to touch his cheek like you’re the one who should be reassuring him. “I know you’re busy. I’m not mad, I swear, I just... I think I’ve been pretending that I’m okay a little too hard.”

He catches your wrist, frowning. “You’re not okay?”

You press your lips together, voice barely above a whisper. “I guess… I just miss you a little too much.”

The silence between you hums with tension, and then, quietly, Wriothesley exhales and cups the back of your neck, his thumb brushing gently behind your ear. Your friends always say that your boyfriend has the coldest eyes they’ve ever seen, but it’s in these moments that you get to see the warmth just simmering beneath the glacial blue of his irises. 

“I’m sorry,” Wriothesley says, so quietly it nearly breaks you. “I’ve been gone, even when I’m here. Haven’t I?”

You nod, not really trusting your voice.

Wriothesley doesn’t say anything else. He just rises, takes your hand, and leads you toward the bathroom with a touch so gentle it feels like a question, and you answer simply by not letting go.

The steam curls up from the showerhead when you step inside, the soft rush of water filling the space between your breaths. Wriothesley glances back, and you can feel the hesitancy in his touch as his fingers find the hem of your shirt. You let him lift it over your head, let him undress you like you might break if he moved too fast.

When he’s bare, too, you both step into the warmth.

It’s not rushed, or heated. The two of you stand beneath water and silence. Wriothesley lathers shampoo into your hair with careful fingers, like he’s trying to make up for all the days he’s been absent. His hands move slowly, massaging your scalp, and for a while, neither of you speaks.

You lean into him with your back against his chest, the spray of water hitting your shoulders, and his arms wrapped gently around your waist. There’s no space between you anymore—not physically, not emotionally—and that’s when he finally speaks.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

You shrug, pressing your lips in a thin smile. “I didn’t want to make it worse. You come home everyday looking like hell. I didn’t want to be another thing you had to carry.”

Wriothesley’s brow creases, and for a second, he looks like he wants to argue and tell you that you’re never a burden, not even close. But instead of speaking, he turns you around so he can pull you fully into his chest, burying his face in your wet shoulder like he’s the one who's been starved of touch.

“You’re not something I carry,” he murmurs. “You’re where I rest.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and a sob slips out before you can stop it—quiet and shaky. It feels more like relief than sadness. Wriothesley’s grip tightens like he hears it and needs to hold you through it, like he’s grounding himself in your heartbeat.

“I didn’t know it was getting this bad,” your boyfriend admits, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. “You’ve been so good at holding everything down... I didn’t see how much you were holding it all in.”

You give him a watery smile, cheeks damp both from your tears and the shower. “Yeah, well. I’ve always been a little too good at pretending.”

He exhales, then presses a kiss to your forehead again. “No more pretending,” he says softly. “Okay? You don’t have to be strong all the time. Not with me.”

“I want to be,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies, brushing a clump of soap suds just above your brow. “But wanting to be strong doesn’t mean you don’t get to fall apart alone. At least let me be there when you do.”

Wriothesley watches you intensely until you surrender with the barest nod of your head. He sighs, pressing a soft kiss on your forehead like it’s all the confirmation he needs.

The rest of the shower passes in wordless understanding. Wriothesley’s hands are steady as they move across your skin, careful in a way that makes your chest ache. He passes you the bar of soap without being asked. You tilt your head to rinse, and he guides the water away from your eyes with a gentle palm. 

There’s nothing urgent here. Just the quiet act of being—of washing away the days between you, and slowly remembering that love isn’t something either of you has to carry alone.

You both dress for bed after the shower. The air in the bedroom is cooler than the bathroom steam, and you pull on one of your lighter nightgowns—thin straps, soft fabric, a hem that brushes just a bit too high on your thighs when you sit. You catch the way Wriothesley’s eyes flicker down just once before he turns quickly to pull on a clean shirt.

He doesn’t say anything about it. 

You settle under the covers first, curling onto your side before he joins you not long after—close, but not close enough. He lies on his back as his arm brushes yours, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he’s engaged in a staring contest. You both breathe quietly for a while, cocooned in the kind of stillness that’s starting to feel more comfortable again. 

Wriothesley speaks first.

“Things might settle down soon,” he murmurs. “Neuvillette just has a final round of meetings tomorrow, and I should be switching in with some of the other bodyguards. Might actually be home before midnight for once.”

You hum softly. “That’s nice. Maybe you can eat a hot dinner, too.”

He turns to look at you then, a small smile ghosting across his lips. “Maybe I just like it better when you reheat it for me. The extra effort equates to extra love.”

You nudge his arm with your elbow, smiling despite yourself. “You sap.”

Wriothesley chuckles softly and the sound warms you all the way down. For a few quiet moments, he asks about your work, and you give him the rundown of the usual mundane office grind—annoying emails, tight deadlines, and the coffee maker that mysteriously stopped working when you needed it most. He listens carefully like he always does.

But the entire time, you can feel it. That slow coil of tension in your belly, the lingering warmth from the shower, and the ache that never really left. 

You’re not sure if it’s just you, but Wriothesley’s eyelids have dropped half-lidded, while he speaks with a tone that’s deeper than usual. His thigh is brushing yours now, and it makes you shift just a little closer. Then, almost reactionary, you feel his body tense beside you—barely perceptible, but you’ve been with him long enough to know when to wonder: 

Does he feel it too?

But Wriothesley has always been a mindful man. Since you ended up crying in the shower, you’re pretty sure that he now thinks if he touches you now, he’ll break something delicate. It’s something you still haven’t decided whether you hate or love about him because you’re not fragile. 

You’re burning.

Which spurs you to turn to your side and face him. The blanket slides with your hasty movement, and your nightgown pulls a little higher. Wriothesley’s frost blue eyes dip there again, lingering so much longer this time. He says nothing, but you see the way his hand twitches from where it rests on the sheets between you. 

You reach for it without hesitation. 

His fingers slip into the spaces between yours, warm and calloused and so much thicker than your own. You watch him as he watches you, and your heart simmers from… whatever’s growing here in the silence.

“I’m okay now,” you whisper.

His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...” You shift closer, your knees brushing his. “I’m not gonna break, you know.”

Wriothesley’s gaze lingers for just a moment too long—still cautious, still holding himself back like he thinks he’s protecting you. It makes you want to grab his shoulders and shake him, but you’ve always had more composure than that.

But still, you’ve been together for years. You know Wriothesley, and even if it means swallowing your pride, saying what’s on your mind has always been the surest way to reach him.

“I want you,” you add softly. “If you want me too.”

The moment you murmur the words, it’s like a switch was flipped.

The control in his shoulders crumples all at once, like something inside him finally gives him permission to need—to take. He exhales sharply and sits up just enough to cup your cheek and pull you in like he’s been holding this moment behind his teeth for days.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint, “you have no idea how much.”

He kisses you before you can say anything else.

