#FROM A TOXIC FORMER RELATIONSHIP

[zoobus]

I was recommended Destroy It All and Love Me in Hell! after waxing at length about a manwha featuring young women attending a competitive Korean high school (and as per usu, is best categorized as psychological horror), and while Destroy It All isn't bad (it carries its balance of edge, melodrama, and falling in love fairly well), reading it directly after Friendly Competition was. Not in Destroy It All's favor.

[ahollowgrave]

Hiiii do you have any more writings or musings about None? I was in your writing tag the other night and they came up a couple times but I'm not sure if I should be picturing a miqo'te or some sort of service animal/familiar lol

Hello! That's so fair, my Odette writings do not offer a lot of description for them! They do have their own tag [HERE] although not much is in it, currently. Some of the screenshots I'm including here and the writings which you've already seen! I'm very sorry for how rambling this is but None is where a lot of alts and relationships spawn from! None is neither a miqo'te nor a service animal (though I think they'd give a huff at the title)! None is the saddest creature in the whole world, a widower, Odette's favorite lil guy, Gerry's estranged step-parent, and a Lalafell:

A Lalafell ranger who makes their living guiding people through the Shroud. These days they are 'mostly' retired. They're well past their middle age and when they were younger they made a deal with sylphs. To be fleet-footed and quick and the best hunter. It came with some side effects:

They wear a hat to cover the ears. It's a bit silly to have two sets and, frankly, None doesn't wanna talk about it. They are stoic, pragmatic, and a bit of a hermit when they can afford it. None is a widower, their late wife was an duskwight woman named Aloutte, who was a widow herself with a young child; Geraldine. None and Gerry were never close and in the wake of Aloutte's passing that distant only grew. None and Odette met at the Menphina temple she was raised at. The Sisters there offer grief counseling and when Aloutte first fell sick she made them go to make the transition easier. A child at the time, Odette was obsessed from the moment they met. A pale shadow trailing after them. Where None failed with Gerry, they bonded with Odette. After Aloutte's passing None returned to the temple to live long term, some grievers need more support than others, they and Odette spent a lot of time together. They very much fill a uncle/aunt role for Odette; a trusted advisor who isn't the adults who raised her. When Odette took her vows and started to travel it was None who traveled with her, taught her basic outdoors skills, bought her Beauty and taught her how to care for chocobos. When Odette has to leave her flock of karakul to travel it is None she calls to care for them. Also, while Aloutte's loss and the grief that follows is very important to None as a character I feel it is important to note they were the saddest creature in the whole world before they knew the warmth of Aloutte's embrace! Sometimes you're just born with a heavy heart, you know? Because of how important they are to Odette. Odile... fucking hates their guts. Oooh, she hates their guts so much!!! The feeling is mutual and Odile and None have come to blows a few times. Something they both keep from Odette; None because they don't want to make her worry, Odile because she'll use the information to drive a wedge at some point. None also features in Odette's WoL AU, they're an honorary scion and spend most of their time with the other off-screen members. They spend time with Krile and Tatatru discussing lalafell things and I like to imagine that F'lhaminn and None have a lot to talk about. This is... pretty long so I will stop here! But I hope this satisfies some curiosity about None and thank you SO MUCH for asking about them!

[skinnypaleangryperson]

Being in the same two fandoms for 4 years is the most humbling experience with human nature I've ever experienced

[mystxmomo]

Oh shit. Another curiouscat I had to move to tumblr because I broke character limit again.

So I am combining these two together in the same ask because, in truth, I don't think you can talk about Luca and Alva being mischaracterized separate from each other. So much of their mischaracterization comes from a respective opposing interpretation of the other character. I'm actually going to start with Luca, because I do think this is his story for better or for worse.

Guys. Luca is an adult.

More then that, Luca is an abuse victim and an adult runaway. Like that's not a headcanon, that's plain text canon. His dad neglected his family. He got a college application and rejected it within his deductions. 1900 wasn't so long ago that people were going to college at 16. By the time we meet him in the canon of the story, He's an abuse victim still dealing with that, a newly disabled former able bodied man, and coming out of Victorian prison.

A lot of people view Luca as being very childish for how he handled the fight with Alva. And to some degree it was, Luca doesn't seem like he has very good emotional regulation in the way a lot of young adults in that age range just generally are not. Even in the modern day, the amount of early 20 something's having breakdowns on their Twitter page about the injustices of the world is immeasurable.

But he wasn't /in the wrong/. From Luca's perspective, for all the information that he has. Alva Lorenz IS a thief. Not only is he a thief, but he's a thief in such a way that it, TO LUCA'S KNOWLEDGE, profited off his fathers work at the expense of his families well being. His mom died, man. And learning that Alva had those plans recontextualizes it to be just as much Alvas fault as it is his father's.

He has every right to feel betrayed! He has ever right to indignation! Alvas entire platform, to the information Luca has available to him, is based on plagiarization and theft of his families ideas. While there's shown to be a confrontation, we know this argument went on for a significant amount of time because Lucas deductions SHOW people talking about it. Luca accused him of being a thief before the confrontation that killed Alva and disabled Luca, and at any point inbetween that process Alva Lorenz could have sat him down and explained to him that he worked with his father, and that he had as much right to their ideas as his family.

But he didn't. Because Alva Lorenz is kind of a coward! He thought it would go away on its own!

This is where we get into the Alva Lorenz side of things.

Alva, from everything we have been given, is an incredibly immature man hiding that immaturity under the guise of stem professionalism, and then religious authority. With all of the above in mind, even if their relationship WAS strictly a platonic mentor-student relationship, let alone a sudo-familial one, it would not be a healthy one. Their relationship is not a healthy one.

They are both adults. Alva Lorenz is the adult with more life experience. He is the one that should have sat Luca down and explained himself. But he did not. Alva is not mature. He is not a good man. He would NOT be a good father figure. People, when they ship him with Herman, really try to make the fact they have wives work with lavender marriage. You are being too kind to his character. He would have cheated on his wife to be with Herman. And I understand wanting a more positive approach to these relationships, I understand not wanting the female characters to suffer. But that is not the canon we are presented. And we know this, because of how he treated Ann.

If he was a father figure, he would be willing to enable Herman's neglect. He was willing to enable the cat cults abuse of power to get what he needed, and he would be willing to enable Herman's neglect for that same reason. We don't know what he got from the cat cult yet, but we know he was willing to work with them. We know from Ann's perspective that he ruined her life. We know from Alvas perspective that he doesn't even think about the fact that he ruined her life, because she is NONEXISTENT in his narrative. It is ALL about Luca, and his relationship to the Balsa's.

And that's good writing. I know people are disappointed that she doesn't pop up more with him, but that tells you exactly the kind of authority figure he is. She was no one to him, and he treats her like she's no one.

The thing about Luca Balsa is that he loves passionately. Everything he does is from a place of sincere belief in the *rightness* of it. He feels as strongly as he does about perpetual motion because he believes it can help people, and if HE discovers it, HE is helping people. He sincerely does care about the people in his life, even if he is a moron about it. I think Alva Lorenz is a selfish man. I think he loved Herman, and Loves Luca, and because he cares about them that's what his focus is. He does not care that he hurt Ann through the cat cult. As far as we can tell, he does not care that Ann exists. Alva Lorenz exists in a perpetual state of "fuck you I got mine."

The most infuriating part about all of this is that Luca already has a surrogate father figure within The narrative of IDV. He HAS someone that does want to be a healthy mentor figure to him. It's BURKE. burke has been projecting onto him since we have gotten his second year letter. This relationship with Burke is literally what people who don't like Alvaluca characterize the Alva & Luca relationship to be. But at the end of the day, their goal isn't exploring a complications student-teacher relationship. It's engaging with a set of characters in a way they personally see as being morally correct.

And don't get me wrong. I do have a few issues with the Alvaluca community's interpretation of the two that I've never been quite quiet about, and that gets a lot of AlvaLuca people really defensive sometimes. The Alvaluca relationship IS an unhealthy one. You cannot get around that. No matter how much they love and care about eachother, they are so deeply and horribly bad for eachother. But that's the meat of it. They're soulmates in the worst possible way. Theyre always going to effect eachother, intrinsically and miserably.

Above all else, I want to explore Alvaluca as this really uncomfortable relationship. I want the eternity manor au to be brimming with melodrama over the Alvaluca relationship. I want Tracy to try and talk to him directly about her concern only for him to dismiss her. I want Naib to try and bring it up while they're smoking only for Luca to LIE HIS ASS OFF about not thinking anything is wrong with their dynamic. I want Edgar to hate Alvas guts because he's fucking Luca, because he sees the situation and he projects his situation with Sarai and sees red.

Because the unfortunate reality of being an adult that exists in the working world is that your friends will get into these deeply uncomfortable, deeply unhealthy relationships. There will probably be a time where someone you personally care about date someone two decades older than them. One of your college classmates will get caught hooking up with the professor. One of your retail coworkers will get caught fucking in the break room. Some of these relationships will crash and burn, some of them will move on to marriage despite the power imbalance. These are very real things that happen all the time and to say that we are forbidden from exploring that in Media is absolutely goddamn ridiculous.

[cherienymphe]

Kingdom Come

Erik Killmonger x Reader

Warnings: DUB-CON (bordering Non-Con), mentions of toxic relationship, stalking, implied kidnapping

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies |

summary: You left Erik once, and he goes above and beyond to ensure that doesn't happen again.

𓇼

⠀

The sound of the ocean waves—something that took a lot of getting used to at first—were now the driving force behind your calm moods these days. Another nightmare had forced you to wake up drenched in sweat, and the only reason you’d been able to slow your breathing was because of the familiar whoosh of ocean water outside of your window.

You didn’t grow up by the water—wasn’t raised anywhere near it—and that sound quickly reminded you that you were far away from home, far away from anywhere familiar, and it filled you with relief. You now spent your days somewhere you would’ve once never considered living, and that was good because it meant no one from your former life would consider it a place for you to live either.

…and they wouldn’t come looking.

You watched the tea kettle heat up with your back pressed to the counter, arms crossed over your chest. Your satin robe stuck to your skin from the thin layer of sweat that still clung to it. Your heart had long stopped racing, but despite that, goosebumps still littered your arms, and you rubbed your hands up and down them. Despite how safe your mind assured you that you were, your body just refused to agree.

The low lighting in the kitchen was the only warm glow that filled the modest house, and you rubbed your head as you turned to get a mug. When you briefly closed your eyes, dark ones appeared in your mind, and you wondered when—after two years—you’d finally stop conjuring him up.

The face belonging to Erik Stevens was one you hadn’t seen in years, but that name was one you never not thought about. Not only had he been a part of your life for too long to just forget him, but the lasting impact he left made him impossible to ignore. You were literally hiding out in a foreign country under a different name surrounded by people you didn’t know because of that man.

There were days where you cursed yourself for ever getting involved with him—recalling your initial thoughts of him and how he looked like trouble—but Erik had a charm that was hard to resist. With a pretty face framed by locs and gold that winked at you whenever he smiled, he wasn’t the kind of man you’d ever be brave enough to bring home, and you had long reluctantly admitted the part that played in his appeal.

He was kind of dangerous…and you’d liked that.

Until it wasn’t random men on the street he was threatening…but you.

The whistle of the kettle pulled you from your thoughts, and you jumped at the sound. You ignored how your hands shook as you poured yourself a cup of tea, exhaling an uneven breath with thoughts of your ex boyfriend on the brain. You never thought that sleeping with the guy who was just way out of your league would change the trajectory of your life. You thought it’d make for a good story to tell to your friends and maybe even a niece or two one day.

You didn’t think that he’d keep coming back, knocking on your apartment door throughout all hours of the night, that plump bottom lip jutted out as you attempted to put your foot down—something something boundaries and respect and all that jazz. The brown-skinned man would slowly blink at you, silently telling you that he wasn’t hearing a word you were saying. The corner of his lips would quirk up into that haughty smirk—something only worn by a man who knew he was going to get what he wanted—and he’d push himself off of the wall, straightening to his full height.

“So you want me to leave?”

The question never sounded sincere, because it wasn’t, and Erik would look down his nose at you while you shuffled your feet, one hand still on the door as you fought with yourself over whether or not to close it in his face. It was useless though because you never not let him in.

You never not took a step back and watched him stride through your door like he owned the place and you with it. You never not watched him peel his jacket off, your own arms crossed over your chest as you committed to being angry for far longer than you actually were. It made you feel like less of a weak willed woman. That too was useless though because its not like you ever stopped him when he turned to you and pulled you closer.

It did no good pretending to be mad when the night always ended the same way.

Erik with his arms around your waist and you with your legs around his.

He was always gone in the morning, until the day he wasn’t, and you couldn’t find it in you to be upset about him sticking around. You actually kind of liked it, and that had scared you. He wasn’t supposed to be there in the mornings, and you weren’t supposed to be asking him if he wanted anything as you stood by the stove. Erik Stevens was not boyfriend material, and yet…

That’s what he became.

Even now, years later, you still weren’t quite sure how that even happened. You didn’t know how you ended up sharing an apartment and picking things up at the store for him and sinking into the warm scented bath water he’d draw for you. You didn’t know how you ended up obeying whenever he’d look at you with those dark eyes before softly demanding a kiss. You didn’t know how you’d started letting him circle his hand around your neck while he was fucking you, pulling words and promises out of you that you’d never say in any other circumstance.

It was something you still couldn’t make sense of, and you desperately needed to if you ever wanted to prevent it from happening again.

“Erik Stevens isn’t your average man off the street…”

That was what they told you when they sat you down in some room that was too bright only hours after showing up at your doorstep. All of it had been too much information to fully retain, but you’d processed the important parts. Erik was military—a SEAL to be more exact—and not just a SEAL but also the kind of man who occasionally dropped off the face of the earth to take out important people. It was a nice way of calling him an assassin, and you remembered how sick you’d felt sitting in that chair, recalling the feel of running your fingers over every raised abrasion along his skin whenever he had his hands on you.

“Is this some frat thing I just haven’t heard of?” you’d jokingly wondered one day.

Erik had simply turned to look at you, a hint of a smile on his lips and a hidden joke in his gaze.

“Nah,” he’d drawled. “They just represent something important to me. Milestones I guess you could say.”

Your determination to be open minded had you relaxing in the arms of a killer—a proud one who wore the name KIllmonger with no shame.

Even still, you hadn’t understood what any of that had to do with you. At that point, you and Erik had been broken up for months, something that hadn’t been easy for you to do. Not just because some part of you still wanted him at the end, but also because a huge part of you was terrified of him. You hadn’t realized that his anger and possessiveness were low on the list of reasons why you should be afraid of him.

“This man is dangerous…and the way you parted ways was…less than amicable to say the least…”

You still hadn’t put the pieces together.

“...and the U.S Government is unable to locate him.”

Winding up in something akin to witness protection because the U.S Government had lost one of their own best ‘assets’ had not been something you ever saw for yourself. To this day, you wondered why the one questionable guy you took a chance on turned out to be far more than just the average jealous asshole.

As you sipped your tea, you thought about the last time you were with him, the way your voice trembled as you stood up to him, telling him it was over. You rubbed your arm, recalling the tight grip he had on it, his voice cold and clipped as he asked you if you realized what you were saying.

“You wanna leave me?” he’d asked, head dipped and brows raised like he wanted to make sure you knew that was what you wanted to do.

You could see then that he’d wanted to fight you on it—probably wanted to do a whole lot more than that—but no one had been more shocked than you when he simply let you go with a soft “a’ight” before gesturing to the door. Everything you wanted to take had been removed while he was out, and you’d been surprised at how sad you weren’t to glance around at the apartment now empty of your stuff.

That was the last time you’d been face to face with Erik Stevens.

Until now.

When the cup that was once in your hands shattered against the floor, you paid no mind to the slight sting of hot tea and ceramic shards hitting your bare feet. Your attempt to turn and leave the kitchen had been thwarted, a tall and broad figure standing just before you in the entrance. The sight of the shadowy figure made your heart drop and your blood run cold. The only light from the kitchen wasn’t enough to reveal him completely, but you’d always been able to recognize him in the dark.

He enjoyed scaring you.