There’s nothing rushed about it. No hurried tearing of clothes, or frantic fumbling—only the slow, molten press of his mouth to yours as his fingers stroke along your cheek. You sigh into him, melting like wax under his hands. Wriothesley pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours with a shallow breath, his voice still heavy with restraint.

“You’ve been so patient with me. Always waiting. Always putting me first.”

You let out a soft whimper when his thumb grazes your lower lip, the sound slipping out before you can catch it. Your knees brush his as you lean in, drawn by the quiet gravity between you. Wriothesley’s frost-blue eyes crease at the corners, a faint smile tugging at his lips—those same eyes you gazed into on your very first date, wondering how someone so breathtaking could have ever made room in his world for you.

“Let me take care of you tonight,” he murmurs, the words curling hot against your skin. “Let me make it up to you. Please?”

You reply with a breathless nod.

That’s all he needs.

Your boyfriend moves to lower you back against the mattress with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. His hands roam over your body, calloused fingertips ghosting along your waist, your hips, every curve he knows by heart. Wriothesley doesn’t just touch you—he cherishes you, tracing every part of you like a man reacquainting himself with something precious.

“You’re so beautiful,” Wriothesley breathes, leaning down to kiss the slope of your shoulder, then your collarbone, making sure to let his lips linger on every patch of skin. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how hard you’ve been working too. You’ve been holding it all together so well.”

His voice grows softer as he speaks, words dipping between kisses, filling every breath with tender praise.

“Coming home late… still smiling for me. Waiting up, cooking dinner…” His teeth scrape lightly at the sensitive skin along your throat, pulling a gasp from your lips. “And I just… let you carry it all alone.”

“You didn’t mean to,” you breathe as you arch under his careful touch. His hands feel so big, so steady on your skin, like he’s holding you in place with nothing but devotion.

“But I did,” Wriothesley answers softly, eyes dark and warm all at once as he slowly peels your nightgown higher, slipping it over your head until you’re bare beneath him. “I should’ve been here. With you.”

Your breath stutters as the cool air meets your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his gaze—drinking in every inch of you like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. Wriothesley doesn’t rush to touch you again right away. He just looks at you for a moment, steady and unashamed.

“I missed you,” Wriothesley murmurs, more to himself than to you. “So much.”

Then his hands return—broad palms skimming up your sides, teasingly slow in their ascent until they cup your breasts with a reverence that leaves you trembling beneath him.

“Missed these too,” he mutters, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you gasp softly. He watches the way you bend into his touch, as if you need more because you do. You always do when it comes to him.

“You’ve been aching for this, haven’t you?” Wriothesley’s voice dips low as his fingers roll over the sensitive peaks, teasing them with practiced care, never too rough, but never quite enough either. You whimper, your back arching off the bed as his thumbs circle again and again, slow and torturous.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “So soft. So sensitive.”

Then his mouth replaces his hands.

He takes his time tasting you, tongue flicking softly over one nipple before drawing it fully into his mouth, sucking slow and deep until your fingers tangle in his dark hair and your breath comes out in shaky little gasps.

The wet heat of Wriothesley’s mouth, the way he swirls his tongue around you before gently grazing his teeth—it’s overwhelming in the best way. He lavishes one breast thoroughly before moving to the other, making sure to tease and kiss every inch in between, leaving love bites in places only he will ever see.

By the time his mouth moves to your other breast, you’re barely holding yourself together—trembling under his slow, relentless pace, breath breaking with every careful flick of his tongue. He takes you deeper into his mouth, sucking with deliberate pressure, then releasing with a soft, wet pop only to start all over again, worshiping you with a focus that makes your head spin.

That’s when he notices.

The subtle, helpless way your hips keep shifting—arching up, grinding down without even realizing it. You don’t even realize it. The soft friction of your thighs squeezing around his, your barely-there panties growing damper by the second as you subconsciously rut against the firm muscle of his leg, desperate for any sort of relief.

Wriothesley’s eyes darken immediately.

He pulls off your nipple with a sharp exhale, his gaze locking onto yours as a slow, wicked smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh?” His voice drops, rough with amusement, low enough to make you shiver. “Didn’t realize you were this needy, sweetheart.”

You freeze, heat rushing to your cheeks as you realize what you’ve been doing, but his hands are already sliding down—gripping your hips to hold you there, keeping you flush against the firm press of his thigh.

“So wet already,” he murmurs, dragging your hips down just enough to grind you deliberately against him. “You couldn’t wait, could you?” His tone is teasing, but fond—like he’s utterly charmed by your desperation. “Rubbing yourself on me like that… Cute.”

You let out a shaky whimper as he rocks you again, slower this time, making sure you feel every inch of the pressure against your aching core.

“Go on,” Wriothesley coaxes, his voice a low, velvety rasp. “Don’t hold back. Show me just how much you missed me.”

With that, he guides your hips once more—grinding you against his thigh while his lips find your chest again. He latches back onto your breast as he sucks deep and slow, coaxing broken sounds from your lips as the heat between your legs grows unbearable.

Wriothesley only smiles against your skin with a voice that’s dark and full of promise as he groans softly, “That’s it… there’s my good girl.”

You can barely meet his gaze, dizzy from the burn between your legs, but it doesn’t matter. He sees everything—feels everything. The wet patch growing on his skin, the way your hips twitch and stutter as you chase every little drag of friction.

“You’ve been so good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing his way up your throat again. “So patient for me. But…”

His hands go still on your hips in an instant, holding you there right on the edge.

“…I’ve been patient too.”

The words rumble out of him like a warning, and before you can even catch your breath, Wriothesley flips you beneath him again in one smooth motion. Your lover pins you to the mattress, looming above you with eyes dark and ravenous, his breath hot against your lips. In a flash, he hooks his fingers under the band of your soaked underwear, dragging it down your thighs and tossing it aside without a second glance. His hands spread your legs wide, baring you fully to him, and the sheer hunger in his gaze makes your breath catch.

Your breath stutters, hips twitching beneath his touch as his thumb teases over your sensitive clit. As though he’s savoring every tiny jolt of your body under his hands while he pins you in place. His voice is a dangerous purr when he speaks, eyes locked to yours as he toys with you. 

“Where do you want me?”

You can barely form words, already shaking from the overwhelming heat and tension, but he doesn’t need your answer. He already knows.

Wriothesley hums, the sound thick with amusement and something darker, more indulgent, as he leans down—pressing a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, just beside where you need him most. His lips drag slowly as he makes his way closer, that piercing gaze never once straying too far from yours. 

“Poor thing,” Wriothesley coos, deceptively soft as he presses his lips to your other thigh, teasing you with more kisses that only make the ache worse. “You’ve been starving too.”

And then, without warning, he finally gives in.

He licks a broad, slow stripe through your folds, groaning low in his throat the second your taste hits his tongue—deep and guttural, like he’s been denied this far too long.

“Fuck,” he breathes against you, voice rough, almost dazed. “I missed this. Missed you.”

Before you can even gasp, he dives back in—devouring you with undeterred hunger, tongue flicking, curling, pressing just right, relentless and eager as he feasts on you like he’s making up for every night he came home too late, every hour he spent away.