For the first time in your life, your mind went blank, finally understanding that phrase as your lips parted. No sound came out—from neither you or him—and you were sure that the sight of you two just standing in the dark and staring at each other would’ve been comical if you weren’t terrified out of your mind. The figure finally moved to tilt his head, his only movement as it leaned to the left just a tad, and the angle made the light glint off of his eyes in a way that made your stomach churn.

You were quick to search for the big light.

You sharply inhaled at the sight of him, confirming what you already knew. He looked the same and different all at once. He was still handsome and tall and wore that expression like you were just so silly to him. However, his hair was longer and the bands of muscle that were his arms were thicker, and he stood with an assuredness that you didn’t like, at all. The flashy gold tooth necklace resting on his collarbone caught the light, and your eyes were briefly drawn to it.

You traced it, a frown taking residence on your face as your gaze kept going. The casual clothes you were used to seeing him in were nowhere in sight, and you took note of the dark attire he was wearing and its patterns. He looked nice—regal one might say—and you swallowed, a very bad feeling festering deep in your stomach.

“What? You got nothing to say to me?”

Hearing his voice for the first time in years brought up a whole lot of emotions you’d tried and failed to bury. You were reminded of his voice in your ear as he woke you up in the mornings or even when he was whispering the filthiest of things against your skin as he kissed his way down it. But you also remembered the angry tone of it when he was interrogating you about some guy who’d waved at you or was questioning your feelings for him.

You remembered loving him and craving him…but you also remembered how terrified he made you feel.

At that, you took a step back—almost dazed—and the man before you kissed his teeth.

“You still on that bullshit, huh.”

Those words—filled with so much dismissal and arrogance—finally made you find your voice.

“What are you doing here?” you gasped, your question coming out choked. “How did…?”

When Erik finally moved, half of him was bathed in the shadows from the rest of the house, and the kitchen light hit his eye again in the way it did before. It glinted dangerously, almost like a feline if you didn’t know any better, and you took another step back. Erik followed your movements intensely, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

“How…” he tested the word in his mouth, humming. “How is never as important as why.”

You weren’t amused by whatever he was playing at, and that crooked smile only grew.

“So serious,” he mocked, moving to fold his hands behind his back as he looked you up and down, and you hated the way he swiped his tongue between his lips as he did so. “You’re not glad to see me? Not even a little?”

When you said nothing, you watched him roll his eyes, shaking his head and his locs moved with the action. When his gaze met yours again, all humor had been wiped from his face. His dark eyes were intense as he stared at you, lips pressed together and chest heaving with the deep breath he took. You felt like an insolent child beneath his gaze.

“You know what I’m doing here.”

He was entirely serious, and you didn’t doubt him for a second.

“No…”

“You had to know I was never gone let you just walk away from me like that,” he continued, slowly pacing the kitchen and backing you further into a corner with every step he took.

His words brought tears to your eyes, and in this moment, you hated him. What was the point then? Why did he give you false hope that you were free from him? Was it just to fuck with you? Was it his idea of a sick joke? As if he could read your mind, he elaborated.

“I had some things to do,” he told you. “Some…business to take care of before I came back for you and …”

He shrugged like that explained everything you’d been put through because of him.

“...and now that I got my shit together…got everything I deserved, it’s only right that I come back and get you too.”

A noise of disgust left your throat before you could stop yourself, and Erik didn’t try to stop you as you hurried past him. You didn’t hear him behind you as you made your way to the door, too nervous and fearful to look over your shoulder. However, once you made it to the front door, you realized that you didn’t hear Erik after you because he wasn’t after you.

He felt no need to be…and with good reason.

The statuesque women on the other side of your door made you come up short, mouth falling open as you took them in. They were beautiful and straight-faced, heads smooth and wearing colorful attire that didn’t deviate all that much from what Erik was wearing. The long spears in their hands had you stumbling back, and so in shock, you didn’t even register that you’d stumbled right into Erik.

One of his arms snaked around you while the other gently closed the door, effectively trapping you once again.

The silence was loud, and finally, a few tears escaped.

“Earlier you started to ask how I found you…”

You felt Erik’s lips grazing your ear before moving down to brush along your neck. One hand was on your waist while the other had found a home on your arm, kneading the skin through the thin robe. He took a deep breath, inhaling your scent, and you swore that you felt him shudder against you.

The breath you let out was shaky, more tears collecting in your eyes.

“You’d be amazed at what you can do when you’re the king of Wakanda.”

Those damning words had your knees buckling, and when you attempted to throw yourself away from him, Erik’s hold tightened. One hand had a vice grip on your wrist while the other hand snaked around your neck.

“I like to tell myself that I did this because I deserve it, because I was wronged…but that ain’t all…”

When Erik leaned in to press his lips to yours, your mind was finally at war with your heart once again. You’d forgotten what it felt like to kiss him, forgotten what he tasted like, and you couldn’t stop the sharp breath you took as he moved his mouth against yours. The hand on your neck tightened just a tad, like a chain keeping you to him, and you felt him smile into the kiss.

“I like being somebody that you can’t ever leave.”

Those words whispered into your mouth made your heart sink, and your protest was lost as he kissed you again.

You shook in his hold for varying reasons, fear above all else. Erik had his hands on you again, and he had no intention of taking them off. They pulled you and pushed you where he wanted you to be, and it seemed that he decided the couch would suffice. He wasn’t bothered by your lack of consent, and somehow that didn’t surprise you.

There’d been moments in the past when you expressed discomfort or you protested or you rejected him and for the briefest of moments, something had passed through his eyes that made you think he didn’t care. A glint in his gaze that made you think he was going to do what he wanted—take what he wanted—anyway. You’d always had a nagging feeling deep in your chest that Erik was just holding back, keeping himself in check with you because it was socially acceptable and not because he actually wanted to.

…but he was a king, now—something you believed without a doubt—and that title corrupted even the best of men…let alone a man who already wasn’t shit to begin with.

When his bare chest grazed against yours, a shudder traveled down your spine, and Erik reached under you to trace that path with his fingers. One hand was still carefully at home on your neck, and the gold fangs in his mouth winked at you in the nearly invisible lighting. When you felt those abrasions underneath your fingers—every one for a kill—it suddenly hit you that you were underneath him again and for good this time.

“You don’t know how much I missed this pussy,” he murmured into your skin, a hand tightening almost painfully on your waist just as he sank into you.

The feel of his cock stretching you out had your back arching, chest pushing up against his. It hadn’t been just years without sex with Erik but years without sex altogether. Part of it was because you still had some lingering loyalty to the man between your legs, telling yourself he’d somehow know and find you—despite the fact that you weren’t his anymore—and part of it was because he’d simply ruined you for any other man. Either way, it all came back to Erik.

You couldn’t stop the strained gasps that left your lips, the slight sting and dull ache from the stretch making you dig your nails into his skin. This was not what you wanted, but you swore that Erik was stronger now than he ever had been before. The feel of him thrusting himself into you reminded you of all the hours you’d spent wrapped up in each other when things were still good between you. Hell, even when they weren’t, it wasn’t uncommon for an argument to end in you bent over the kitchen counter with Erik’s pelvis pressing against you.

He had a way of controlling a situation, steering it in whatever direction he wanted it to go.

Like now.

How was it that you go into hiding to remain safe from this man only to wind up at his mercy yet again? It was unfair, and you couldn’t stop trembling as you pushed against his chest.

“Erik…”

Your words died on your lips when he shushed you, his locs brushing against your skin as he nipped at your neck and then your shoulder and finally your chest. The light moan you let out was involuntary, and you hated that smug chuckle that escaped his lips.

“You always try to act so tough and shit…but we both know once I get my hands on you…”

Anger bubbled up within you at his words, and you couldn’t resist slapping him. Before where that might’ve pissed him off, Erik only smiled in your face. Taking your hand, he held it tight before pinning it against your stomach, and he looked down, briefly distracted by the sight of his cock disappearing into you. He slowed his thrusts down, and the change in pace almost made you roll your eyes.

“You gone love Wakanda, baby,” he said to you, lips meeting your skin again. “The most beautiful sunsets…”

He nipped at your shoulder.

“...anything you could ever want…”

Another kiss to your lips.

“...and guards to watch your every move.”

His nose touched yours as he said that, and you felt him reach down to hook his arm under your leg. You hissed, feeling him even deeper into your gut as he bent your leg back. Erik didn’t take his eyes off of you as he fucked you, hips meeting yours and the wet sound of his cock dipping into you reaching your ears.

“I came back just for you,” he darkly told you, completely ignoring your hand pushing at his stomach. “...because what kind of king would I be with no queen at my side?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 2: April 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

...I am definitely blown away by the reception this story got. I did not expect that AT ALL, so thank you very much...and here you have Chapter 2! Warnings: we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Bad Real Estate decisions, Max being a simp for his girl, discussion of former toxic relationships...I think that's it? If I missed something, let me know.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

"Isabelle," Max murmured against her lips, his hands firm but steady on her waist.

She barely heard him. Not when he kissed her like this—slow and deep, his thumb brushing over her hip, his body warm and solid against hers. She curled her fingers into his shirt, pulling him closer, tilting her head to kiss him harder. When he groaned softly, she took it as encouragement, pressing up against him and reaching for the hem of his shirt.

But just as her fingers grazed the skin of his stomach, Max caught her wrist, pulling back slightly.

"Wait."

She blinked up at him, lips parted, breath uneven. "What?"

His hands slid from her waist to her arms, a soothing touch. "We don’t have to rush."

Isabelle frowned. "I know we don’t have to. But I want to."

Max exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "I don’t want you to think this is just about that."

She froze, her mind stuttering over his words. "What?"

He studied her carefully, thumb rubbing small circles into her skin. "I like you. A lot. And I want you to know that I’m serious about this."

Isabelle stared at him, something in her chest tightening. No one had ever said that to her before. Every other boyfriend had been eager, had expected, had—

She swallowed. "You don’t… want me?"

Max’s expression softened, his grip on her tightening just slightly, like he wanted to anchor her in place. "Of course I do," he said, voice low, almost reverent. "I just don’t want you to think that’s all I want."

Her breath hitched.

She had never been anyone’s priority. Never been someone who wasn’t easy to forget, easy to leave behind. But here was Max, the most wanted man on the grid, telling her he wanted her—but not just her body.

Something like disbelief flickered in her chest. "You’re serious."

Max huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his nose against hers. "Very."

Isabelle swallowed again, her throat tight, and let herself relax into him. She let herself believe him.

"Okay."

Max smiled, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. "Good."

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Max.

Max:  Good morning, Schatje.

Isabelle: Don’t start. Did you actually buy that penthouse?

Max: Yes.

Isabelle: And did you demand that I be the only architect allowed to work on it??

Max: Yes.

Isabelle: Do you have any idea how bad this looks?

Max: What’s bad about wanting the best?

Isabelle: MAX.

Isabelle: Do you know what people at work are saying now??

Max: That I have excellent taste in architects?

Isabelle: They think I got this project because of Charles.

Max: … What?

Isabelle: Oh yeah. The rumors are great. Apparently, I’m here because I’m a Leclerc, not because I actually worked for it.

Max: … That’s stupid.

Isabelle: Tell that to my coworkers.

Max: You think I’d let Charles pick my architect?

Isabelle: No, but they don’t know that.

Max: Then tell them.

Isabelle: Oh sure, that’ll go well. “Actually, my brother had nothing to do with it, my boyfriend just demanded that I be the only one allowed to work on his project.” That sounds so much better.

Max: Ok, maybe that doesn’t help.

Isabelle: You think??

Max: I just wanted to work with you.

Isabelle: Yeah, and now people are whispering about nepotism and favoritism and how I’m only here because of my family name.

Max: They clearly don’t know you.

Isabelle: I KNOW. But it’s still frustrating. I’ve worked my ass off, Max. I didn’t want my name getting me jobs. I wanted my work to.

Max: And it has. That’s why I picked you. Not because of your name. Because I trust you.

Isabelle: You could have given me a heads-up, you know.

Max: And you would have said no.

Isabelle: That is not the point.

Max: But would you?

Isabelle:: …

Max: That’s what I thought.

Isabelle: You really bought that penthouse just so I could design it?

Max: I bought that penthouse because I liked it. But I only wanted you working on it.

Isabelle: You’re impossible.

Max: And you’re brilliant.

Isabelle: Thank you.

Max: Always.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: You are NOT going to believe what Max did.

Emilie: That sentence could mean literally anything.

Isabelle: He bought the penthouse. THE penthouse. The one we talked about once in passing.

Emilie: …Okay, that’s insane, but also, congrats? You love that place.

Isabelle: THAT’S NOT THE POINT.

Emilie: Oh, I think it is.

Isabelle: He also demanded that I be the architect working on it. Wouldn’t sign anything unless my name was on the project.

Emilie: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Isabelle: It’s not funny!

Emilie: No, it absolutely is.

Isabelle: People at work are already saying I only got the project because of Charles!

Emilie: Oh. Yeah, I can see that.

Isabelle: Which is wrong. Because I didn’t get it because of Charles. I got it because of my boyfriend, which is somehow worse.

Emilie: You say worse. I say deeply, deeply romantic.

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: Isabelle. 

Emilie: Your rich, lovesick boyfriend is out here spending millions just to have an excuse to see you every day, and you’re MAD?

Isabelle: I AM TRYING TO BE PROFESSIONAL.

Emilie: He is trying to wife you.

Isabelle: I hate you.

Emilie: No, you don’t. Now tell me—when’s the housewarming, and how much champagne should I bring?

***

Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: You CANNOT keep doing this.

Max: Doing what?

Isabelle: Abusing your “professional client” status to drag me to fancy lunches.

Max: I’m not abusing anything. We have important business discussions to conduct.

Isabelle: You mean the penthouse where you’ve approved every single one of my plans without question?

Max: Exactly. We need to make sure I have no doubts.

Isabelle: You just want an excuse to take me to a Michelin-starred restaurant.

Max: And?

Isabelle: That’s not how professional client-architect meetings work.

Max: It is when I’m the client.

Isabelle: Max.

Max: You don’t have to say yes.

Isabelle: …

Max: But you want to.

Isabelle: That’s not the point.

Max: Just think of it as me paying you for your excellent work.

Isabelle: That’s what your actual payments are for.

Max: But those aren’t fun.

Isabelle: MAX.

Isabelle: People at work already think I got this job because of Charles. Now you’re making it worse.

Max: First of all, you got this job because you’re brilliant.

Max: Second, if they think that, they’re idiots.

Max: Third, I booked a table with a view.

Isabelle: Max.

Max: Don’t pretend you don’t want to come.

Isabelle: That’s not the point.

Max: You didn’t say no.

Isabelle: …

Max: I’ll see you at one.

Isabelle: I officially regret ever mentioning my favorite restaurants to you.

Max: That was your mistake, not mine.

Max: But I’ll make it up to you with dessert.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: You will not believe what Max is doing.

Emilie: Oh, this is already good. Go on.

Isabelle: He’s using the penthouse project as an excuse to take me to fancy lunches.

Emilie: …And the problem is???

Isabelle: Emilie. People at work already think I got this job because of Charles. If they find out I’m going to Michelin-starred restaurants in the middle of the day with a client, I will NEVER hear the end of it.

Emilie: Okay, but is he actually talking about the penthouse during these lunches?

Isabelle: He pretends to for about five minutes. Then he just orders my favourite foods for me and acts like we’re on a date.

Emilie: …So you’re saying you’re mad because your boyfriend is taking you on nice dates and feeding you good food?

Isabelle: THAT IS NOT THE POINT.

Emilie: Oh, I think it is the point.

Isabelle: I just—he’s impossible!

Emilie: What restaurant was it this time?

Isabelle: Le Louis XV.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle:

Emilie: You are sitting here complaining to me after being wined and dined at ALAIN DUCASSE’S RESTAURANT???

Isabelle: I AM TRYING TO BE PROFESSIONAL.

Emilie: Shut up and tell me what you ate!

***

Isabelle laid out fabric swatches on the table, neatly arranging them in rows. “These are the options for the curtains,” she said, keeping her voice professional. “I’ve chosen materials that complement the lighting and textures in the space while also being durable.”

Max picked up a swatch at random, turning it over like he’s actually considering it. “Yeah… so which one do you like best?”

Isabelle sighed. “That’s not the point, Max.”

“But it kind of is,” he countered, leaning back in his chair. “You know what looks good. I trust you.”

She exhaled, trying to keep the conversation on track. “My job isn’t to pick what I like, it’s to give you the best options based on your preferences and the space—”

“My preference,” Max interrupted, “is to not think too hard about curtain fabrics. So, tell me, which one would you put in your own place?”

She pressed her lips together but eventually pointed to a light cream fabric with a soft texture. “This one.”

Max immediately nodded. “Perfect. We’ll go with that.”

“That’s not how this works,” Isabelle protested.

“It is now.” He grinned, tapping the swatch like the decision is final.

She gave him a look but moves on, pulling out samples for the kitchen backsplash. “Alright, for the tiles—”

Max smirked. “What do you like best?”

Isabelle groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “You are impossible.”

Max chuckled, thoroughly enjoying himself. “I don’t see the problem. You have good taste. I want my place to look good. This seems like a win-win situation.”

Isabelle lifted her head, giving him a flat look. “Max.”

“Yes?”

“You are literally paying me to make these decisions for you based on your preferences, not mine.”

Max shrugged. “Yeah, but my main preference is trusting you.”

She stared at him, unimpressed. “That’s not how this works.”

“It is when I’m the client.” His grin was infuriatingly smug.

Isabelle sighed, shaking her head, but she couldn’t quite hide the small smile creeping onto her face. “Fine. But if you hate something later, I’m telling everyone this was your fault.”

“I won’t hate it,” Max said easily, glancing at the tile samples. “So… which one would you use in your own kitchen?”

Isabelle groaned dramatically. “You are impossible.”

Max just smirked. “You already said that.”

Isabelle rubbed her temples like she’s trying to ward off a headache. “You know, most clients want a functional, cohesive design that suits their lifestyle.”

Max leant back against the kitchen island, watching her with amused eyes. “And I want a functional, cohesive design that you think looks good.”

“That’s not—” She exhaled sharply. “Okay, fine. I’d go with the marble option for the counters. It’s classic, it won’t date badly, and it works with the natural light in here.”

Max nodded like that’s exactly what he was going to pick anyway. “Perfect. Marble it is.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes. “You’re just agreeing with me so I stop arguing with you.”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “Or maybe I actually value your opinion.”

She huffed, flipping through the fabric swatches again. “Alright, what about your bedroom curtains? Darker shades are better for blocking light in the mornings.”

Max hummed, looking over the options. “Which one do you like?”

“Max.”

“What? You just said you’re designing for functionality. You clearly think one of these is the best choice.”

She muttered something under her breath, then points at a deep navy fabric. “This one. It’ll keep the room dark, and it’s not too heavy for the space.”

“Done.”

Isabelle levelled him with a suspicious look. “You’re making this way too easy.”

Max shrugged. “I told you. I trust you.” He gestures around the penthouse. “Besides, I plan to spend most of my time here with you. Might as well make sure you don’t hate it.”

She stilled for half a second, but then rolls her eyes like she’s not affected. “Professionalism, Max.”

Max just smirked, reaching for another set of samples. “Alright, Miss Leclerc, what’s next?”

Isabelle pointedly ignored the way her stomach does an annoying little flip at his words and refocuses on the task at hand. She flipped open her notebook, determined to keep things professional. "We still need to finalize your living room furniture. You said you wanted a sectional, right?"

Max nodded, leaning slightly over her shoulder to glance at her notes. "Yeah, something big enough to stretch out on. And for the cats."

She glanced up at him. "And for guests?"

Max blinked. "I mean, sure. If I have guests."

Isabelle sighed. "Do you ever think about designing your space for other people?"

"I am thinking about other people," he countered easily. "I’m thinking about you. You like to sit in the corner with a book, so we should get one with a deep chaise. And you like soft blankets, so whatever fabric we pick needs to feel nice."

She stared at him for a beat too long. "You—" She shakes her head. "You notice a lot more than you let on."

Max shrugged. "I like watching you."

Isabelle blinked rapidly and turned back to her samples before he could see the flush creeping up her neck. Professionalism. She needed to focus.

"Okay," she said, clearing her throat. "Fabric choices for the sectional—"

Max leant forward, already grinning. "Which one do you like?"

Isabelle groaned, slamming her notebook shut. "You are impossible."

Max just laughed. "I’m making sure my designer is happy with her work. That’s important, right?"

"That’s not how this works."

"Sure it is," he said breezily, nudging her shoulder with his. "If you think this place should feel like me, then I think it should feel like you, too."

Isabelle gripped her pen a little too tightly. "You’re insufferable."

Max grinned. "And yet, here you are."

Isabelle exhaled slowly, flipping through the swatches with more force than necessary. “Fine. You want my opinion? This one.” She pulled out a deep green fabric, soft under her fingers. “It’s comfortable, durable, and it won’t clash with anything else.”

Max reaches out, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. “It’s nice.” Then he grins. “You just like it because it’s your favourite colour.”

She paused. “That is not why I picked it.”

“Sure,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “But I remember you said you like green because it reminds you of home. And I want you to feel at home here.”

Isabelle’s fingers tighten around the fabric. “Max—”

“So, green it is,” he cut in before she can say anything else, grabbing the sample and setting it aside. Then he leans back, smug. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You have to stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like this apartment is for both of us.”

Max tilted his head. “Well, you are spending a lot of time here.”

“That’s because I’m working.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, unconvinced. “And when the project is done?”

Isabelle pressed her lips together, not wanting to answer that question. Because the truth is, she didn’t know. She didn’t want to think about finishing this penthouse and walking away.

Max must have sensed her hesitation because his expression softened. “You know, you don’t have to leave when it’s done.”

She swallowed, trying to ignore the way her heart pounds. “Max.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, voice light but eyes serious. “I don’t mind having you around.”

Isabelle forced herself to focus back on her notebook. Professionalism. Boundaries. She had to remember them.

But as she moved on to the next decision—choosing dining chairs—she couldn’t  help but feel like she’s already losing that battle.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max is going to drive me insane.

Emilie: What did he do now?

Isabelle: He refuses to make a single decision about the penthouse. Not one.

Emilie: Oh, this is going to be good.

Isabelle: I showed him flooring samples, and he just said, “Which one do you like best, schatje?” I asked him about the kitchen walls, and he went, “I trust your taste.”

Emilie: He’s so in love with you, it’s actually disgusting.

Isabelle: EMILIE, I NEED HIM TO HAVE AN OPINION.

Emilie: He does. His opinion is that your opinion is the only one that matters.

Isabelle: That’s not how this works! He’s the one who has to live there!

Emilie: You will be the one living there with him, if he gets his way. He’s just pretending it’s not obvious.

Emilie: He’s setting up your future home together and letting you build it exactly the way you want. That man would let you paint the walls hot pink if it made you happy.

Emilie: He’s letting you pick everything because he wants you to feel at home.

Emilie: Tell me I’m wrong.

Isabelle: I hate you.

Emilie: No, you don’t. Now, if you suggested, hypothetically, that the whole kitchen should be neon green, how fast do you think he’d say yes?

Isabelle: He wouldn’t even hesitate.

Emilie: This man is whipped.

Emilie: He’s so gone for you. It’s actually hilarious.

Isabelle: This is a nightmare.

Emilie: Just be glad he’s not insisting on Red Bull colors.

Isabelle: I take it back. It could be worse.

***

Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc

****

"I think I’m falling in love with him."

Isabelle hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It just slipped out, quiet and uncertain, as she sat across from Emilie at their usual café.

Emilie, mid-sip of her drink, slowly set her cup down and arched an eyebrow. “No shit.”

Isabelle groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “I mean too fast,” she muttered. “It’s too fast.”

Emilie leaned back, unimpressed. “Define ‘too fast.’”

“I don’t know.” Isabelle exhaled, sitting up and fiddling with the edge of her napkin. “It’s like—I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to go wrong. For him to change.”

Emilie just stared at her for a long moment before sighing. “Belle. He’s treating you better than your own family ever did. That’s not ‘too fast.’ That’s just right.”

“That’s not—” Isabelle started, but Emilie held up a hand.

“Let’s review,” she said, counting on her fingers. “He listens to you. He remembers things you like. He makes time for you. He prioritizes you. That’s the bare minimum of what you deserve, Belle. And you know damn well you’ve never had it before.”

Isabelle swallowed hard.

Emilie’s expression softened. “Look, I get it. It’s scary when someone actually cares about you, especially when you’re used to being the afterthought. But Max? He’s not going anywhere. And you? You’re not falling too fast. You’re just finally being caught.”

Isabelle exhaled, staring down at her coffee.

“Also,” Emilie added, smirking, “you’re absolutely screwed, because I think you’ve been in love with him for weeks.”

Isabelle groaned again, and Emilie just laughed.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emilie. I think something is wrong with Max.

Emilie: Oh god, what happened??

Isabelle: He just gave me flowers.

Emilie: …And???

Isabelle: There’s no occasion. No reason. He just handed them to me and said, “Thought you’d like these.”

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: And then he pulled out my favorite wine. Already chilled. Already opened. Just there.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: AND THEN he sat with me. No phone, no distractions, just me. He asked about my day. Actually listened.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: WHY DO YOU KEEP SAYING MY NAME.

Emilie: Because you’re being so stupidly loved and acting like it’s a problem.

Isabelle: I just don’t know what to do with it. I feel like I should be doing something in return??

Emilie: You are. You exist. You let him love you. That’s enough.

Isabelle: But I’ve never—no one’s ever—

Emilie: I know. But this is what it’s supposed to be like.

Isabelle: …It feels weird.

Emilie: You’ll get used to it.

Isabelle: Will I?

Emilie: Yeah. And then one day, it won’t feel weird at all. It’ll just feel like love.

Isabelle: …Huh.

Emilie: Huh, she says. Like I haven’t been telling her this for years.

Isabelle: Shut up.

Emilie: Nope. Now go drink your fancy wine and let your boyfriend adore you.

Isabelle: …Fine.

Emilie: That’s my girl.

***

Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc

Comments:

@/arthur_leclerc: ??? From who?

@/charles_leclerc: Since when do you get flowers??

@/emilie_abadie: 👀👀👀

@/F1GossipQueen: OMG IS ISABELLE SOFT LAUNCHING A BOYFRIEND???

↳@/paddockprincessx: We are watching this situation VERY closely.

@/leclercsiblingtea: The Leclerc brothers seem deeply unsettled by this turn of events. 

@/lorenzotl: Be honest. Did you buy these for yourself?

***

Isabelle wasn’t trying to snoop.

She was just tidying up a little while Max was in the kitchen—because, frankly, he lived like someone who was always on the road (which he was). That’s how she spotted the iPad on the coffee table, screen still on. She had only glanced at it in passing, but then something caught her eye.

French lessons.

Her first reaction was confusion. Then amusement. Then something warmer, something that made her heartbeat do something a little ridiculous in her chest.

“Max?” she called out, picking up the iPad.

“Yeah?” His voice floated back from the kitchen, followed by the sound of the fridge opening. “Do you want some water?”

She walked in, holding up the iPad like it was evidence in a trial. “Are you secretly moving to Paris?”

Max turned around, brow furrowing. “What?”

She waved the iPad at him. “Since when are you learning French?”

His face did not do a good job of hiding his guilt. His eyes flickered to the screen, then back to her, and he shifted on his feet like he was debating snatching it out of her hands. “Oh. That.”

“Yes, that.” Isabelle crossed her arms, fighting a smile. “What’s the story, Verstappen? Career change? Planning to start giving post-race interviews in French?”

Max sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I live in Monaco. Figured it was time I actually learned, you know, the main language people speak here.”

Isabelle narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“What?” He shrugged. “It makes sense.”

“It does make sense.” She took a step closer. “Except you’ve lived in Monaco for years and have never cared before.”

Max glanced at the iPad again, like it would somehow save him. When it didn’t, he exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Fine. Maybe I had another reason.”

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “And that reason is?”

His ears were turning pink. “You.”

She blinked. “Me?”

“You switch to French when you’re with your family,” he muttered, looking anywhere but at her. “Or when you’re distracted. Or when you get really excited about something. And I—I wanted to understand you better.”

Oh.

Oh.

Isabelle stared at him, warmth flooding her chest. “Max…”

He sighed again, clearly bracing himself for teasing. “Look, if you think it’s stupid—”

“I don’t,” she interrupted, her voice soft. “I think it’s… really sweet.”

Max relaxed slightly, still wary. “Yeah?”

She smiled. “Yeah.” Then she nudged him. “Okay, say something.”

He groaned. “Now?”

“Yes, now.”

Max hesitated. Then, after a deep breath, he said—slowly, carefully—“Je veux tout comprendre de toi.”

I want to understand everything about you.

Isabelle’s breath caught.

She looked up at him, and suddenly, the teasing was gone. Her heart was thudding, her fingers itching to reach for him. “Max.”

He shifted again. “Did I say it wrong?”

She shook her head. Then, without thinking, she leaned up and kissed him.

Max made a startled sound but recovered quickly, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. When she finally pulled away, his grin was dazed.

“So,” he said, slightly breathless. “That was because of the French, huh?”

She laughed, tucking her head against his shoulder. “Guess you’ll have to keep practicing.”

Max tightened his hold on her. “Done.”

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max is learning French.

Emilie: ???

Emilie: Like YOUR Max? The one who has lived in Monaco forever and has survived just fine with English and Dutch?

Isabelle: Yes!!!

Isabelle: I found his iPad open with some French lesson on it, and when I asked, he said he lives in Monaco so it was about time he learned.

Emilie: That… does make sense.

Isabelle: But then I pressed him, and he admitted he’s actually doing it because of ME.

Emilie: Oh.

Emilie: Ohhhh.

Emilie: Isabelle. He’s in LOVE love.

Isabelle: I don’t even know what to do with this information.

Emilie: Girl, you kiss him stupid, that’s what.

Isabelle: I already did that!!!

Emilie: Good. Keep doing it.

Emilie: Good for him. He’s putting in the effort. He’s out here grinding on Duolingo just to impress.

Isabelle: That’s what’s shocking me the most… Nobody has ever done that for me before.

Emilie: Well, he’s not just anybody, is he?

Isabelle: No. He’s Max.

Emilie: Exactly. And Max Verstappen? He doesn’t do anything halfway.

***

Text Messages:Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: Need your help.

GP: If this is about strategy on a Monday at 11 in the evening, I’m hanging up.

Max: It’s not.

GP: Then what?

Max: Isabelle’s birthday is coming up. I need a gift.

GP: …You do realize just because I’m married, I’m not a fountain of romantic wisdom, right?

Max: Who else am I supposed to ask?

GP: Literally anyone else?

Max: You’re the only one I trust not to be an idiot about this.

GP: I feel like that was a compliment and an insult at the same time.

Max: Just help me.

GP: Alright, what are you thinking?

Max: Something personal. Not just perfume or a handbag.

GP: Already doing better than most.

Max: That’s a low bar.

GP: True. Jewelry? Something meaningful?

Max: I was thinking emeralds. Her birthstone. And it matches her eyes.

GP: …Wow. You’re actually in deep.

Max: Not the point.

GP: Sure, sure. Bracelet? Necklace? Something she can wear every day?

Max: Yeah. Probably a bracelet.

GP: Go for it. But just so you know, if you keep setting the bar this high, you’re making the rest of us look bad.

Max: Not my problem.

GP: Yeah, that tracks. Let me know what you pick.

Max: Will do. Thanks.

GP: Anytime. Just remember, I’m charging a consulting fee next time.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: This is Max. Isabelle’s Max.

Emilie: …Hello, Isabelle’s Max. To what do I owe the honor?

Max: I need help. It’s about Isabelle’s birthday.

Emilie: Go on.

Max: I need Isabelle’s wrist size.

Emilie: …What.

Max: Her wrist size.

Emilie: That’s it? No explanation? No context? Just casually asking for her wrist size like that’s a normal thing?

Max: Yes.

Emilie: I don’t trust you.

Max: That feels unnecessary.

Emilie: UNNECESSARY? MAX, I HAVE SPENT YEARS FIGHTING A LOSING BATTLE AGAINST HER FAMILY’S COMPLETE INABILITY TO GET HER A DECENT GIFT.

Max: …

Emilie: Charles once got her a Ferrari-branded umbrella. ”In case you ever come to a race and it rains.”

Max: …

Emilie: Arthur once got her a stuffed animal from an airport gift shop, because he nearly forgot entirely one year. Just straight-up forgot Belle had a birthday.