He doesn’t just eat you out.

He worships you.

His hands grip your thighs, spreading you open wider as his tongue flicks against your clit—slow and precise, then faster, then back to languid strokes just to hear how your breath hitches. He drinks down every moan, every shudder, chasing every sound you make like it’s a reward. And he talks. Filthy, breathless praise slurred between licks, his voice deep and dark against your dripping heat.

“God, you taste so good… been dreaming of this for weeks.”

You sob out his name, thighs shaking as you clutch at his hair, but he doesn’t let up—if anything, your desperation only spurs him on.

“Don’t run from me, sweetheart,” Wriothesley growls, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your core as he sucks hard on your clit, drawing out a sharp cry from your lips. “You wanted this, remember?”

You nod, breathless, but it’s useless—he’s not letting you go.

He laps at you deeper, eating you like a man possessed. His thick fingers somehow end up sliding home into your wet channel, There is no escaping him when Wriothesley picks you apart with his tongue as if you’re the only thing he needs in the world.

And you realize—you are.

“Come on,” he coaxes, voice wrecked and desperate between strokes. “Let go for me. Let me have it.”

With the way he’s tasting you, relentless and perfect and starved—you don’t stand a chance. You shatter under him, legs trembling as your orgasm crashes over you, his name spilling from your lips in broken, breathless cries.

But Wriothesley doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t let you go.

If anything, he groans against you as if your taste only fuels him further, only sharpens his hunger. His hands tighten around your hips, pinning you down with an iron grip that leaves no chance to wriggle away from the overstimulation blazing through your body.

You thrash beneath him, sobbing, legs kicking helplessly against the sheets. But he holds you down with ease, strong arms locking you in place, his mouth still locked to your soaked core.

“Wri— Oh god. Wrio, please—” You can barely form words, voice breaking as your body jolts with every stroke of his tongue, every ruthless flick against your already oversensitive clit. But he’s gone completely lost in you as he drinks down every drop, licking you through each spasm and twitch of your trembling thighs.

“So good,” he rasps between hungry slurps, breath hot and wet against your slick skin. “So fucking sweet.”

He buries his face deeper, his grip bruising now, dragging you against his mouth again and again, forcing you to ride every last wave whether you can take it or not. You sob beneath him, trembling so hard it feels like you might break, but he loves it. He moans into you, devouring you like you’re his only salvation.

Your body’s already spiraling toward another high—too soon, too much, but his mouth won’t relent, and the pressure coils again before you can even breathe.

“No, no, I can’t—” you whimper, but it’s useless. He’s not listening. He refuses to stop.

“Shh,” Wriothesley hums darkly against you, sending another jolt through your core as his tongue flicks mercilessly over your clit, deliberate and devastating. “You can. You will.”

Then his voice drops even lower.

“You’re gonna come again for me, sweetheart,” he growls, dragging his tongue deeper, relentless and cruel in his hunger. “Be good and give it to me.”

As if your body is made solely to appease him, you fall apart all over again—screaming his name as your body convulses. Your vision goes white, another orgasm slamming through you so hard you can barely think, barely breathe.

You’re barely conscious of anything—your body still wracked with aftershocks, mind swimming in that heady, blissed-out haze—but you can feel him moving above you, finally letting go of your hips, his lips dragging one last kiss against your trembling inner thigh as he pulls back.

Wriothesley finally rises, breath hot and heavy, lips swollen and glistening from his relentless feast. His chest heaves with every ragged inhale as his frost blue eyes burn with something far more dangerous than hunger. 

Still, there’s a softness beneath it all. He cups your face with a large, steady hand, thumb brushing tenderly over your tearstained cheek, as if he’s grounding himself after losing control.

“Did so well for me,” he rasps, voice low and rough from how wrecked he is. “Took it all like a good girl… but I’m not finished yet.”

You can only whimper, too dazed to speak, and that’s when he sits back—kneeling between your legs, towering above you with that broad, sculpted frame still dressed in his sleep clothes. You watch through hooded eyes, breath catching in your throat as he hooks his fingers beneath the hem of his loose shirt. Wriothesley lifts it slowly, dragging it up over his head in one smooth pull.

God.

You’ve seen him shirtless before, countless times, but it still hits you like a punch to the chest. Your boyfriend is all hard muscle and carved lines, every inch of him honed from years of brutal work. His stomach ripples as he tosses the shirt aside. Your eyes catch on the faint trail of dark hair leading down from his navel, tracing lower beneath the waistband of his pants. 

Scars scatter across his torso, some faint and old, others more recent. They all cut through the otherwise perfect canvas of his body—making him look more devastatingly beautiful. You don’t even realize you’re staring until he speaks again.

“Keep looking at me like that,” Wriothesley murmurs, “and you’ll end up calling in sick tomorrow.”

Then he shoves his sweats down with little ceremony, pushing them past his hips and kicking them off with ease. You suck in a breath—he’s thick, flushed, already fully hard and aching for you. His cock curves heavily toward his stomach, leaking at the tip. The sight of him alone is enough to make your thighs clench together instinctively.

Wriothesley’s gaze softens at the sight, his voice dipping low and tender as he crawls back over you, caging you beneath his weight, every hard inch of his body pressed to yours.

“Don’t worry,” he breathes, nuzzling against your throat, his hips slowly dragging the thick weight of him through your spit-slick folds. “I’ll be careful.”

His voice roughens as he exhales, the words slipping out like a secret meant only for you.

“I want to feel every part of you tonight.”

The head of his cock catches at your entrance, teasing the sensitive spot where you’re still pulsing from his prior ministrations. Wriothesley doesn’t rush—he just stays there for a beat, watching the way you squirm beneath him, your body strung tight with need, trembling and bare beneath his weight.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs, kissing your temple as he rocks his hips forward.

You gasp—he’s thick, stretching you inch by inch, filling you with an aching, burning fullness that steals the air from your lungs. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the strong muscles there, but Wriothesley doesn’t flinch. He just watches you, gaze locked on every little change in your expression, like he can feel every shiver inside you just as deeply.

“God… You feel like heaven,” he groans, voice fraying as he finally sinks all the way in—seated flush against you, filling you completely. 

You can’t speak—you can barely think around the pressure, the overwhelming stretch that makes your body tremble from head to toe. He holds still for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel every throb of him inside you.

“You were made just for me, weren’t you?” Wriothesley whispers, his lips trailing down your cheek, your jaw, your throat, worshiping every inch he can reach. “Taking me so well. You love being split on my cock, don’t you?”

You let out a broken moan, nodding frantically as your hips shift in a silent plea. That’s all it takes for him to start moving—slow, deep thrusts that make you feel every thick drag of him inside you.

His pace is unhurried but devastating, hips grinding down with every stroke, hitting places inside you that make your breath catch in your throat. Wriothesley groans low against your skin, hands gripping your waist to keep you anchored as he rocks into you, steady and relentless.