Max: …

Emilie: Lorenzo got her candle last year. A SINGLE. GENERIC. VANILLA. CANDLE. SHE DOESN’T EVEN LIKE VANILLLA; SHE GETS HEADACHES FROM IT.

Max: That’s actually embarrassing.

Emilie: Thank you. But I’m not done.

Max: Oh no.

Emilie: Their mother gave Isabelle a cookbook.

Max: That’s… not the worst?

Emilie: It was a diet cookbook.

Max: …

Max: What the hell.

Emilie: EXACTLY.

Max: And you’re saying this happens every year?

Emilie: EVERY. YEAR. Max, I have a Google Doc. I have an entire spreadsheet dedicated to “How to Make Sure Isabelle Actually Gets Something Nice.” I am fighting for my life out here.

Max: Not anymore.

Emilie: Wait.

Max: Attachment: Image of three emerald bracelets

Max: I’m thinking emeralds. It’s her birthstone. Matches her eyes.

Emilie:

Emilie:

Emilie: MAX EMILIAN VERSTAPPEN.

Max: What.

Emilie: YOU ALREADY PICKED OUT OPTIONS???

Max: I was narrowing it down.

Emilie: NARROWING IT DOWN. LIKE A FUNCTIONING HUMAN MAN. LIKE SOMEONE WHO ACTUALLY PUTS THOUGHT INTO GIFTS. LIKE SOMEONE WHO KNOWS HER FAVORITE GEMSTONE AND HOW IT MATCHES HER EYES.

Max: …Yes?

Emilie: DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW INFURIATING THIS IS FOR ME. I HAVE BEEN CARRYING THIS FAMILY.

Max: So you don’t know her wrist size?

Emilie: FIFTEEN CENTIMETERS. 

Max: Appreciate the help.

Emilie: Oh, and just for future reference—her ring size is 50.

Max: …

Max: Just for future reference?

Emilie: Just saying. You never know.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1GossipQueen: 🚨 UM. Just saw Max Verstappen in a jewelry store in Miami. He was looking at bracelets and asking about emeralds.

@/OversteerAndTears: Not me immediately googling “Max Verstappen girlfriend emerald jewelry” like I’m gonna find something.

@/SoftForMax: Max Verstappen. In a jewelry store. Asking about emeralds. Who is she.

@/F1GossipQueen: He was so serious about it too. Like asking the salesperson about different settings and cuts.

@/CheckeredHeart: SETTINGS??? DIFFERENT CUTS?!?!

@/F1GossipQueen: Yes!!! And he was like, “She likes emeralds, but I want something subtle.” Like WHO, MAX??

@/FastCarsAndDrama: “She likes emeralds.” SHE??? I’M GONNA THROW UP.

@/MaxIsMyGOAT: So we’re just casually learning that Max Verstappen not only has a girlfriend but knows her jewelry preferences well enough to mention them in a store???@/OrangeArmy82: Maybe it’s for his mom or sister. We don’t know it’s for a girlfriend.

[chrollohearttags]

love thy neighbor • r. sukuna

(Y/N) moves into an apartment complex on the other side of town and winds up living right next door to one of the most notorious drug dealers in the city nonetheless! But looks can be deceiving…

📝: black!fem plus size reader, plug!sukuna, age gap (6 years or so) mentions of toxic relationship and baby trapping, religious trauma, anxiety, alcohol + drug use, comfort + fluff and angst to smut, missionary, prone bone, oral sex, reader cries during, daddy is used a couple times, size difference, lots of kissing, positive affirmations, creampie

wc: 3.0K

🎙️: I swear imma get back to posting regularly! I’m just being lazy and hating my writing rn (it sucks) 😭 but I hope y’all enjoy

═✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿═══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

you didn’t know what to expect when you found yourself residing on the same floor as plug!sukuna..it was your first time living on your own. Fresh out of your parents’ house with minimal belongings and all of the savings you had managed to scrounge over the years. Enough to cover first and last month’s rent with some extra left over..working as a receptionist in a local doctors office by day and offering online tutoring services at night to suffice your income. You'd return home from your shift, ready to relax by at least eight o clock..meanwhile, plug!sukuna was just beginning his night. Heading out into the streets to do God knows what until the early morning hours. But he’d never leave until he’d done two things: said hello and made sure that you were straight. You never really understood the logic behind it..especially considering the fact that you weren’t exactly close friends or even acquaintances beforehand. Hell, he didn’t know you at all and yet, he was just as kind as an old lady bringing you cookies to welcome you to the neighboorhood.

nonetheless, plug!sukuna would always tell you “..keep that door locked, don’t answer that shit for nobody and call me if you need anything, aight?” his deep voice was the last voice you’d heard for the evening and the first when you awoke in the morning. Sometimes, he’d even bring you breakfast per your request and you’d eat together. You’d cut off all ties to your controlling, religious fanatic family and the narcissistic ex who’d all but attempted to stick you with a kid you didn’t want and turn you into his personal doll…trapped inside of the house with no purpose other than to serve him. It was the way all of the men in your former faith operated. But you weren’t interested. Not in the slightest. In fact, you wanted change so drastic, it’d make their goddamn heads spin! Over time, you’d grow closer to plug!sukuna. His second long check ins and warnings became full blown conversations as the two of you congregated downstairs in the pool area or at the mailbox for a cup of coffee. A cigarette dangling from his fingertips to go light once he went outside.

“I know this place seems nice and all from first glance but…imma let you in on a lil��� secret, baby. It’s all types of people who come here..looking for trouble and hell, I’m not gonna lie to you. I’m part of the reason. That’s why I tell you to keep your door locked. Your pretty ass answers for the wrong person and somebody is bound to try and take advantage. ‘Damn shame I’d have to fuck someone up if something were to happen to you..”

plug!sukuna was sweet and endearing in his own right. But that’s what drew you into him..he was the very antithesis to what you knew men to be. Brutally honest yet so empathetic to your feelings. Rough as hell around the edges but a total gentleman. He may have done horrible things but he was a good guy..the best damn one you’d ever met. Unbeknownst to him, you’d watch him from the window leaving out; others surrounding him in the parking lot in similar cars. Blacked out with tinted windows..doing sleight of hand to pass something to other tenants who you’d recognized. Only what you could assume to be drugs. A couple of the guys you’d recognized from church, talking to deacons and pastors..now it’d all made so much more sense. Even so, plug!sukuna kept you out of that part of his life as much as possible. Eventually, some months would pass and it was a secret to no one that you’d grown quite fond of him..damn near smitten even.

however, plug!sukuna was adamant on not taking it there with you! He’d admitted himself that you were beautiful and in another life, any other circumstances..he wouldn’t hesitate to make you his. The problem was, you were still too vulnerable and he was knee deep in a lifestyle he wanted you to steer clear from. You were healing from years of trauma and downright abuse..trying to navigate this world on your own. If he were any other scumbag, he could have easily sucked you into his world and had you out here doing his bidding.

“(Y/N) baby..do you know how many girls just like you..who leave bad situations and end up in worse ones because some nasty motherfucker saw how vulnerable they were and used that to their advantage? How many girls went from being in the church to being on their knees for some pimp? I care too much ‘bout you to let that happen. I’m no good for you, I swear. You’d only end up hurt because I can’t give you all of me. Shit, I can’t even promise I’d make a good boyfriend. I’m selfish as hell, I’m always gone..I’ve slept with more women than I can remember. What could you possibly want with somebody like me, huh? What could I possibly do for you, (y/n)?”

but you saw right through plug!sukuna’s facade. He was gentle at heart..a romantic even. He wanted his person to spoil and adore just as much as you did. The streets were his only love for most of his life. He’d seen many things but nothing quite like you..those round, doe eyes; so innocent and pure. Pouty lips, chubby cheeks and the soft, ringlet curls that surrounded that gorgeous face. That soft, plump body and those thighs that rubbed together when you walked away. He wanted to devour you whole sometimes..many nights had plug!sukuna lied in his bed next door, thinking of you being on top of him. Those perky breasts jiggling as he bounced you up and down on his cock. Those nails clawed at his chest as sweat poured down his skin. But those thoughts were far too lewd and disgusting for someone like you! He was ashamed of even having them. But he couldn’t help himself..especially when that sweet, airy voice all but begged him to take you.

“Because I love you, Ryo..I love everything about you. Even the bad shit. I don’t care what you do because it’s not who you are..you’re the man that brings me food and coffee in the morning so I don’t have to rush before work. You’re the man who kisses my forehead when he leaves because you know, deep down..it could be the last time I see you. You’re the man who calls me every time he hears a gunshot or sirens because he worries himself sick about me when I’m not near him. You carry my laundry baskets and groceries, you clean my apartment while I’m sleeping because I’m too tired. And not once have you ever tried to touch me. You never made me repay you with sex or anything. You could easily hurt me and you can’t even bring yourself to raise your voice, even when I’m dead fucking wrong. No one has ever cared about me that much, boyfriend or otherwise and I don’t give a damn if you sell drugs or blow up buildings. A man who’d do all of that for me and never asks for anything in return is exactly who I want.”

plug!sukuna found himself dumbstruck for the first time in a long time..standing there with your small hand cradling his chiseled jaw, tears streaming down your face, he’d find that his own eyes were welling and burning. He’d never heard anyone speak about him in such a way. “Damn, I guess you can read me like a book.” Hell, he’d never acted that way with anyone else either. Yet here he was, treating you like a princess. He couldn’t pretend anymore..he had to be honest with you..and himself.

“I—I love you too, (y/n). So much..”

“Then make me yours. Right now..right here.”

“you know once we do this, we can’t go back..”

“Please..leaving the past behind is kind of my thing.”

it didn’t take long for your lips to meet in a fiery haze, tongues intertwined in a moment of heated bliss. Your hands roaming one another’s bodies as moans slipped through..your clothes all but becoming discarded heaps on the living room floor like a movie scene cliche. His lips traced from your neck to your collarbone; slightly dredging his teeth along the skin in the process.

“Here, baby..take my hand.” plug!sukuna, in one fell swoop hoisted you into his arms as if you weighed practically next to nothing. Continuing to feed you those slow kisses, he’d carry you to a nearby wall and part your thighs. With your legs resting on his shoulders, he’d mark every inch of you. From your sensitive nipples which he cradled in his mouth to that pudgy tummy he loved so much to that juicy center, which was practically leaking for him.

“This all me? Just from some kissing?..” “This is nothing. I touch myself every night thinking about you..you should see the mess I make then.” plug!sukuna could barely sate his urges now, hearing how nasty this supposedly innocent girl was for him! He wasted no time slithering his tongue into that aching cunt. Swirling it around on that throbbing clit, spitting into those pretty pink folds and those succulent brown lips encasing them. He feasted like a man unhinged; greedy and selfish as fuck, just like he claimed. You’d grasp a hold of those dark reddish and black locks, grinding yourself into his face. Rubbing his nose in between your slit.

“Mmmph! Ryo…” “Yeah, fuck my face. Don’t hold back now. You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to do this.”

plug!sukuna would eat your pussy until he heard you sobbing and felt that orgasm come barreling out. Your tight hole spasming on air as those juices trickled down his throat, chest and mouth. He couldn’t help but to laugh as he watched you writhe in pleasure. Attempting to push him away as you rode out that orgasm.

“Wha—how did you?—“ “What? I told you..I’ve had a lot of practice.” Choosing to omit the fact that he’d fantasized about you sitting on his face more times than he could count. Tossing you a wink and one final lick before carting you over to the sofa. Where he laid you down gently against the cushions…pinning those legs back whilst hovering over you. The entire time, he couldn’t take his gaze away from those gorgeous eyes..they glimmered so bright. Full of lust, adoration and excitement. No matter how much you smiled, he always sensed a certain emptiness behind them. A light stolen from you and now, he hoped to reignite it.

observing your movements, plug!sukuna began to chuckle when he saw you pawing at his crotch. So eager to unsheathe that hard on from his boxers. He could tell that the shy, bashful demeanor you presented was only a front. If given the opportunity, he could turn you into his personal slut with ease..but for now, he wanted to focus solely on making love to you. Giving you every part of him that he’d long to for months now. You’d examine his chiseled torso, reaching up to caress his abs and trace your fingertips along his various tattoos. But you couldn’t distract yourself from how large that bulge was..protruding and leaking with precum…

“Can I?—“ Go ahead, baby..take it out.” And without hesitation, you’d tug that elastic waistband back and let it spring forth. He was so girthy and long. Clean shaven and although he was erect now, you could tell he was huge even when flaccid. Nonetheless, plug!sukuna grasped those thick thighs of yours and mounted in between them; gliding that aching tip along your folds. ”Now you tell me if it hurts, okay baby? If I see you flinch or look uncomfortable, I’m pulling the fuck out. We clear?” And you knew when he spoke, that was law. Nodding in agreement, you’d consent to his terms as you rubbed your folds, waiting for him.

“Good..and tap my arm if you can’t talk. I’m ‘bout to start moving. You ready?” with your permission, he’d glide in slowly and immediately, he thought he’d seen stars! Plug!sukuna, by his own volition, had been with countless girls. From strippers to models, but never had he felt pussy this tight! The warmth immediately cradling him and not letting go. He’d suck his teeth before muttering a single ‘fuck’ under his breath. You were going to be some pressure, he was certain of it. But he’d continue on, gathering his footing and working that cock into your entrance. A single pop, along with wet, squishing sounds rang out across that living room as you lie underneath him.

“Goddamn…your shit feels incredible, baby. I know you had some good pussy..I can tell just by looking at you.” Forcing a wide, toothy smile on your face. You’d never heard him talk so vulgar but it was the side you’d brought out. He was officially obsessed!

“Yeah? Well I’ve been wanting to give it to for so long..I never thought you’d fuck me..”

“I kept you waiting, huh? I’m sorry..guess it just means we gotta make up for lost time then, huh?”

plug!sukuna was thrilled to know that he’d no longer have to hold back because you were on the same wavelength. You’d have no issues matching his energy..so with that, he’d speed up those thrusts. Pounding you with gentle but well paced strokes. The sound of your thighs and skin slamming together, coupled with the sounds of both your moans, made for a beautiful chorus. Your hands around his neck, scratching at his back; legs around his waist and his muscular arms planted right at your sides. Drilling you just as you’d requested and there was no limits between the two of you.

“Yes! Keep fucking meeee..oh my goodness. I’m gonna come again!”

“You’re so fucking cute..damn..” adoring how you sounded squealing and laughing as you met his thrusts. He couldn’t believe how receptive you were and how it took no time at all for you to open up.

“And you look so pretty taking all this dick for daddy. I can’t stop staring at you.” That deep voice showering you with praise as his thick cock thrashed around your insides. Even though you had always been a bigger girl, he made you feel so dainty and small..like a precious treasure he never wanted to lose. “You deserve this, baby..to get fucked just like this. To be spoiled and get whatever you want. I can put you up..you ain’t ever gotta worry about shit. Not a bill, not rent, your family..I got you, baby. I promise. I love you..” You believed every single word and clung to them with every fiber you had. You’d never had anyone treat you with such grace and care before..and that wasn’t the end. He’d continue doting. Telling you how proud he was of you and how far you'd come. How he admired your strength to get out of your situation…he was in awe. plug!sukuna would continue singing your praises until he looked up and spotted tears coming down your face. He was tempted to stop until you told him that you were just fine. He on the other hand..was struggling to maintain his stamina.

“No no..please don’t stop. You just make me feel so good. No one has ever fucked me like this.”

but that alone seemed to ignite a second wind and in a moment of haste, you’d find yourself flipped over into your stomach with his entire body weight shifted on top of you.

“You mean that, baby?” Those outer fangs of his teeth glistening and mouth slicked with saliva as he began pounding you once more..hands pinned to your back and his frame covering your own. The plumpness of that ass ricocheting off of him as he penetrated those walls. You’d come once again, dripping onto the leather couch and making that aforementioned mess he’d been dying to see. This time, his pace was rougher..less structured and sporadic. He couldn’t help it..he was running on pure fumes, trying to give you the first time experience you deserved. Tugging your head back by those thick curls, plug!sukuna fed you the deeper strokes he could muster until those chocolate eyes rolled back.

“Y-yes! This dick is amazing..”

“Tell me who it belongs to. Who’s this good pussy belong to now?”

“Y-you, daddy. It’s yours! Oh fuck..”

never having uttered such lewd words in your entire life, you reveled in the fact that he had been the one to bring this side out. And now, you were about to bring a side out of him. One far more vulnerable than the public witnessed..one that would beg you to let him come inside of you and cry out your name in sweet ecstasy as he did so. You’d feel those warm seeds pouring into your womb as he came to a halt and you welcomed them. plug!sukuna didn’t hesitate to swaddle you in his arms for kisses and comfort.

“I don’t want this to end..tell me it doesn’t have to, Ryo. Can we be this way forever?”

“We can stay like this for as long as you want, baby. I’m not going anywhere.“

and it was a promise he intended to keep. Not just as your neighbor or the guy next door looking over you. But now, as your lover and the man who’d never leave your side.

[bdxpelik]

I think it's funny how the fandom is split between romantisizing Jinmao's every interaction and those who find them toxic and problematic. e.g. The thing about the age gap (practically non-existent btw they are ONE YEAR APART). If the show wants to show you problematic, they WILL shove it in your face. If the show is gonna show you pedophilia, they WILL and DID, along with discussing the countless horrific repercussions that come with it (see: The Former Emperor episode). Why bother looking for a problem that doesn't exists when it's right there in the other room?

Secondly, I don't really agree when people say Jinmao's relationship is completely healthy. It's a whole journey to reach the point where it is TRULY healthy. They have miscommunications. They make each other angry. They hurt each other. And if you think that scene in the cave is problematic then oh boy you got a thing coming in future arcs. They're young adults who make mistakes and trying to deal with inner conflict and pressure from those around them and each other. Sexual assault? Yes I can see why it looks like that. But I don't think the creators intended it so. Like I said, if it's problematic I'm sure the show will shove it in our faces. He acknowledged his actions, apologized afterwards and did his best to not make her scared and uncomfortable. Jinshi's not a total green flag and Maomao isn't a defenseless child.

[melanchoire]

MAKE IT TO THE HIGH FASHION ──── yu jimin.

── ( 📸 ) as two of prada’s most coveted faces, you and karina, former lovers torn apart by a whirlwind of rumors and a devastating lack of trust, are unexpectedly thrust back into each other’s orbit for a high–stakes photoshoot, and as the camera flashes capture not only the clothes but also the raw emotions simmering beneath the surface, karina seizes the opportunity to finally explain the truth behind the infamous dispatch scandal, leaving you to decide if forgiveness and a second chance are worth risking your heart all over again.

pairing. dom!toxic ex girlfriend!karina x sub!ex girlfriend!fem reader

warning(s). angst (kinda), cheating, cunnilingus, degradation, fingering, making out, pet names, squirting.

word count. 10,8k

requested? yes.

the flashing lights of the stage are blinding, but you navigate them with a practiced ease. your movements are sharp, your gaze intense, and the roar of the crowd fuels you. another performance done, another wave of deafening cheers washing over you.

being an idol was everything you’d ever dreamed of, the culmination of years of grueling training and unwavering dedication. being an idol is a whirlwind of constant performances, relentless practice, and the ever–present scrutiny of millions.

but it came with a price. a price you were currently paying with a knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach.

the unspoken rule looms over you: romantic relationships are a liability. fans, in their adoration, often see their idols as belonging to them, their fantasies woven into the perfect image projected on stage. to shatter that image with the reality of a partner is to risk their ire, their disappointment, and ultimately, their support. and beyond that, dating someone within the industry is akin to walking a tightrope, a constant balancing act between public perception, competitive pressures, and genuine affection.

being an idol meant living under a microscope. wvery move you made, every word you spoke, was scrutinized and dissected by millions. maintaining a squeaky–clean image was paramount. and that meant keeping secrets. especially secrets like the one you shared with karina.

karina. the leader of aespa. your rival group. and, impossibly, the woman who held your heart.

you remembered the early days, the awkward interactions backstage at music shows. you were both rookies then, navigating the treacherous waters of the industry, trying to make a name for yourselves. aespa and your group often found yourselves promoting at the same time, leading to a whirlwind of shared stages and fleeting conversations. you always found yourself drawn to karina’s quiet confidence, her sharp wit hidden beneath a cool exterior.

you’d make silly faces at each other across the stage during encore performances, earning a playful glare from your manager later. during music show wins, you’d subtly angle your phone during a group shot to get karina in the frame, much to the amusement (and knowing smirks) of your members. you meticulously learned the choreography of “girls” just so you could tease her with it backstage. these interactions were small, seemingly insignificant to the outside world. but to you, they were everything. they were a lifeline in a world that often felt isolating and manufactured.

until finally you two had a decent interaction, meaning you had the balls to approach her without getting cold feet in the process; when your group and hers had overlapping promotion cycles, you’d make sure to seek her out. a quick hug backstage, a shared compliment about each other’s stage outfits, a genuine smile for the cameras. you remember one instance vividly: uour group had just finished performing your latest title track on a music show. exhausted but exhilarated, you spotted karina across the backstage chaos. she was radiant in a shimmering silver dress, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she laughed with her members. you approached her, offering a playful bow.

“karina–ssi, your performance was amazing today! that high note gave me chills.” you said, loud enough to be heard over the din.

she returned the bow, her cheeks flushing slightly. “ah, (y/n)–ssi, you were incredible too! that break dance was killer.”

fans, of course, noticed. they speculated. they shipped. they created elaborate fanfiction scenarios, fueling the flames of their own fantasies. “le sserafim x aespa crumbs!” they’d squeal in the comments sections. little did they know, the “crumbs” they were seeing were just the tip of a very carefully concealed iceberg.

little did they know, those fleeting moments were lifelines, secret signals in a world that demanded you keep your true feelings hidden.

but the stolen glances, the brief touches, the whispered phone calls late at night, were never enough. griendship evolved into something deeper, something undeniable. you fell in love, slowly and irrevocably, her strength and kindness drawing you in like a moth to a flame. the joy you found in her presence was intoxicating, a stark contrast to the manufactured smiles and rehearsed interactions that often characterized your public life.

keeping your relationship a secret wasn’t easy. you navigated crowded events with coded glances, orchestrated meet–ups under the cover of darkness, and perfected the art of communicating volumes with a single squeeze of the hand. but the fear of exposure was a constant companion, a nagging voice whispering in the back of your mind.

the industry thrived on these manufactured interactions. inter–group friendships were good for publicity, harmless fodder for variety shows and social media engagement. what wasn’t good for publicity was a genuine romantic relationship, especially not one between two female idols from competing companies.

you and karina knew the risks. you knew the potential backlash. but you couldn’t deny the connection that had blossomed between you. late–night phone calls stretched into hours, filled with whispered confessions and shared dreams. secret meetings in secluded cafes, faces hidden behind masks and oversized hoodies. the thrill of the forbidden, the electricity of stolen moments, only intensified your feelings.

but secrecy was a heavy burden. the constant fear of discovery hung over you like a sword. you had to be careful, always meticulously planning your rendezvous, scrubbing your digital footprint, and carefully curating your public persona. it was exhausting.

then came the fateful night. you and karina, desperate for a few hours of normalcy, had planned a late–night dinner at a small, tucked–away restaurant. you meticulously planned every detail; you’d chosen a restaurant tucked away on a quiet side street, far from the bustling city center. you both donned your best incognito outfits — baseball caps pulled low, dark sunglasses, and layers of clothing designed to obscure your identities. karina, ever cautious, had even suggested wearing masks, but you’d argued against it, fearing it would draw more attention.

the evening was perfect. you laughed, you talked, you forgot, for a few precious hours, the weight of the world and the expectations of millions. you held her hand across the table, her touch sending a familiar shiver down your spine. for a moment, you let yourself believe that you could have it all — your career, your love, your happiness.

that illusion shattered with the flash of a camera.

as you left the restaurant, a flash of light erupted from the darkness. a paparazzi, lurking in the shadows, had captured the moment. the grainy photo, capturing you and karina holding hands, faces partially obscured, was splashed across the internet the next morning.

your world imploded.

the next morning, your phone exploded. notifications flooded your screen, a torrent of comments, messages, and articles screaming the same thing: you and karina. a grainy photo circulated online — you, holding hands with a woman who was undeniably karina, bathed in the harsh glare of a flashbulb.

the world went into meltdown.

your phone became a weapon of mass destruction, buzzing incessantly with notifications. fans, stans, haters, news outlets — everyone had an opinion. the comments ranged from outright vitriol to tentative support, but the overwhelming sentiment was shock and disbelief.

“OMG! is this real?”

“unbelievable! they’re dating?!”

“my ship has sailed! i knew it!”

“(y/n) is cancelled! how dare she keep this from us?”

“leave them alone! it’s their life!”

the outrage, the speculation, the sheer volume of noise was deafening. you felt sick to your stomach, a cold dread creeping into your bones.

your company scrambled to contain the damage, issuing a statement that confirmed the rumors. karina’s agency followed suit. but the language was vague, both statements were carefully worded, emphasizing the “close friendship” that had “unexpectedly blossomed” into something more. the language was sterile, devoid of the warmth and passion that characterized your relationship. it felt like a betrayal, a public dissection of something so private and precious.

then came the dreaded request: the handwritten letter. you were instructed to write a letter to your fans, a heartfelt apology for “keeping this secret” and a plea for understanding. the words felt hollow, disingenuous. you wanted to scream, to defend your right to privacy, to express the pure, unadulterated joy that karina brought into your life. but you knew you couldn’t. you were an idol, a product, and your image was carefully controlled.

you stared at the blank page, the weight of expectation crushing you. how could you possibly explain the complexities of your heart to millions of strangers? how could you apologize for loving someone, for finding happiness in a world that so often seemed determined to deny it to you?

but you knew you had no choice. you were an idol, and your fans were the lifeblood of your career. you owed them an explanation, even if it felt like a violation.

you sat at your desk, the blank document on your laptop mocking you. you typed, deleted, and retyped, trying to find the right words, the words that would appease your fans without sacrificing your integrity. it felt like an impossible task.

finally, you settled on something carefully crafted, something that acknowledged the situation without revealing too much.

you wrote, pouring out your heart in carefully chosen words. you apologized for keeping the relationship a secret, explaining that you had only wanted to protect your fans and preserve the image they held dear. you apologized for not being more open, you thanked your fans for their unwavering support, and you promised to continue working hard to earn their love and respect. you carefully avoided mentioning the word “love” in relation to karina, you only spoke of your respect for karina, your admiration for her talent, and your gratitude for her unwavering support.

posting the letter felt like a betrayal. a betrayal of yourself, a betrayal of karina, a betrayal of the truth. but you knew it was necessary. it was the price you had to pay.

the response was… mixed. some fans were supportive, offering words of encouragement and understanding. they celebrated your courage and wished you both happiness. others were devastated, feeling betrayed and heartbroken. they accused you of lying, of manipulating them, of shattering their dreams. the hate was vicious, personal, and relentless.

the initial backlash was fierce. hordes of fans felt betrayed, accusing you of lying and manipulating them. they flooded your social media with hateful comments, demanding your resignation. other fans rallied to your defense, praising your courage and supporting your right to love. the fandom was fractured, divided.

the weeks that followed were a blur of damage control. you and karina faced a barrage of criticism, scrutiny, and speculation. every move you made was analyzed, every word you spoke dissected. the media feasted on the drama, churning out endless articles and videos dissecting your relationship.

the online world became a battleground, a toxic landscape of love and hate. fan wars erupted, fueled by jealousy, insecurity, and the insatiable hunger for gossip. you watched in horror as people you’d never met tore each other apart over something so deeply personal.

and then there were the whispers, the insidious rumors that threatened to undermine everything you’d worked for. accusations flew — that you were using karina for fame, that she was manipulating you to boost her own career, that your relationship was nothing more than a publicity stunt.

the hate was relentless, particularly aimed at karina. she was branded as a homewrecker, a fame–seeker, a talentless hack. the comments were cruel, vicious, and deeply personal. you wanted to shield her from the storm, to protect her from the ugliness of it all. but you couldn’t, you weren’t the emotionally strong one in the relationship; if just reading the negative comments about karina made you shed tears, how are you supposed to console her without breaking down? karina was the leader of her group and therefore always had to appear serious and mature to the public, and you knew that she cried easily, so you didn’t see yourself capable of comforting her if she felt affected by the criticism because seeing her sad would hurt you and that would end with you crying and karina consoling you.

the weeks that followed were a blur of anxiety and uncertainty. you canceled public appearances, retreated into the safety of your dorm, and tried to avoid the relentless media attention. you felt isolated, vulnerable, and utterly powerless.

you had stopped uploading photos to your social networks since the comments started to be only about the public asking about karina and leading to debates in the comments section, it hurt you to see people having opinions about things without knowing about them and having a rather questionable point of view but reading your fans defending you even without knowing if the rumors were real was like a cute bandage on a deep wound.

but no matter how much you stopped being active on social media and stopped talking on weverse, the comments didn’t stop; logging off your public social media was a relief for you, but by using your private accounts that only your members followed, even then there was content talking about you and the controversy appeared in content recommended for you — at this point, smashing your phone against the wall seemed to be the only option left.

despite the chaos, you and karina clung to each other. you found solace in her embrace, her unwavering belief in you a beacon in the storm. you reminded each other of the love you shared, the strength you drew from each other, and the dreams you still held dear.

the pressure was immense, but you refused to break. you knew that your relationship was worth fighting for, and you were determined to weather the storm, no matter how fierce. you looked at karina and saw not a rival, but a partner. you saw not a risk, but a reason to be brave. and you knew, with a certainty that defied all the noise and negativity, that you would face whatever came next, together.

karina, strong and resilient as always, became your rock. she reminded you of your worth, of your talent, and of the unwavering love that you shared. she encouraged you to focus on the positive, to ignore the noise, and to trust in the power of your bond.

the initial storm was a blur of frantic calls, hushed meetings, and the constant, gnawing anxiety of what was to come. you remember the hollow feeling in your chest as you typed out the apology, each word a carefully constructed lie of omission. you hadn’t intentionally kept it a secret to deceive anyone, but to protect something precious in a world that often felt determined to tear it apart.

the backlash was ferocious, predictable, yet still somehow shocking. the usual suspects emerged: the shippers furious that their carefully constructed narratives were shattered, the possessive fans feeling betrayed that you belonged to someone other than them, and the vultures who thrived on drama, dissecting every interaction, every lyric, searching for hidden meanings and ammunition.

you watched the news reports, read the comments, felt the weight of the world crushing you. your groupmates offered their support, but their words felt distant, muffled by the roar in your ears. the company’s damage control team worked overtime, trying to stem the tide of negativity. you threw yourself into work, rehearsals becoming a refuge, the music a momentary escape from the chaos outside.

karina, ever the stoic, seemed to weather the storm with a grace you envied. she addressed the situation with a calm, measured statement, emphasizing the importance of respect and understanding. you admired her strength, but also worried about the toll it was taking on her. you found solace in her presence, a shared understanding that transcended the noise.

slowly, painstakingly, the tide began to turn. some fans, initially hurt and confused, started to see the sincerity in your relationship. they realized that your happiness was ultimately what mattered. supportive comments started to outweigh the hateful ones. fan projects emerged, celebrating your love and advocating for acceptance. you and karina began to incorporate small, subtle gestures into your performances, a knowing glance, a matching bracelet, a shared smile, acknowledging your bond without being overtly performative.

you started doing small, public acts of support. like attending karina’s group performances and screaming your lungs out from the crowd. or karina appearing backstage at your concert, a bouquet of your favorite flowers in hand. these little things, these small victories, slowly chipped away at the wall of negativity. you started noticing a shift in the atmosphere at fan meets, the questions becoming less accusatory and more curious. more fans were asking about your favorite memories with karina or her favorite qualities. you and karina were both careful, never revealing too much, carefully curating your image.

over time, the initial frenzy subsided, replaced by a cautious, grudging acceptance. you and karina had proven that you could navigate the treacherous waters of the industry while staying true to yourselves and each other. you had shown that love could, in fact, conquer all, or at least, most. you felt a sense of accomplishment, a quiet pride in having weathered the storm and emerged stronger, together. you had even started to feel comfortable with some of the public displays of affection, hand–holding during award shows or subtle winks at each other during interviews.

then came the bomb.

it started subtly, a whisper in the dark corners of the internet. a blind item on a gossip site, hinting at a member of a popular girl group being seen with another female artist. you dismissed it as just another baseless rumor, another attempt to stir the pot. but then came the picture.

a grainy, blurry image, supposedly taken late at night. it showed a figure resembling karina holding hands with another woman. the woman’s face was obscured, but her build and the style of her clothing were vaguely familiar to a karina’s acquaintance. the post that came with the picture claimed the unnamed woman was a popular idol from fourth–generation girl group.

your blood ran cold. you stared at the picture, your mind racing, trying to make sense of what you were seeing. doubts, long suppressed, resurfaced with a vengeance. you tried to rationalize it away. it could be a body double. it could be photoshopped. it could be anything but what it seemed to be.

you called karina, your voice trembling. she answered on the third ring, her voice sounding strained. “hey.” she said, her tone wary.