“Been wanting this,” he pants, his voice wrecked and breathless in your ear. “Thought about it every damn night—wishing I was here instead of stuck out there, fucking missing you.”

He punctuates the words with a sharp thrust that has you keening beneath him, as if he’s trying to make up for every lonely night all at once. Forcing you to feel just how much he’s longed for you, how much this has been burning in him too.

“It’s been hell,” Wriothesley breathes, his voice fraying as he keeps his pace steady, grinding into you with slow, bruising rolls of his hips. His words fall against your skin, rough and tender all at once. “Coming home too late… seeing you waiting up for me every night, even when you’re dead on your feet yourself.”

You whimper, overwhelmed by the fullness and the weight of his confession both.

“I hated it,” he groans, his pace stuttering slightly as he sinks even deeper. “Hated watching you drift away from me. Hate pretending everything’s fine when all I want to do is keep you right here under me. Where you belong.”

The honesty and filth that coat his words makes you shudder, body arching toward him, helpless to the way his words spark against every nerve ending. 

You nod shakily beneath him—too breathless to speak, but it doesn’t matter. He can feel everything in the way your body tightens around him, in the soft, broken sounds spilling from your lips every time he rocks deep. Wriothesley swallows them all with a kiss, lips messy and desperate, as if trying to drink down every ounce of your need.

His hips grind deeper, slower, his voice dragging low from his chest, half-gone with restraint. “Nothing else feels like this,” he groans against your mouth. “Nothing else… feels like you.”

And god, it’s true. You’ve tried. In those long, aching nights when Wriothesley wasn’t home, when the cold side of the bed stayed empty and you’d buried yourself in pillows that didn’t hold his scent, you tried. Fingers, toys, anything to fill the space he left behind. But nothing ever compared to this.

Nothing ever stretches you the way he does, dragging against every spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your head spin. Nothing else burned like this, leaving you trembling and tearful under the weight of his need.

Nothing else makes you feel this full—this loved.

Your thoughts blur as you claw at his back, nails raking down the ridges of muscle and scars you know by heart. Your voice comes out wrecked, half-sobbing into his shoulder. “It’s not enough. N-Nothing else is ever enough. I only want you, Wriothesley.”

That makes him curse, loud and raw, hips snapping just a little harder as he holds you down, grinding deep into your tight pussy. “Say it again.”

“Only you—only you make me feel this good.”

Wriothesley groans like it’s tearing him apart. 

“That’s right,” he grits out, every thrust sending shocks through you. “No one else gets to touch you like this. No one else gets to have you.”

Your walls tighten around him at those words, and his pace falters, grinding in deeper, staying there, as he cradles your face with one trembling hand. When he kisses the tears away, you feel your heart ache for him even more. 

“I’m gonna give you everything,” he whispers, voice breaking apart with emotion and heat, his forehead pressed to yours. “Every second we’ve missed, every fucking bit of it.” And he means it—each roll of his hips packed with unspoken apologies, with longing and love so thick it almost hurts. He’s not just fucking you. 

He’s reclaiming you.

You can feel it building fast, the knot in your stomach wound tight from everything he’s already done to you, from the weeks apart to the way he holds you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. Every deep, grinding thrust pushes you closer, and you cling to him, nails pressing crescents into his skin, chasing every bit of him with shaking hips.

Wriothesley feels it too.

“That’s it,” he groans, voice low and frayed, his breath hot against your cheek. “Let go for me again, sweetheart… I’ve got you.”

His words undo you completely.

You fall apart with a sob, the pleasure crashing through you, overwhelming and hot, tightening every muscle as your poor, abused pussy clenches around him. Your body locks up, trembling as your climax hits and stars burn behind your eyelids.

Wriothesley shudders at the feeling—your body gripping him so tightly it rips a ragged moan from his throat. He’s right there with you, his pace faltering as he fights to keep from unraveling too soon, but it’s useless. You’re too tight, too warm, too perfect wrapped around him like this.

“Mine,” he rasps, his rhythm losing all control as he drives into you even deeper, grinding to the hilt, buried completely inside you.. “All fucking mine—”

He spills into you with a groan, his hips locked tight against yours, the warmth of him filling you completely as he pulses deep inside. You feel everything—every twitch, every wave of his release spilling into you—and it only makes you tighten around him more, dragging out every last drop.

For a while, Wriothesley doesn’t move. He simply stays there, holding you close as his chest heaves with every labored breath. You notice his arms shaking as he cradles your face, as if afraid you’ll slip away, and you respond with a breathless laugh. You lean into the warmth of his chest, fingers tracing lazy shapes along the scars on his back.

“Y’know, you always overdo it…” you murmur sweetly despite the jab in your words. “You could’ve just said you missed me instead of nearly breaking my pelvis.”

Your boyfriend snorts. “Sweetheart, we both know you wanted to be folded in half beneath me for weeks. No need to act so coy with me.” 

You make a sound of outrage—weak and breathless, given the state he’s left you in—but it only makes him laugh, the kind of sound that warms your chest.

“As if you weren’t grinding on me in your sleep last week,” Wriothesley mutters against your hair, voice husky but amused, his arms tightening around you as he shifts to pull the blanket over your bodies. “Or moaning my name when you thought I wasn’t listening.”

“Lies,” you mumble stubbornly, tucking your face against his throat, too drowsy and satisfied to argue properly. “You’re full of it.”

He just hums, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before you both start slipping into that soft, boneless quiet—his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, his body still nestled inside yours, too lazy to part.

But hours later, when the moon has shifted and everything’s hushed and hazy, you stir awake to the slow, instinctive roll of his hips against yours. 

You’re still wrapped around him, your bodies tangled and sticky with warmth, and even in his sleep, Wriothesley’s cock is thick and hard between your thighs, grinding up with needy, helpless thrusts as he breathes raggedly against your neck. You blink, hazy and half-lost in the fog of sleep, but when you shift your hips in answer, you feel the quiet groan he spills against your skin.

Still half-asleep, he mutters your name, slurring it like a plea.

You don’t stand a chance—not with the way he slides himself along the mess between your legs, driven by sheer need. All you can do is cling to him, letting him take what he wants, pulling you both under all over again.

You don’t know what possesses you. Maybe it’s the heady, aching fullness still lingering between your legs, or maybe it’s the low, guttural sound Wriothesley makes with every slow grind against your slick folds. But you tilt your hips anyway, just enough to guide him back inside you.

A soft, broken gasp slips from your lips the moment he catches, the thick head of his cock pressing right where your body is still tender and dripping from before. He slides into your soiled cunt with little resistance—everything still messy, still so wet, and it’s obscene how easily he fills you again.

You both groan, the sound low and guttural in the dark.

Wriothesley stirs at the sensation, his breath hitching against your skin, but he doesn’t fully wake just yet. His body simply moves on instinct, hips rolling slow and deep as he sinks fully inside, grinding against every oversensitive spot within you.

Despite himself, his hands roam, heavy and uncoordinated but hungry—palms dragging over your waist, up your ribs, before settling on your breasts with a rough, possessive squeeze.