“have you seen the picture?” you asked, skipping any pleasantries.

there was a long pause. “yes.” she said quietly.

“what is it?” you demanded, your voice rising. “tell me it’s not what it looks like.”

another pause. “it’s... complicated.” she finally said.

that was all you needed to hear. the fragile peace you had built shattered into a million pieces. all the pain, all the sacrifices, all the struggles, suddenly felt meaningless. you felt betrayed, humiliated, and utterly heartbroken.

“who is she?” you choked out, the words catching in your throat.

“it doesn’t matter.” karina said, her voice pleading. “it’s not what you think.”

“then what is it?” you screamed into the phone. “tell me what it is, karina!”

she hesitated, then began to explain, her voice a jumble of excuses and half–sruths. she claimed it was a misunderstanding, a harmless encounter blown out of proportion. she said she was just being friendly, that the other woman was going through a hard time and needed support. but her words rang hollow, and you couldn't bring yourself to believe her.

the fight that followed was a blur of accusations, tears, and recriminations. you confronted her with your fears and insecurities, the doubts that had been gnawing at you for months. she denied everything, but her eyes betrayed her. you saw the guilt, the regret, the unspoken truth that lay between you.

in the end, there was nothing left to say. the trust was broken, the foundation of your relationship crumbled. you hung up the phone, your hands shaking, your heart aching with a pain you had never known before.

the breakup was messy and public. both companies released carefully worded statements, citing “irreconcilable differences” and asking for privacy. but the media frenzy was relentless. every detail of your relationship was dissected and analyzed. you felt like you were living your worst nightmare on repeat.

you retreated into yourself, isolating yourself from friends and family. you stopped promoting with your group, unable to face the constant scrutiny and speculation. you spent days in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the events in your head, searching for answers, for some way to make sense of it all.

one day, your groupmates came to your apartment, unannounced. they sat with you in silence, offering their support without judgment. they reminded you of your strength, your talent, your resilience. they encouraged you to focus on yourself, to heal, to move on.

slowly, you started to listen. you started writing music again, pouring your pain and heartache into your lyrics; fans loved it when you participated in composing your group’s songs since you and yunjin always managed to write the best songs on the albums, whether it was something powerful like self–love and a response to criticism or something more basic and common like a lyric about love.

it wasn’t easy. there were days when you felt like you were drowning in sorrow, when the memories of Karina were too much to bear. but you kept pushing forward, one step at a time. you realized that you were stronger than you thought, that you could survive this, that you could even emerge from it a better, more resilient person.

you eventually returned to work, your voice stronger, your spirit renewed. your fans welcomed you back with open arms, their love and support unwavering. you continued to make music, to perform, to inspire. you never forgot karina, but you learned to live without her. you learned that love could be both beautiful and painful, that it could lift you up and tear you down. and you learned that even after the most devastating heartbreak, you could still find your way back to yourself.

until that day arrived.

the flashing lights assault your vision as you step onto the pristine white set. the air crackles with a controlled energy, the kind that always precedes high–profile shoots. you force a smile, the practiced one you’ve perfected over years in the industry, and greet the waiting team. they return your greeting with enthusiastic nods and bows, their faces a mixture of respect and anticipation. you’re used to this. you’re an idol, a performer, a brand. your emotions, raw and real, are secondary to the image you project.

“ready to work your magic, ms. (y/n)?” the photographer, a renowned name in the industry, asks with a charming smirk.

“always.” you reply, the word feeling hollow even to your own ears.

you move towards the rack of clothes, a carefully curated selection of prada’s latest collection. the vibrant colors and intricate designs usually excite you, fill you with inspiration for future performances and personal style choices. today, they feel like meaningless fabric, just another layer of armor you have to don.

the flash of the camera is almost blinding, but you’ve learned to navigate it. pose, smile, angle. repeat. the prada backdrop stares back at you, its stark minimalism a stark contrast to the whirlwind in your head. you force yourself to embody the spirit of the brand: sophisticated, aloof, powerful. it’s a mask you’ve perfected over the years, one that hides the raw, pulsating ache beneath your skin.

the news broke like a damn, a tidal wave of speculation and judgment. the breakup. it’s been a couple of months, but the wound feels fresh, a raw scrape constantly being rubbed with salt. the news spread like wildfire, fueled by speculation and fueled by the insatiable hunger of the public. every detail of your relationship with karina, every whispered secret and stolen glance, was dissected and analyzed. you retreated, focusing on your work, burying yourself in rehearsals and promotions. you refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing you break, of validating their opinions with your pain.

your manager had warned you about this photoshoot, mentioned karina’s involvement almost casually, as if it were just another detail in a long list of engagements. you had dismissed it then, telling yourself you could handle it. you are, after all, a professional. but now, standing in the sterile environment of the studio, the reality of facing her again hits you with full force, a wave of nausea washing over you.

you quickly change into the first outfit, a sleek, minimalist dress that clings to your curves. the stylist fusses with your hair and makeup, smoothing stray strands and applying a layer of flawless foundation. you stare back at your reflection, barely recognizing the composed, confident woman staring back. where is the girl who laughed with karina until her stomach hurt? where is the girl who could spend hours just talking about nothing?

the stylist steps back, satisfied. “perfect. you look stunning, ms. (y/n).”

“thank you.” you murmur, the words feeling like a lie.

you walk onto the set, striking a pose you've struck countless times before. the photographer calls out instructions, guiding you with meticulous precision. you move and pose, a puppet on a string, your mind a million miles away.

“excellent, (y/n)! now, let’s try something with a little more… emotion.”

emotion. that’s the last thing you want to tap into right now. you force yourself to focus on the music playing softly in the background, letting the rhythm guide your movements. you imagine yourself on stage, lost in the performance, the energy of the crowd fueling your passion.

“just a little more intensity in the eyes.” the photographer instructs, his voice echoing in the vast studio. you nod, focusing on a point just beyond the lens. Intensity. you know intensity. you feel it simmering in your chest, a potent cocktail of anger, sadness, and a terrifying vulnerability.

the shoot progresses in a blur. you change outfits, adjust your expression, and follow directions with robotic precision. each pose feels like a performance, a carefully constructed illusion designed to shield you from the prying eyes of the world.

during a brief break, your stylist offers you a bottle of water. you take a grateful sip, trying to calm the frantic rhythm of your heart. you scan the studio, a cavernous space buzzing with activity. assistants scurry, lighting technicians adjust equipment, and makeup artists touch up faces. but your eyes are drawn to one figure in particular, standing near a rack of clothes, her back to you.

karina.

even from this distance, you can recognize her. the elegant curve of her spine, the way her dark hair cascades down her back, the effortless grace that permeates her every movement. a wave of conflicting emotions washes over you: longing, resentment, and a desperate, childish urge to run.

she walks onto the set with an effortless grace that always captivated you. karina. she’s wearing a sharp, tailored suit, the fabric shimmering under the studio lights. her hair is styled in a sleek, modern cut, framing her face perfectly. she looks breathtaking, undeniably beautiful.

your heart clenches, a painful reminder of what you’ve lost.

you force yourself to breathe, to regain control. this is work. you are a professional. you can handle this.

but your carefully constructed facade begins to crumble as she turns around. her eyes meet yours, and for a fleeting moment, the world shrinks, the studio fades away, and it’s just you and her, standing in the wreckage of what used to be.

her eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the world seems to stop. there’s a flicker of something in her gaze, a mixture of sadness and… something else you can’t quite decipher. jer eyes are different, you notice. there’s a weariness there, a vulnerability that you haven’t seen before. Is she wearing the same mask as you? is she hurting too?

even though months passed, you could never stop worrying about her. first hate for dating you and then hate for her apparently cheating on you; the opinions of fans and internet users on it were varied, and with good reason. no one knew the true story, not even you knew it, you only knew the little that karina wanted you to know. however, every day you thought about how she was, if she was receiving love from her fans when her group had a new hit and extended its popularity or there were still people who hated her and attacked her for things they saw on social media — but you didn’t dare search for her name on social media, you couldn't even look at a photo of karina without wanting to turn off your phone instantly.

then, she schools her expression, a professional mask sliding into place.

“hello, (y/n).” she says, her voice cool and composed.

your throat constricts. “karina.” you manage to croak out, the sound rough and unfamiliar.

an awkward silence descends, thick and heavy with unspoken words. you want to say something, anything, to break the tension, but the words catch in your throat, trapped by a labyrinth of pain and regret.

“you look good.” she finally says, her gaze flickering over your outfit. it’s a standard compliment, the kind exchanged between acquaintances, but in this context, it feels hollow, almost cruel.

“you too.” you reply automatically, hating yourself for the banality of the exchange.

another silence stretches between you, punctuated only by the distant click of a camera shutter. you feel exposed, vulnerable, as if she can see through your carefully constructed defenses and into the mess that you’ve become.

“so,” she says, breaking the silence again, “this is... awkward, isn’t it?”

you let out a humorless chuckle. “that’s one word for it.”

“i... i wanted to say," she hesitates, her eyes searching yours. “i’m sorry. sorry for...”

the apology hangs in the air, heavy with implications. sorry for what? for the argument that ignited the firestorm? for the public scrutiny that ripped you apart? for the broken promises and shattered dreams?

“sorry for what, karina?” you ask, the words sharper than you intended.

she flinches, her eyes clouding with pain. “for everything.” she whispers.

“everything?” you repeat, a bitter taste rising in your throat. “that’s a pretty broad apology, don’t you think?”

“i know.” she says, her voice barely audible. “but i don’t know what else to say.”

“maybe you should have thought about that before you–” you stop yourself, biting back the words that threaten to spill out. before you what? before you agreed to the photoshoot? before you let the media tear us apart? before you broke my heart?

you take a deep breath, trying to regain control. this isn’t the time. this isn’t the place. you can’t afford to fall apart here, in front of everyone.

“it doesn’t matter.” you say, forcing a casual tone. “it’'s over. we both need to move on.”

she looks at you, her eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and disbelief. “is that what you really want, (y/n)?”

the question hangs in the air, a challenge, a plea. do you really want to move on? do you really want to let go of everything you shared?

the truth is, you don’t know. you’re torn between the desire to protect yourself, to build walls around your heart, and the desperate longing to reach out to her, to try to salvage something from the wreckage.

but the fear is too strong. the fear of being hurt again, of being exposed, of being vulnerable. you can't afford to let your guard down, not even for a moment.

“yes.” you say, the lie tasting like ash in your mouth. “that’s what i want.”

she nods slowly, her expression unreadable. “okay.” she says softly. “if that’s what you want.”

the moment stretches, taut and unbearable. you want to say something more, to confess your doubts, to beg her to stay. but the words remain trapped inside you, unspoken, lost in the noise of the studio.

the tension in the room is palpable. the crew shifts uneasily, their eyes darting between you and karina. the photographer clears his throat, breaking the silence.

“alright, ladies, let’s get started. we’re thinking a few shots together, a little bit of playful competition, a sense of… camaraderie.”

camaraderie? you almost laugh, a bitter sound that catches in your throat.

you and karina are positioned side–by–side, the photographer directing your poses. he wants you to look like friends, like rivals, like two powerful women supporting each other. it’s a cruel irony, a twisted caricature of what you once were.

you can feel karina’s presence beside you, a magnetic pull that you desperately try to resist. you can smell her signature perfume, a subtle blend of jasmine and vanilla, a scent that used to fill you with comfort and desire. now, it just reminds you of everything you’ve lost.

the photographer snaps away, capturing every calculated smile, every carefully choreographed movement. you’re both experts at this, masters of deception. you can project any image, any emotion, no matter how false.

but as you stand there, shoulder–to–shoulder with karina, you can’t help but feel a pang of longing. you remember the way her hand used to fit perfectly in yours, the way she would trace patterns on your skin when you were falling asleep, the way her eyes would light up when you surprised her with her favorite flower.

those memories are like shards of glass, sharp and painful. you try to push them away, to focus on the task at hand. but it’s impossible. the weight of your shared history hangs heavy in the air, suffocating you.

“okay, ladies, let’s try something a little more intimate.” the photographer says, his voice booming through the studio. “i want you two to look… close. like you’re sharing a secret.”

your stomach drops. this is it. this is the moment you break.

you glance at karina, your eyes pleading. but her expression is unreadable, her mask firmly in place.

the photographer positions you so that you’re facing each other, your bodies almost touching. he wants you to lean in, to whisper something in each other’s ear.

you hesitate, your heart pounding in your chest. you can feel karina’s breath on your face, warm and familiar.

“just relax, ladies. pretend you’re the only two people in the world.” the photographer coaxes.

the only two people in the world. that’s what it used to feel like, when you were together. the rest of the world faded away, and all that mattered was karina.

you close your eyes, taking a deep breath. you try to remember that feeling, that sense of intimacy and connection.

and then, you open your eyes.

you look at karina, really look at her. you see the sadness hidden behind her professional facade, the vulnerability she’s trying so hard to conceal.

and in that moment, you realize something. you’re not the only one who’s hurting. you’re not the only one who’s lost something.

you catch glimpses of karina throughout the day, standing in the shadows, her eyes following you with an intensity that makes your skin crawl. you try to avoid her gaze, to focus on the task at hand, but it's impossible. she’s a constant presence, a reminder of everything you’ve lost.

as the day draws to a close, you find yourself standing near the exit, waiting for your manager. you see karina approaching, her expression serious.

“(y/n),” she says, stopping in front of you. “can we talk? just for a few minutes?”

you hesitate. “i don’t know, karina. is there really anything left to say?"

“please.” she says, her voice pleading. “just give me a chance.”

you look at her, really look at her, and you see the vulnerability in her eyes, the pain that she’s been trying to hide. you see a reflection of your own broken heart.

against your better judgment, you nod. “okay.” you say. “a few minutes.”

she leads you to a quiet corner of the studio, away from the prying eyes of the crew. the air is thick with anticipation, with the weight of unspoken words.

“what do you want to talk about, karina?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

she takes a deep breath, her eyes searching yours. “i want to talk about us.” she says. “i want to talk about what happened.”

and in that moment, you know that you can’t run away anymore. you can’t hide behind the mask of indifference, the facade of strength. you have to face the truth, no matter how painful it may be.

you brace yourself, ready to confront the past, ready to confront karina, ready to confront yourself. the chaos may not be over, but maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance for something new to emerge from the wreckage. the path ahead is uncertain, but for the first time in a long time, you feel a flicker of hope.

“but not here. come with me.”

before you could form a coherent question, a protest against her abrupt departure, or even just a simple “where are we going?” karina tugged you forward. her grip was surprisingly firm, her usually playful eyes holding a glint of urgency you hadn’t seen in a long time. she navigated the throng of exquisitely dressed guests with practiced ease, a sleek black panther moving through a jungle of sequins and stilettos.

the click of the door closing behind you echoed in the small space, a definitive sound that amplified the tension crackling in the air. you found yourself trapped, not physically threatened, but emotionally cornered. karina stood between you and the cold, unforgiving wall, her gaze locked on yours. the familiar scent of her perfume, a subtle blend of jasmine and sandalwood, both comforted and disoriented you.

the air hung thick with unspoken words, with the weight of weeks of distance and carefully constructed silences. you could see the conflict raging in her eyes, the vulnerability she usually kept so carefully hidden.

“karina.” you began, your voice barely a whisper. the name felt foreign on your tongue after so long, a word you used to utter with such ease and affection. “what’s going on?”

she didn’t answer immediately. instead, she took a shallow breath, her chest rising and falling beneath the silk of her designer dress. finally, she spoke, her voice low and laced with a tremor you could feel resonate within you.