“Mmh… Mine…” he mutters against your throat. 

His thumbs rub lazily over your nipples, teasing circles that send shivers down your spine even as his hips continue that deep, drugging rhythm—slow, thick strokes that never quite pull out fully, always grinding back in to the hilt. You can’t help the soft, breathy moans that escape you, half-lost in sleep yourself, body too pliant, too soaked and overstimulated to do anything but take him.

“Good girl,” Wriothesley breathes in that same drowsy murmur, his lips pressing clumsy, open-mouthed kisses along your neck. “Always so good for me… fuck, you feel so perfect.”

Your thighs tremble with every lazy thrust, his cock dragging through the combined mess of your earlier highs, every stroke a filthy reminder of how many times he’s already claimed you tonight, but none of it matters. You let him have you anyway, let him grind into you again and again, too far gone to care about anything but the warmth of him buried deep inside.

Despite yourself, you meet him willingly, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper, as if you’re just as insatiable as he is.

“You’re gonna keep me up all night at this rate,” you manage to tease, though your voice is wrecked, breathless from the slow burn of his cock dragging against every sore, swollen spot inside you. Wriothesley only lets out a dark, sleepy laugh right against your ear.

“Good,” he rasps, grinding in deep enough to make your toes curl. “I’m not done with you yet.”

You don’t even have time to catch your breath before Wriothesley shifts, the drag of his cock somehow sharper as he finally rouses fully from the fog of sleep. His breath is hot against your skin, rough and ragged, the weight of him pressing down on you as he starts to move in earnest—slow, steady thrusts that grind into every spot that makes your body jolt and tighten around him.

“So fucking sweet,” he groans, still slurred from sleep, but every word dripping with hunger. His hips roll deeper, languid and thick, as if savoring every wet, obscene sound of your bodies grinding together in the dark. “You just keep letting me in…”

You can barely respond—you’re too far gone, too soft and overstimulated, your cunt fluttering around him with every lazy thrust. It’s filthy, the way he slips through your earlier mess, grinding it deeper, making you feel every bit of it of his release still sticky and present. 

But when his hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen nub with terrifying ease, you gasp—a high, broken sound that echoes in the quiet. Wriothesley groans right with you, his thumb circling your clit in slow, devastatingly gentle strokes.

“Gotta help you along, sweetheart,” he mutters, his voice half a purr, half a growl as he watches your face twist in helpless pleasure. “Don’t want you falling behind…”

It’s too much. His cock grinding deep, his fingers working you with lazy precision—it has your body locking tight, your hips jerking against him despite yourself.

“Wrio— ah! Too much—” you whimper, but he only hushes you, his lips curling into a dark, sleepy smile against your throat.

“You can take it. You always do, my perfect girl,” he rasps, pressing harder against your clit as he rocks into you even deeper. “Just one more. Give me one more.”

The pressure crests too fast for you to keep up with, but there’s no stopping it. His cock drags through your gummy walls, his fingers never relenting, and you can feel yourself slipping under again, shaking violently as another orgasm curls tight in your belly.

“Come on, sweetheart. Milk my cock again—show me how much you love being filled up like this…” Wriothesley groans, voice wrecked and desperate now as his pace picks up, hips grinding messily into yours. 

You break into him with a sob, white hot ecstasy crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your aching pussy clamps down tight around his cock, and Wriothesley curses with a sharp hiss, hips stuttering as he grinds in deep.

“Fuck—fuck, just like that—”

He’s not far behind, your orgasm dragging him right over the edge with you. His hips lock tight against yours, buried to the hilt, as he spills inside again with a long, shuddering groan—filling you up once more as your body still flutters around him through the aftershocks.

You both stay like that for a while—panting, tangled, drenched in sweat and stickiness and heat, too spent to even think of moving. But you’re too blissed out and filled with cum and love to care.

Eventually, your breathing starts to slow, though neither of you moves—too exhausted, too warm in the tangled knot of limbs and sheets and fading tremors. His cock is still nestled deep inside you, softening but not quite slipping out, the heat of him still leaking from where your bodies remain joined. Wriothesley hums quietly against your temple, barely more than a rasped breath. He strokes slow, soothing circles over your hips, your back, as if to calm the aftershocks still fluttering through you both.

“I love you,” he murmurs, almost slurred with sleep again. But it’s steady—like the words were always meant to be there, tucked between your heartbeats.

You smile, too dazed and sore to do anything but melt into him.

“Love you too,” you whisper back, fingers curling lazily into his sweat-damp hair.

You tug him down for a soft kiss, lips brushing more than pressing, but it’s enough. He groans faintly in response—somewhere between contentment and pride, the sound rumbling in his chest where it’s pressed against yours. And then, in that same drowsy haze, Wriothesley’s hand drifts from your waist down to your thigh, hooking it around his hips again. 

“Better clear your morning,” he mutters against your skin, more to himself than to you. “You won’t be leaving this bed anytime soon.”

You laugh softly, not even bothering to argue because deep down, you know he’s right.

When you finally fall back asleep, your last blurry thought is that you’ll definitely be calling in sick.

The message from Charlotte pops up just as you’re halfway through your afternoon reports.

Get down to the lobby. Right now.

You frown, obviously puzzled as you rack your brain for what could have prompted this. Did you order something? Did you forget a courier drop-off? Were you in trouble with someone from the front desk?

Still puzzled, you grab your phone and make your way downstairs, muttering to yourself the whole way. Whatever it is, it better not be another one of Charlotte’s ridiculous pranks. But the second the elevator doors open, your breath catches.

Wriothesley is standing right there in the middle of the lobby.

Your boyfriend is dressed in his bodyguard uniform, looking every bit the part—broad shoulders, fitted black, looking painfully good and very out of place in the sleek office space. He’s holding an enormous bouquet of flowers that looks like it came straight from a fairytale. Your heart jumps to your throat as every head in the lobby turns toward him. 

“What the—what the hell are you doing here?!” you hiss the moment you stomp over, your face burning as you try to shrink into yourself. “Aren’t you on the clock? Neuvillette’s going to kill you—”

But Wriothesley only flashes that infuriating, calm smile of his, completely unfazed by the growing audience of office workers gathering around you. He steps forward and presses the bouquet into your hands.

“Didn’t think I’d forget my girlfriend’s birthday, did you?”

The words hit harder than they should, spoken like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and your whole face burns hotter.

You sputter uselessly, gaping at the sheer audacity of him—your boyfriend, standing here in full uniform like some dark knight from a drama, handing you the most beautiful bouquet you’ve ever seen, while half your office gawks.

Charlotte, from somewhere behind you, lets out a delighted little squeal. You catch her openly snapping photos, giggling behind her phone like she’s watching her favorite rom-com unfold live.

“W-Wriothesley, I swear to god—”

“Relax.” He leans in close, lips brushing your ear in a way that makes your knees nearly buckle. “I cleared it with the mayor. Just think of it like I’m on my lunch break.”

Then, even lower, he murmurs, “Besides… I figured you’d want something to look forward to after work.” His gaze flicks down before he adds with a wicked glint, “Dinner first. Then we’ll celebrate properly tonight. You’ll get to unwrap another present later.”

You almost faint.

Before you can say another word, Wriothesley straightens, presses a kiss to your cheek—in front of everyone—then turns to leave. His confident stride is slow and smug, leaving you standing there with the bouquet in hand.

Charlotte giggles beside you, utterly delighted as she keeps taking pictures. “Told you he was your soulmate~” she teases, while you bury your face in the flowers—face burning, heart impossibly full.

But honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

⟢ end notes: oh this was extra filthy... it has been A While since i locked in and wrote smut this emotional and passionate and— *sighs dreamily* ohh to be wriothesley's girl... i very truly enjoyed writing this, so i hope you enjoyed reading too :3c thank you again to my beloved bean for trusting me to write this for you!!! i am always happy to go back to my roots (the genshin men...) to bring ur delusions to life <3 happiest birthday!!!

February 2023

Travel sickness was one hell of a beast.

Alina Hart had her head between her knees, breathing carefully in time with the meditation tutorial playing softly from her phone speakers.

“In for four… hold… and out for six…” the woman’s voice instructed.

Alina groaned. 

The private jet hummed steadily around her, smooth enough that most people probably wouldn’t have even noticed they were thirty thousand feet in the air. Unfortunately, Alina noticed every tiny movement. Every shift in altitude. Every patch of turbulence. 

Her stomach rolled. “Oh my God,” she muttered weakly into her knees. “I’m going to die.”

Indie exhaled softly from the seat beside her. Her hand was rubbing Alina’s back in gentle, repetitive circles. “Just breathe. Listen to Joan," she cooed. 

Joan was the meditation lady on YouTube who had a video especially for those suffering from extreme nausea, whatever the reason may be. 

Alina lifted one hand blindly in her best friend's direction. “I need another bag.” She choked out. 

Indie handed her another vomit bag. 

–

Flying private was awful for the environment, obscenely expensive, and every single time she stepped onto a jet, Alina felt like she was betraying at least three of her own moral principles at once.

The money spent could’ve gone somewhere useful.

To one of the many charities she worked closely with. To the overstretched food banks in New Mexico. To the animal rescue she funded outside Santa Fe. 

But there had been one too many incidents involving puke, teenagers with phones, and social media.

The first time it happened, she’d been eighteen and flying commercial back from London after three consecutive nights of performing at Wembley. Turbulence had turned her stomach inside out. A young girl in first class had filmed the entire thing, and by the time they landed in New York, shaky footage of Alina Hart crying with vomit on her sweatshirt had already hit Twitter.

People had mostly been kind about it.

But a few had been cruel.

Within twenty-four hours, there were opinion pieces and viral tweets and endless comment sections picking her apart. People called her inconsiderate for still flying commercial when she could afford not to. Others accused her of trying too hard to seem humble and relatable at everybody else’s expense.

That one had made her cry a little.

Not because strangers on the internet disliked her; that came with the territory, but because it made her feel like she’d failed at the one thing she’d promised her mama she never would.

“Fame is a beast, baby,” her mama had said back when Alina was sixteen and the record deal was still shiny and new and exciting enough to make them dizzy. “You gotta make sure you don’t let it chew you up. I don’t want to wake up one day and not recognise my baby girl anymore.”

Flying private had felt like crossing some invisible line she’d promised herself she never would.

But there hadn’t really been much of a choice. Because no matter how grounded or relatable the public wanted celebrities to be, humiliation was only charming in very specific doses. There was a point where vulnerability stopped making people empathise with you and started making them resent you instead.

So, on the cusp of her first world tour, she started flying privately.

Partly to avoid becoming internet fodder every time she travelled. Partly because she genuinely couldn’t stomach the idea of inconveniencing a plane full of innocent people just trying to get from point A to point B. 

She had eight Grammy Awards sitting in a glass trophy case in the recording studio at her Manhattan apartment, but she was still the same girl who used to spend hours teaching herself guitar chords from YouTube videos because her parents couldn’t afford lessons. The same girl who’d uploaded shaky covers and original songs to an audience of maybe five subscribers for years before one random video changed her life overnight.

Alina groaned quietly as another wave of nausea rolled through her stomach.

Jack closed his laptop with a sigh and stood from the seat opposite her. “Okay. Sit up.”

Alina looked up suspiciously through strands of messy, sweat-damp hair. Jack was Indie’s fiancé, which meant he’d unfortunately witnessed enough travel-related episodes over the years to become competent at handling them.

“If you stay folded in half any longer, your spine’s gonna permanently curve.” He said. 

With Indie’s help, she sat back against the seat properly. She breathed in and out deeply, her eyes watering with the effort to swallow down the urge to retch. Jack disappeared briefly into the tiny galley kitchen attached to the cabin. He returned a minute later carrying a glass of ice water and the packet of ginger chews. 

Alina looked at him miserably as he handed them over. “Thank you.” She sniffled. She took tiny cautious sips while the meditation woman continued talking softly from her phone. 

Outside the oval windows beside them, the sky stretched endlessly blue over the Atlantic.

–

The kitchen had been the centrepiece of Alina Hart’s childhood home. Her mama spent most of her days there, cleaning, cooking, and singing softly along to the oldies station crackling through the FM radio on the counter. It was where her cousins and aunties and uncles gathered every other Sunday, crowding around the table for food that somehow never ran out. Those Sundays had always been her favourite. The adults drank wine for hours while the kids ran wild through the garden, inventing imaginary worlds and drinking water straight from the hosepipe in the summer heat.

Even now, at twenty-two years old and living in a penthouse apartment in Manhattan worth more money than her parents had made in their entire lives combined, the kitchen still felt like the safest place in the world. Which was why she spent most of her time there.

The apartment itself was beautiful in that sleek, impossibly polished New York style. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Cream marble countertops. Warm oak floors. Expensive furniture that had been chosen mostly by Indie, because Alina would’ve happily lived with beanbags and mismatched thrift-store chairs forever.

She’d filled the kitchen, though. Filled it carefully and stubbornly until it felt like a home instead of a showroom.

There were always flowers dying slowly in a vase beside the sink because she kept forgetting to throw them out once the petals started drooping. Half-finished mugs of coffee sat abandoned across the countertops at any given time, alongside random lyrics scribbled onto receipts, napkins, and the backs of grocery lists in her messy handwriting.

Somebody was always cooking something.

Cookies at midnight. Soup when somebody was sick. Pancakes on Sunday mornings, even though none of them were awake before noon often enough to justify making it a tradition. Jack, especially, had a habit of constructing enormous sandwiches at absurd hours of the night, the kind stacked so high and precariously they looked like something Shaggy and Scooby-Doo would demolish before running away from a haunted pirate.