“we need to talk.” she said, the words hanging in the air like a fragile ornament.

you knew what she meant, of course. “talk” wasn’t just a conversation; it was a confrontation with the elephant that had taken up residence in the room, the elephant that had been stomping all over your relationship for weeks.

it had started subtly, almost imperceptibly. a shift in her usual radiant smile, a slight hesitation before reaching for your hand, a growing distance in her usually all–consuming gaze. then came the late nights at the studio, the canceled dates, the vague explanations. you’d tried to ignore it, to chalk it up to the pressures of her demanding career, to tell yourself that you were being paranoid.

but the whispers had started, those insidious little rumors that spread like wildfire through the interconnected world of k–pop and its surrounding entertainment industry. whispers that had finally culminated in the gut–wrenching article splashed across dispatch, the infamous gossip site known for its relentless pursuit of celebrity scandals.

the headline screamed accusations: “karina caught in romantic entanglement?” the accompanying pictures were grainy and taken from a distance, but they were undeniable. karina, laughing and holding hands with another woman, a rising starlet named yuna, after a late–night dinner.

you knew yuna. you’d met her a few times at industry events. she was talented, beautiful, and charming. and, according to dispatch, she was also the reason your relationship with karina was crumbling.

the article was a carefully constructed narrative, a tapestry woven with half–truths and suggestive speculation. it didnt explicitly accuse karina of cheating, but it didn’t have to. the implication was clear: karina was having an affair with yuna while still dating you.

the fallout had been immediate and devastating. your phone exploded with messages from concerned friends, frantic family members, and opportunistic journalists. your social media was flooded with hateful comments, accusations of being naive, and gleeful pronouncements of your impending doom.

you’d tried to talk to karina then, but she’d been elusive, distant. she’d denied the accusations outright, but her voice had lacked its usual conviction. “it’s just a misunderstanding,” she’d said, her eyes avoiding yours. “the company is handling it. don’t worry, everything will be fine.”

but everything wasn’t fine. the seed of doubt had been planted, and it had taken root, poisoning the foundation of your relationship. the dispatch article had not only exposed your personal life to the harsh glare of public scrutiny, but it had also driven a wedge between you and the woman you loved.

now, standing in this sterile dressing room, with karina so close yet feeling so far away, you finally understood. the “misunderstanding” wasn’t going to magically resolve itself. your relationship wasn’t going to survive on platitudes and empty reassurances. you needed the truth, no matter how painful.

“karina.” you said again, your voice stronger this time. “tell me what happened. tell me about yuna. tell me everything. i don’t want secrets this time, i don’t want you to hide from me the things you’re afraid to tell me because you don't know how i’ll react. i need you to tell me things as they are, no matter how harsh the truth is..”

she closed her eyes for a moment, as if gathering her strength. when she opened them, they were filled with a raw honesty that pierced through your defenses.

“it’s… complicated,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “yuna and i… we were working on a collaboration, you know, sometimes artists have group performances with members of other groups. we spent a lot of time together, late nights in the studio, brainstorming sessions… it was intense, creatively fulfilling. and… and she made me laugh. she understood the pressures i was under, the isolation of being in the public eye. she was… supportive.”

she paused, searching for the right words. “it started as friendship, a genuine connection. but… there was an undeniable attraction. something… electric between us.”

your heart clenched. you knew it was coming, but hearing the words spoken aloud was like a physical blow.

“did… did anything happen?” you asked, the question scraping against your throat.

karina looked away, her gaze fixed on some invisible point beyond your shoulder. “we kissed.” she admitted, the word barely audible. “once. maybe twice. it didn’t go further than that. i swear. it was just a moment in the moment, when we were left alone without the choreographer and backup dancers… we only kissed because we finished the night practice exhausted and at one point we just stopped talking and– there was some tension. i can’t help it, she looked very beautiful and i just had the urge to kiss her.”

the world tilted slightly. you felt a wave of nausea wash over you. just a kiss. twice. but that was enough, wasn’t it? enough to shatter the trust you had placed in her, enough to make you question everything you thought you knew about your relationship.

“and what about me?” you asked, the question laced with a bitterness you couldn't suppress. “what about us? were you just going to pretend nothing happened? Were you just going to let the company handle it, let dispatch write the narrative, and hope i would just… disappear? would you have even informed me of this if dispatch hadn't found out about all this before i did?”

tears welled in her eyes, blurring the perfectly applied eyeliner. “no!” she said, her voice cracking. “that’s not what i wanted. i was terrified. i didn’t know what to do. i was afraid of hurting you, of losing you. i still am.”

she stepped closer, reaching out to cup your face in her hands. her touch was gentle, tentative, as if she were afraid you would recoil. “i love you.” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “i do. and i’m so, so sorry. i messed up. i made a mistake. olease… tell me what i can do to fix this. tell me what i can do to earn back your trust.”

the desperation in her eyes was palpable. you saw the years of shared laughter, whispered secrets, and unwavering support reflected in her tearful gaze. u saw the vulnerability she usually kept hidden behind a carefully constructed facade.

you also saw the doubt, the fear, the uncertainty that had been eating away at your own heart for weeks. the dispatch article had been a catalyst, but the underlying issues, the unspoken anxieties, had been there all along.

you wanted to believe her. you wanted to forgive her. you wanted to erase the image of her kissing another woman from your mind. but could you? could you ever truly trust her again? you wanted to do it, but you weren’t entirely sure.

the answer, you realized, wasn’t going to come easily. it wasn’t going to be found in a sterile dressing room in the middle of a chaotic after–party. it was going to require honesty, vulnerability, and a willingness to confront the uncomfortable truths that had been lurking beneath the surface of your relationship for far too long.

“we have a lot to talk about.” you said, finally meeting her gaze. “but not here. not now. we need to go somewhere quiet, somewhere private. somewhere we can be completely honest with each other, without the pressure and the expectations of the world watching us.”

you reached for her hand, your fingers intertwining with hers. her grip was firm, reassuring.

“and karina.” you added, your voice firm but laced with a hint of hope. “if we’re going to fix this, we need to be honest about everything. no more secrets, no more half–truths. just us, facing the truth, together.”

the words hung in the air, laden with unspoken expectations and a fragile hope. the honesty in your voice seemed to give her strength. she took a shaky breath, her eyes searching yours.

“okay,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but filled with a newfound determination. “okay, let’s do that. let’s be honest. let’s fix this.’

the tension in the room was still thick, but now it was mixed with a flicker of hope. you squeezed her hand, offering silent encouragement. she looked down at your intertwined hands for a moment, a small, sad smile gracing her lips. then, she lifted her gaze back to yours, her eyes filled with a raw vulnerability that made your heart ache.

and then, she did something unexpected.

she leaned in, her eyes never leaving yours, and gently pressed her lips against yours. it wasn’t a passionate, fiery kiss like you might expect after such a confession. it was soft, tentative, a plea for forgiveness, a silent promise of honesty.

your initial reaction was one of shock. you had braced yourself for tears, for arguments, for a long and difficult conversation. but this… this was something else entirely.

but as her lips lingered on yours, a slow warmth began to spread through you. it was a familiar warmth, the warmth of her touch, the warmth of her love. it was a reminder of all the good times you had shared, of all the reasons you had fallen in love with her in the first place.

you closed your eyes, allowing yourself to sink into the kiss, to savor the delicate brush of her lips against yours. the kiss deepened slightly, her hand moving from yours to cradle the back of your neck, her fingers tangling in your hair. you responded in kind, your own hands moving to her waist, pulling her closer.

the kiss wasn’t just an apology; it was a reawakening. it was a reminder of the intense connection you shared, the unspoken language you spoke with your bodies. it was a promise of more, of deeper intimacy, of rediscovering the passion that had perhaps been overshadowed by the pressures of her career and the anxieties of public life.

as the kiss intensified, the world around you seemed to fade away. the sterile dressing room, the chaotic after–party, the prying eyes of the media – none of it mattered anymore. all that mattered was karina, her lips on yours, her body pressed against yours, her heart beating in sync with your own.

you parted slightly, gasping for breath, your foreheads touching. her eyes were dark with desire, her lips swollen from the kiss.

“i…” she started, her voice husky. “i want you. i need you to know that. yuna... it was a mistake. a stupid, awful mistake. but you, you are everything to me."

her words were like a balm to your wounded heart. you knew that there was still a long road ahead, that rebuilding trust would take time and effort. but in that moment, with her arms wrapped around you and her lips whispering promises against your skin, you knew that it was possible.

you leaned in and kissed her again, this time with more passion, more urgency. it was a kiss that spoke of forgiveness, of hope, of a future where you could both be honest and vulnerable with each other, free from the secrets and the lies.

her hands roamed your body, tracing the curves of your hips, the line of your spine. you moaned softly, the sound lost in her mouth. you felt her smile against your lips, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached her eyes.

“i missed you so much, i missed being with you so much, having your body against mine… i really missed you a lot, your absence was noticeable and every day that passed i felt it more than the last. and you have no idea how much i fantasized about you every time i missed you and needed to settle just thinking about you.”

her fingers found the hem of your skirt, gently pulling iupwards. you didn’t resist. the need to feel her, to be close to her, was overwhelming. the touch of her skin against yours sent shivers down your spine.

once you give her a nod of confirmation, karina pushes you gently but firmly against the brick wall, her hands roaming over your curves possessively. she captured your lips in a searing kiss, her tongue delving into your mouth to claim you thoroughly.

her hands slid down to grope your ass, squeezing the firm globes as she ground her hips against yours. you could feel the heat of her core even through her clothes, the evidence of her intense arousal.

karina broke the kiss to trail her lips down the column of your throat, her teeth grazing your pulse point. she sucked on your skin, nibbling the flesh between her teeth, leaving a reddish bite mark that would soon turn purple and darken a couple of shades, letting you know that it would be noticeable for a couple of days and would probably take around a week or so to fade completely — but you didn’t care about that, in fact, that was what you longed for. being back with karina felt like heaven, and you wouldn’t complain at all if she felt the need to mark you,

after all this was what you wanted: although you had missed her so much in the loving and emotional sense, you also missed her so much in the... physical and intimate sense. you were so used to her touch on your body and how good she made you feel that at the time of the breakup it was a pain having to satisfy your needs yourself, but the past is over! and now, karina is here, ready to fuck you.

she murmured huskily against your skin. “fuck, i want to devour every inch of you, (y/n). i want to taste your essence, feel you quiver and shake with pleasure as i take you to heights you’ve never experienced before… i need to make up for my absence and all my mistakes. show you how sorry i am.”

her hands slid under your skirt to caress the smooth skin of your thighs, inching higher and higher until her fingers brushed against the damp fabric of your panties. she rubbed you through the material, feeling the growing wetness that slowly wet your underwear.

karina’s voice was a low, lustful growl as she panted softly against your neck. “spread your legs for me, baby. let me feel that sweet little cunt that’s just begging to be filled. i’m going to make you come so hard, you’ll forget your own name.”

“what if someone hears us?” fear and anxiety were evident in your tone. well, of course, you were locked with your ex in a room and about to fuck at your workplace, while your stylist was probably looking for you all over the building. being found out was something you were terrified of because it put you in danger of losing your job and leaving a bad image in front of the public, and they would have the right to be so in that case! but in this case, maybe you could have fun properly and have a good time just by knowing how to be stealthy…

karina smirked wickedly at your nervously spoken words, a devilish glint in her eye. “mmmh, what if someone does hear us? wouldn’t that be so hot, having an audience listen to you scream in ecstasy as i fuck you senseless? when i say i miss you, i mean it, and i want everyone to know that. everyone knew how much i loved you and i was never afraid to make it clear, so what’s the difference now? is my love language.”

she punctuated her words by slipping a hand into your panties, her fingers finding your slick folds and stroking them teasingly. her thumb circled your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your hips buck involuntarily.

“but don’t worry, baby, no one’s going to interrupt us. everyone here is busy: the other models are on the sets in the middle of photo shoots and the staff is with them to make sure everything goes perfectly. no one will walk near here, this little hideaway is our secret spot.”

she murmured under her breath, giving you a suggestive look from under her eyelashes, along with a glint of mischief that seemed similar to that of a animal watching its prey in detail. karina brings her face closer to yours, nibbling on your earlobe, making you sigh and unconsciously move towards her touch. “besides, i want to hear you moan, to cry out my name until the whole city knows who’s making you feel this good.”

karina slid two fingers deep into your tight channel, pumping them in and out at a steady pace. her palm pressed against your clit with each thrust, stimulating the sensitive bundle of nerves until your walls fluttered around her invading digits.

“that’s it, baby, let me hear those sweet sounds. fuck, your cunt feels incredible, it’s gripping my fingers so tightly.” she praised, her voice ragged with lust. “i can’t wait to feel it squeezing my tongue, my lips, while my fingers fucking you hard and deep until you’re sobbing with pleasure.”

karina scissored her fingers inside you, stretching you open as her thumb continued its relentless assault on your throbbing clit. she could feel your juices dripping down her hand, coating her fingers with your arousal.

“come for me, love.” she urged, her voice a low, seductive purr. “let me feel you come on my fingers like the dirty girl i know you are. drench my hand in your cum, baby, show me how much you need it.”

karina could feel your body tensing, your walls clenching around her plunging fingers as your orgasm rapidly approached. she curled her digits just right, rubbing that special spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

“that’s it, baby, give in to it. let it happen.” she coaxed, her voice a low, encouraging rumble. “i want to feel you shake and tremble, want to hear those beautiful sounds falling from your lips as i make you cum so fucking hard.”

she captured your mouth in a fierce, passionate kiss, swallowing your moans and cries of ecstasy. her thumb rubbed tight circles on your clit, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion.

with a final, hard thrust and press of her thumb, she sent you hurtling over, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. your cunt clenched and spasmed around her fingers, gushing your release all over her hand and wrist.

karina groaned into the kiss, feeling your essence coat her fingers and drip down to her palm. she worked you through your climax, her fingers pumping and stroking until the last aftershock faded away.

finally, she pulled back to look at you, her eyes dark and hungry as she brought her soaked fingers to her mouth. she licked them clean, savoring your taste with a low, appreciative moan.

“i need your mouth on me.”

you don’t know where that came from. you don’t know where you got the courage to talk to karina like that without blushing in the process. not even when you were dating karina were you so daring, because you were always embarrassed when you got intimate with her, blushing at the simple fact of having to take off your clothes in front of her even though you had already done it multiple times before, leading karina to be the one who takes the situation into her own hands — but it’s not like it was something that bothered karina, on the contrary, she loved being the one who took control. maybe it was the position of leader that made her love being the one to take the lead, but karina just loves to take charge and let you lie in bed while she takes care of the situation.

karina’s eyes flashed with intense lust at your desperate plea, a wicked grin spreading across her face. she wasted no time in giving you what you needed, what you craved.

“mmmh, as you wish, my naughty little minx.” she purred, dropping to her knees before you. she hitched your skirt up around your waist, exposing your dripping panties to the cool air.

with a wicked smirk, karina leaned in and pressed her mouth against the soaked fabric, her tongue delving between your folds to lap at your essence. she groaned at the taste, her fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and tugging them down your legs.

“fuck, you’re absolutely drenched.” she murmured appreciatively, tossing your panties aside carelessly. she pushed your thighs further apart, making room for herself as she settled between your legs.

karina’s hands gripped your ass, pulling you flush against her eager mouth. she dove in, her tongue parting your glistening folds to seek out your aching clit. she circled the sensitive nub teasingly, flicking and stroking it until your hips bucked against her face.

“oh fuck yes, ride my face, baby.” karina encouraged, her voice muffled against your cunt. “grind that sweet pussy against my mouth, use me for your pleasure.”

she sealed her lips around your clit and sucked hard, her tongue flicking rapidly over the throbbing bud. at the same time, she thrust two fingers deep into your dripping channel, pumping them in and out at a steady, relentless pace.

the combination of sensations was almost too much to bear, and you could feel another orgasm building rapidly deep in your core. your walls clenched and fluttered around karina’s plunging fingers, drawing them in deeper.

karina could feel your body tensing, your thighs trembling on either side of her head as she brought you closer and closer to the edge. she doubled her efforts, sucking and licking and fucking you with wild abandon, determined to make you come undone.

karina could feel your body shaking, your thighs quivering with the force of your impending climax. she could sense that you were right on the cusp, teetering on the brink of a mind–blowing orgasm.

she pulled back just slightly, her heated gaze locking with yours. her lips and chin glistened with your juices, a few stray drops dripping down her chin. she licked her lips slowly, savoring your taste.