One of the spare bedrooms had been converted into a recording studio less than a month after she moved in. That room became the other place she disappeared into when the world got too loud.

Some nights she’d stay in there until sunrise with the lights dimmed low, headphones half-on while she sat cross-legged on the floor rewriting the same verse over and over again until it finally sounded right. Other times she’d wander in barefoot at three in the morning just to play piano for a little while because sleep wouldn’t come. 

Indie called it her goblin cave. 

The other spare bedroom belonged to Indie and Jack. 

At some point over the last two years, their presence had become permanent without anybody really discussing it. There was a little ceramic tray full of Indie’s jewellery on the bathroom counter. Jack’s trainers are permanently abandoned by the front door. A framed Polaroid of the three of them was tucked onto one of the kitchen shelves beside the cookbooks Alina never used but had bought from a thrift store because they reminded her of home.

Home. It hurt to think about. Because even after two years of living there, sometimes the penthouse felt a million miles away from home.

Not because she disliked it. God, no. She loved her apartment. Loved the skyline glittering outside her windows at night. Loved walking to tiny cafés in Tribeca wearing sunglasses. Loved the custom studio and the kitchen and the life she’d managed to build entirely on her own.

But New York didn’t smell like sunscreen and cut grass in the summer. It didn’t sound like cicadas humming outside open windows or her mama singing Patsy Cline while making dinner. There were no horses grazing lazily in nearby fields. No cousins screaming through the backyard. No old FM radio crackling softly in the background while everybody argued over whose turn it was to wash dishes.

Some days, the distance between who she’d been in New Mexico and who she was now felt impossibly vast.

Like two completely different girls wearing the same face.

It would probably make a great album concept, Alina thought distantly as she sat in the studio with her fingers drifting absentmindedly across the piano keys. The girl from New Mexico versus the popstar from Manhattan.

There was something beautiful hidden inside all that contradiction. Something poetic and aching.

Alina could write endless songs about heartbreak and friendship. She could write about love and loneliness and growing up too fast. But she’d never quite figured out how to put this feeling into words. The strange hollow ache living permanently beneath her ribs.

Homesickness, she figured.

Not necessarily for a place. She wasn’t sure. 

The piano hummed softly beneath her fingertips as she played another unfinished progression, staring vaguely out through the studio glass toward the apartment beyond.

Sometimes she’d wake up after falling asleep on the couch and find Indie curled on one of the barstools in her signature pink silk pyjamas, drinking coffee while scrolling through runway collections on her iPad. Other mornings, Jack would already be awake before sunrise, finishing client work at the kitchen island with one of Alina’s old vinyl records spinning softly in the background.

The apartment wasn’t lonely.

Far from it.

It was warm and cluttered and full of people she loved.

She pressed another chord absentmindedly. 

–

“This is such a stupid idea,” Alina muttered a week later.

Indie tugged tighter on the fabric ties at the back of her dress before stepping away to assess her work. “I know,” she agreed. “But you need closure or you’re never going to move on, and frankly, I can’t keep watching you mope around. It’s exhausting.”

Alina glared at her through the mirror. “I have not been moping.” She said, a bit snappily. It had been six months. Still moping after six months would just be sad. "This is ridiculous,” she muttered. “I already got closure.” She faked a smile. 

Indie made a sceptical noise. “Well,” she said. 

“I did," Alina argued. 

“Lina.” Indie folded her arms across her chest. “Laymen’s terms: you walked in on your boyfriend fucking his assistant. In your hotel room. And you haven’t said a word to him since.” 

Alina groaned miserably and covered her face with both hands. “Can we just stop talking about it?” She asked. Her stomach felt heavy. 

“Mario wants you to see him and talk it out,” Indie continued. Mario was Alina’s manager. He was Italian, had very strong opinions about Hollywood not protecting young talent enough, and had a wife and five beautiful baby girls just a few years apart in age. “He wants you to just end things on decent terms to avoid a PR nightmare in the future if you’re both forced to be in the same place at the same time. You can’t avoid him forever.” Indie said. 

Alina sighed dreamily. “I would love that.” She said. It would be in her best interest to never ever have to lay eyes on Kian Jax ever again. Unfortunately, there was no getting rid of the image that already lived permanently behind her eyelids.

Her boyfriend of a year tangled in white hotel sheets. His assistant scrambling to find her clothes. The horrible split second where all three of them had just stared at each other in stunned silence before Alina’s entire body had gone cold.

She remembered the stupid details most vividly. The room smelling like expensive cologne and hotel air conditioning. The television still playing silently in the background. Kian saying her name again and again. 

God, she’d felt so stupid.

People had warned her about him from the beginning.

Kian Jax was beautiful, with his tattoos and his restless energy. Dating him had felt less like being in a relationship and more like willingly strapping herself to a live wire, and God, she’d loved it.

She’d ignored every warning because being wanted by him had felt intoxicating. The late-night flights to surprise her on tour. Pulling her onto stage during his concerts. Writing songs about her. 

Naming an entire album after her. 

Everything with Kian had burned hot and fast. 

Indie’s expression softened slightly. “Honey,” she said gently, “I know it hurt your feelings. You don’t have to pretend it didn’t.”

Alina’s jaw clenched instinctively.

It hadn’t just hurt her feelings. It had broken her heart.

Because for all Kian’s chaos and ego and self-destructive tendencies, she’d trusted him completely. And Alina didn’t trust people easily anymore. Her circle was small for a reason. Kian had somehow slipped through every wall she’d spent years constructing around herself and then shattered straight through them.

She dropped her hands from her face finally and stared at herself in the mirror instead.

The dress Indie had forced her into was black silk, soft against her skin, the neckline dipping low across her collarbones. Her hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, makeup subtle and pretty. 

Indie stepped closer and fixed a strand of hair behind Alina’s ear with familiar tenderness. “Jack and I will be at the next table,” she promised softly. 

Alina let out a quiet breath through her nose. It would make it easier, probably, having them there. “Okay.”

“You’re doing this for Mario,” Indie reminded her. “For his peace of mind. You know he worries about you.”

“Right. For Mario,” Alina echoed weakly.

Mario had been beside her since she was sixteen years old. He’d protected her fiercely while simultaneously turning her into one of the biggest pop stars in the world. 

He worried about everything. Her anxiety. Her schedule. Whether she was eating enough fruits and vegetables and drinking enough water. 

If sitting through one uncomfortable dinner with Kian would finally convince Mario that she was okay, then… fine.

She could survive an hour sitting across from the devil incarnate.

Jack pushed himself up from the armchair, his armchair, as he constantly reminded everybody, because he had ADHD and needed to be involved in every conversation happening within a five-mile radius of him, and grabbed his phone from the dresser nearby.

“Worst-case scenario,” he started, “I throw a breadstick at his head, we all run away, and he gets stuck with the cheque.”

Despite herself, Alina let out a snort-laugh.

–

Kian sat across from her, candlelight flickering softly between them.

He had a new tattoo on the side of his neck. Alina tried not to stare at it for too long, but curiosity kept pulling her eyes back anyway. His tattoos had been part of what originally drew her to him in the first place. She’d met plenty of musicians and actors and industry people over the years, but Kian had been the first actual rockstar she’d ever crossed paths with.

And he’d looked exactly how a rock star was supposed to look.

“I fired her,” he said as they waited for their drinks to arrive.

Alina blinked. “What?” She asked. She’d been distracted watching condensation drip slowly down the glass jug of water. 

“Kate,” he clarified.

She frowned slightly, still trying to catch up. “Who’s Kate?”

Kian visibly winced. “I—” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “My assistant. She was my assistant.”

“Oh.” She said. She’d never realised until that exact moment that she hadn’t even known her name. The woman she’d found half-naked in her hotel bed, with her boyfriend, had only ever existed in her mind as his assistant. “That’s a shame,” Alina said, feigning nonchalance. “You worked together for a long time.”

“Right.” Kian’s face twisted slightly at that. He looked uncomfortable. “God, I just…” He exhaled heavily and rubbed at his jaw again with tattooed fingers. “I don’t even know what I was thinking. She was just there all the time, y’know? And she’d been throwing herself at me for months.”

Jesus Christ.

Alina wanted the floor to open beneath her and swallow her whole.

“Was it worth it?” she asked. 

Kian blinked hard and reached his hand slowly across the table toward hers. Alina just frowned at it. “No, baby,” he said softly. “No. It was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.” His voice roughened slightly. “I was drunk, alright? Still coming down from the show. Everything was crazy and loud, and—fuck, Lina, I don’t even have a good excuse. I just wish you hadn’t fucking run away,” he cursed. “I would’ve explained. I would’ve fixed it. I still wanna fix it,” he said, eyes locked on hers now. “Whatever it takes. I’ll earn your forgiveness. I swear to God.”

The waiter chose that exact moment to arrive with their drinks balanced carefully across a black tray.

Alina immediately straightened slightly in her seat. “Thank you so much,” she said warmly as the woman set her cocktail down carefully beside the candle.

The server smiled back at her automatically, clearly recognising her despite her attempts at relative anonymity. 

Kian, meanwhile, barely even looked up.

Alina kicked him sharply beneath the table.

His eyes widened slightly before he finally glanced toward the waitress. “Sorry. Thank you.”

The woman smiled politely and moved away toward another table.

Alina glared at him. 

Her mama had worked as a server for most of Alina’s childhood. Double shifts sometimes. Smiling through exhaustion because tips determined whether the electricity bill got paid that month.

Alina remembered sitting in booths after school colouring on paper placemats while waiting for her mama to finish work. Remembered the ache in her feet the summer she waitressed herself at fifteen. Remembered customers snapping their fingers at her and making her want to take the soda pipe and spray them with it.

Alina wrapped both hands around the stem of her drink, cold condensation dampening her fingertips as she stared down at the slice of passion fruit floating near the rim.

An awkward silence settled heavily across the table. Around them, the restaurant buzzed softly with conversation and clinking glasses, but their little corner suddenly felt strangely isolated from the rest of the room.

Alina exhaled quietly through her nose. “I don’t want to get back together,” she said carefully. “And honestly, I don’t even really want to be friends.”

Kian’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he stayed quiet.

“I just…” She glanced up briefly before looking back at her drink. “I don’t want things to be weird forever if we run into each other somewhere.” She said it because they inevitably would. Award shows. Festivals. Industry parties. The strange rotating carousel of celebrity events. “I don’t want us to be defined by this,” she continued, attempting humour despite the ache still lodged stubbornly beneath her ribs. “I don’t wanna be the next Eminem and Christina Aguilera.”

Kian didn’t look remotely amused by the reference. Instead, he tapped his fingertips restlessly against the table before asking, a little too gruffly, “Have you met somebody else?”

Alina stared at him for a second.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes only because she suddenly felt too tired for it. “You know what?” She pushed her chair back slowly and stood, smoothing her hands down the front of her dress. “I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.”

Kian looked up at her immediately. “Lina—”

She glanced over her shoulder automatically toward the next table, where Indie and Jack stood almost the exact second she did. 

She exhaled. That, right there, was her family. Not by blood, but in every way that actually mattered.

Warmth unfurled softly through her stomach when Indie immediately grabbed her purse and Jack tossed cash next to their untouched starters. 

Alina looked back at Kian, the man she’d once been so in love with she’d rearranged entire tour schedules just to spend an extra twelve hours in the same city as him.

“I can be civil with you,” she said quietly. “I can do that because I’ve never been very good at holding grudges. But please just… leave me in the past.”

Kian looked torn for a moment, but eventually, he nodded once, slow and stoic. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay. Just… let me walk you outside?”

Alina glanced at the windows. Outside, the street was lined with paparazzi. Cameras clustered together, lenses angled upward, waiting. 

“It’ll send the wrong message if we walk out together,” she said quietly.

Kian gave a short, humourless exhale, shaking his head with a faint, self-deprecating smile. “Not if we leave in separate cars.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table now, voice softer. “Let me just do it, please.”

Alina hesitated. “I’ve got security,” she said. Three of them, in fact. It would be silly to go anywhere without them anymore, and Mario wouldn’t let her even if she tried. 

“I know.” He nodded once. “But security doesn’t intimidate the paps the same way I do.”

She hated that he was right.

Alina exhaled slowly, tension still pulled tight through her shoulders like a wire. “Just to the car,” she agreed at last, because arguing would only make everything harder, and she was already exhausted. 

Kian stood, reaching for his jacket.

Indie and Jack fell into step with them as they moved toward the exit, but it all unravelled the moment they hit the doors.

Security tried to carve a path through it, but the crowd surged anyway. 

Indie’s hand slipped briefly from Alina’s as they were forced apart by movement and pressure. Jack swore under his breath, trying to stay close to her, but the gap widened anyway.

Kian grabbed her hand without hesitation, firm and grounding, pulling her through the crush before she could think too much about it. His other arm lifted slightly, body angling to shield her from the cameras as they pushed forward.

For all his faults, he knew how to become armour when he needed to.

They reached the SUV in a few sharp, rushed seconds that felt longer than they should have. A security guard yanked the door open, and Kian helped her inside, steadying her as she slid onto the seat.

For a moment, he didn’t let go of her hand and instead just looked at her.

Alina met his gaze, something bittersweet tightening in her chest. “I hope you find someone who makes you happy, Kian,” she said softly. 

Indie and Jack climbed into the SUV, Jack ushering his fiance inside first. Kian stepped back and was instantly swallowed by security and flashing lights and noise. 

The door shut, and within seconds, the SUV had pulled away.

Indie turned to her instantly. “You okay? What happened?”

Alina stared out of the tinted window for a long moment, watching Kian disappear into the swarm behind them until he was just another flicker of movement swallowed by cameras and flashing lights.

Then she threw her head back against the seat with a laugh that came out a little too loud, a little too unsteady. “No more rockstars,” she announced. “Ever again.”