“come for me, babe.” she commanded, her voice low and thick with lust. “i want to feel you come all over my face, drench me in your sweet nectar. give me what i need, baby girl. give me one more.”

with that, she dove back in, her mouth latching onto your clit as she sucked hard. her fingers pumped furiously in and out of your clenching cunt, curling to rub that perfect spot inside you with each thrust.

the combination of sensations, combined with her filthy words, pushed you over the edge. your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing and shaking as you cried out your ecstasy.

“oh fuck karina–!” you screamed, not caring who might hear your cries of pleasure. your cunt clenched and spasmed around her fingers, gushing your release all over her hand and face.

karina moaned against your core as she felt your essence flooding her mouth and dripping down her chin. she greedily lapped it up, swallowing every last drop of your offering.

she worked you through your climax, her fingers and tongue never stopping their relentless assault until the last aftershock faded away. finally, she pulled back, her face a mess of your juices.

shit, you had cum on her face. you had ruined her makeup. in another context it wouldn’t have bothered you too much, but first of all, you guys were in the middle of work things, to be more specific, a photoshoot with a prestigious brand that doesn’t allow things like this during work hours and you were more than sure that your contract would be terminated and your career ruined if some worker discovered that you were fucking your ex girlfriend in one of the locker rooms — and secondly, you had just cum on your ex girlfriend’s face.

karina laughed, a deep, sultry sound that sent shivers down your spine. she swiped at her face with the back of her hand, smearing your essence across her cheek. her lipstick was smudged, her eyeliner slightly smeared, but she looked utterly debauched and gorgeous.

“don’t apologize, baby. it’s just a little makeup, it’ll wash off.” she assured you with a playful wink. “don’t worry about my makeup, baby. It's not like it's the first time I've gotten messy for a pretty girl like you, and i think the just–fucked look suits me, don't you? besides, seeing you come undone like that, so fucking sexy and uninhibited... it was totally worth it.”

she leaned in and captured your lips in a searing kiss, her tongue delving into your mouth. you could taste yourself on her lips and tongue, the musky essence of your arousal mingling with the lingering flavor of her lip gloss.

karina pulled back after a moment, a satisfied smirk playing on her kiss-swollen lips. she gestured to your skirt, still bunched up around your waist. “but don’t think we’re done yet, gorgeous. that was just the appetizer.”

“i’ve got so much more in store for you tonight. so many dirty, nasty, utterly fucking amazing things i’m going to do to this sexy body of yours…” she purred, her hand sliding possessively over the curve of your ass, squeezing the firm globes as she grinded her hips against yours. even through your skirt and her jeans, you could feel the hard, insistent press of her arousal — karina needed to let you know how much she needed you and the effect you had on her body, the type of reactions that your body generated every time it reacted to her touch and the actions that she had on your body, regardless of whether it was something minimal and mild or something more obscene and daring.

karina’s voice was a low, lustful rumble in your ear. “i’m going to take you back to my place, to my bedroom. and there, i’m going to worship this sexy body of yours all... night... long. Ii need to make up for all the lost time.”

she punctuated each word with a sharp nip to your earlobe, sending jolts of pleasure–pain racing down your spine. her hands slid under your sweater, caressing the smooth skin of your back before dipping lower to unhook your bra with deft fingers.

karina’s eyes glinted wickedly as she gazed down at you, a devilish smirk playing on her lips. “what do you say, baby? ready for the main course? we can still have one more before your stylist starts looking for you.”

[hcneymooners]

౨ৎ i am humiliated on your behalf.

a one-act ballet of desire, discipline, and dissolution.

ballet instructor!paige x ballerina!azzi. men & minors dni.

synopsis: in the ruthless crucible of an elite ballet academy, former prodigy paige bueckers is undone by newcomer azzi fudd—a maddeningly brilliant dancer whose every plié feels like a condemnation. what begins as an attempt at friendship spirals into obsession and a bruising, unforeseen intimacy.

cw: psychological manipulation, emotional sadomasochism, obsession, humiliation (verbal + emotional + erotic), self-destructive behavior, toxic/unhealthy relationship dynamics, implied masturbation, obsessive!paige, calculating!azzi, implied age gap (21/24), performance as control, power imbalances, domination/submission, sub!paige, dom!azzi, very explicit sexual content, twisted intimacy, desire as degradation, intense eye contact as warfare, slight codependence, the eroticism of someone being better than you at the sport you were once the best at.

wc: 10.8k

notes: i worked so hard on this, i feel like i spent all ten thousand words bleeding. i hope you enjoy and as always, feel free to let me know your thoughts in my inbox. i love you.

𝄞 FIRST POSITION: THE BODY IS THE SITE OF DESTRUCTION.

paige knew almost immediately that emma’s ankle would fold before the hour was out. she watched it telegraph through the tendons, the strain written in her fifth position like a premonition. she caught the signal in the torque of her knee, the half-second hesitation in her turn.

when it happened, when emma’s foot buckled mid-line and took her down with a gasp, paige didn’t move. she didn’t even flinch.

she was looking at azzi.

azzi, who caught the girl’s weight without staggering, shoulder hitching, jaw clenched, balance unbothered. azzi, whose leotard rode so high it made paige’s teeth itch.

paige should’ve given her up long ago. but frankly, azzi fudd was as dazzling as she was infuriating, and paige felt that she had found something she recognized in azzi’s spine—that tight line of refusal.

azzi fudd had blown into pavane house in the middle of switch week and moved like a scalpel through the company. this wasn’t necessarily new. many of their best dancers seemed to be summoned by the season’s need for carnage. 

switch week came twice a year, and it scoured the company clean each time. it was the final window in which casting could shift, the last gasp before roles were locked for the season. on paper, it was democratic. in practice, it was a blood sport.

for seven days, dancers were encouraged to challenge one another, to perform variations for instructors with the silent, ravenous hope of replacing a peer. it wasn’t enough to be perfect. you had to be better than the girl next to you and prove it. again. again. again.

pavane house taught artistry, but it sharpened ambition first. it did not care for you to be modest. if you hid during rehearsal, you would hide on stage, which meant that you were undeserving of having all eyes on you. it was, unfortunately, a very effective practice. it acted as an incubator for a mass hatching; there was something perversely satisfying about seeing the skin these girls shed by the end.

winter brought the most brutal switches, especially in years where swan lake or the nutcracker claimed the season. even at twenty-three, paige understood: no one outgrew the hunger to be cast as a princess.

she hadn’t been prepared for her first. three years ago, a girl named sienna had been ousted from clara midway through a friday rehearsal. instructors had known since wednesday that she would be a switch-out. 

sienna hadn’t wept. she’d walked off-stage, past the front mirror, and straight into the studio bathroom. her face had been hard as she passed the glass, her cheekbones rippling with how hard she clenched her jaw.

paige found her three minutes later, an ancient instinct urging her to go check. the leg had sat limply, shattered clean through, white bone pressed to the black-and-tile. blood so bright against that art deco flooring. 

 sienna had said nothing, even when the ambulance had been called.  paige never did ask whether it was on purpose. she’d bitten the question back.

pavan house had only asked after the girl to inquire if any lawsuits were bobbing in the water. 

however, azzi had come in the spring. and she took to it instantly. there were no nerves, no reverence. azzi danced like she’d been bred for blood.

they’d cast giselle that spring, a rare seasonal shift, chosen for its difficulty. paige remembered her entrance clear as crystal, pointe shoes milky, scuffed at the tops, and broken-in within an inch of their lives. her hair had been slicked into a perfect planet, the circle tight and dragging her face back with such severity that paige couldn’t help but wonder if it wounded her to smile. 

her leotard had been a deceptively sweet, mint green that grew cruel with her movements once she began, spined tightly along her thighs, pressing hard enough to make the small veins there pucker and press forward as if aching to crawl free.

she didn’t want the score from giselle. she danced to a remix of vivaldi’s summer ii that crawled down paige’s spine and stayed there. there was nothing modest about her. nothing cautious.

“she has no room for any other feeling,” an instructor had said after, and with that, the initial giselle had been erased, and azzi fudd had become the newest piece of flesh the other girls strived to tear apart. 

technically, paige was supposed to supervise these classes. not choreograph, not critique. only assist. her job was to offer open, pale hands when ankles rolled, count measures, and remind the newer ones how to breathe when their lungs felt crushed.

but pavane house didn't care about the lines between things. instructor. rival. witness. paige had been all of it since she'd aged out of the main company last year.

paige couldn’t help but recall the way the light had caught on the sweat at azzi’s collarbone. how she’d watched and told herself she was only noting form.

paige told herself a lot of things.

the studio offered no refuge from whatever feeling azzi fudd called from her inner recess. its walls, white as milk and just as silent, seemed to watch. lights buzzed cold and clinical from above, casting shadows sharp as a blade point. the floor, obsidian-polished, reflective, and pitiless, mirrored every fumble and fracture. you could never escape your mistake, singular or plural. 

there was no softness here. no room for weakness. only the slow, aching scrape of tendon against time. the house had been designed to feel militant. dance, a co-founder had reminded them, is war. ballet is the front line, what it is known for. in some ways, you will die twice.

she thought perhaps, with only two years between them, that they could form a camaraderie no matter how brittle it may be. she foolishly thought of them twisted together, separate from the teenagers and younger girls who watched them, twenty-three and twenty-one, and thought of them here long beyond their time. she was misguided, as she often was in the face of her desire.

azzi had long hair when she arrived. paige told her it suited her when she once saw it down, hands trembling in the large pockets of the pale lavender hoodie she always wore. azzi had looked at her, long and hard, before extending her gratitude for the compliment. 

three weeks later, that length of curls was nowhere to be found. her hair sat shorn and curling at her shoulders, just long enough for a bun.

it was then, with a leaden sickness, that paige understood how they would be.

every giselle season twisted into its shape, sculpted by the particular self-mutilation of the dancers in that year’s cast. however, it always arrived with the thick scent of rose and iris swaddled in the dense embrace of baby powder.

the first practice post-switch started as it always did: with the sharp crack of pointe shoes being broken in. the studios were flooded with them, the floors rendered partially invisible underneath a sea of pink ribbon. paige shifted through them to help locate proper sizes and thought of how most of this pink would soon be speckled red.  

the first week set her body abuzz, the girls more settled with the outcome of casting now that they understood they could only outperform in the roles that they were given. this meant that paige was being accosted with questions when the main instructors weren’t available, which left her no time to search among the willow bodies for azzi’s stark one. still, she found time and opportunity. 

despite azzi’s clear rejection of paige’s offered alliance, she found that they still ended up aligned in some ways. one of them was their penchant for coming into the house to slip into whatever studio was abandoned for a solo warm-up.

stretching the body, coaxing it into malleability, begging it to be agreeable—this all was a private conversation between skin and bone. it was wildly uncomfortable to try to do it in front of the other girls, so full of silent criticism.

paige didn’t know why she still warmed up, why she still pushed and strung her body along the path of that dilapted dream of who she used to be. she managed to delude herself into interpreting her body’s screams as singing, managed to warm her pain into pleasure as her tendons strained and her knee shuddered weakly under her weight.

she wasn’t stupid enough to jump, but she spun as long as she could until she tripped and tumbled. she did this every morning, unfolded herself into mechanism after mechanism until the sun watered her skin with weak light and her sweat was indistinguishable from her tears.

it was here that azzi first found her. they were dressed in complementary colors. 

paige had slid all six feet of her body into a tight, black leotard and slicked her blonde hair into a bun full enough to bite into. azzi was draped in a deep navy blue, the pelvic bend of her leotard as high as ever. her inner thighs called to paige, golden-brown and corded with proof of her dedication to her craft.  

she had worn leg warmers, the morning still swinging like a pendulum between the frigid touch of winter and the softer breath of summer. it was unsure of itself, as it always was during spring, which meant the girls infested the house in an odd mixture of insulating clothing that was shed by the day’s end. 

paige felt something like shame crawl along her back, and it slit her open to climb inside the more she glanced up at azzi from where she lay on the ground. azzi didn’t seem the type to strive to make the world sweeter and probably only saw paige’s body twitching with tension and pathetically forgiving under the lightest of pressure.

paige finally looked away, rolling to her side and curling her legs inward until the muscles relaxed enough to let her rise to shaky feet like a lamb.

azzi said nothing, only stepped around her to lower her bag, navy like her leotard, to sit against the seam where the mirror met the floor. paige caught the edge of her reflection there, warped slightly by the scuffed glass, and realized she was panting like a dog.

she turned her head. bit her tongue. felt it throb.

azzi began her warmup. it was so much more controlled, every motion tighter than paige’s had been and unmarred by violence. every shift deliberate, measured, and entirely internal. her back didn’t waver in its arc; her legs unrolled delicately like a chain uncoiling. she bent at the waist and let her hands dangle toward the floor, not touching it, hovering with all the grace of something dead then resurrected.

paige didn’t mean to watch. she just couldn’t help it.

azzi was stunning in motion, and maybe even more so in stillness. her expression stayed fixed—composed, cool, unreadable—as her body ran through its familiar paces. paige’s limbs felt full of splinters in comparison. she imagined the cracked gears of a clock trying desperately to keep time with a well-oiled metronome. 

analog against digital.

the silence hung like a rope around them, rigid and oppressive.

paige’s mouth grew perverted, opening and closing helplessly as if she wanted to speak but then lost all she was meant to say. it was five minutes of this cycle, then azzi was the one to break it. she didn’t look at paige as she did, at least not directly. she lowered her body to the floor, legs split at a perfect angle, twisting her torso with ease as she glanced into the mirror to address paige’s reflection.

“you warm up like you’re performing for pity,” she said flatly.

paige blinked. “excuse me?”

azzi shrugged, rolling one shoulder. “just an observation. it can be easily…misconstrued by the other girls. you don’t want to give them ammunition.”

“i—,” paige began, and azzi’s face slipped briefly into amusement. “i don’t remember asking you about any of this.”

“no?”

“no. you’re just trying to be a bitch, but politely.”

that earned her a glance, a proper twist over the shoulder. azzi’s mouth ticked, not quite a smirk, but something in that lineage. 

“no,” she said. “i’m only acknowledging you like you’ve been wanting.”

paige didn’t have anything to say to that. nothing appropriate. only a hot spike of something in her chest. she was unable to identify it as rage or mortification. maybe it was all webbed together.

her throat felt full of glass, so she stood, brushed herself off, and crossed the room as if she had a destination in mind. she didn’t. just wanted to put space between them. she felt azzi’s gaze against her spine like a palm, steady and cold.

“i meant what i said,” she heard azzi say behind her.

paige stopped walking. “what part?”

“that the girls will tear you apart if you give them something to bite. they already disrespect you during classes.”

paige turned then, slowly. “i don’t give them anything.”

azzi was back on her feet now. standing with her arms crossed, head tilted slightly, like she was trying to decipher paige’s body. she wasn’t nearly as heavily coded as she aimed to be. 

“yes, you do.” azzi sighed, arms dropping. “you reek of jealousy whenever you watch them dance. it’s understandable, but still, you must get it under control.”

paige’s hands curled, balling into fists. she felt her skin split under the half moons of her nails. 

azzi began to walk away, seemingly satisfied.

“what have i done to you?” the words shot out of her, expelled by her humiliation.

“what?” azzi’s voice was low. she stilled, spinning in an elegant half circle so that she could better see paige. 

“since you—since you’ve gotten here, you’ve treated me like i’ve done something to you. you’re always talking to the other girls, but you never talk to me. i complemented you and you told me to ‘fuck off’ in your own way. i mean, do we—have i messed up? whatever it is, i—”

azzi cut her off, her voice thin and soft. “i didn’t cut my hair because of you.”

“yes, you did,” paige snapped. “you did it almost immediately after i told you i liked it, even though the other girls said the same thing.”

azzi smiled without warmth. “that wasn’t the reason, despite what you’d like to think.”

paige scoffed. “i think that you don’t like me. that you hate me for some asinine, irrational reason that you made up in your head.”

“ooo, asinine. such big words,” azzi cooed, her voice threaded with sarcasm. 

they were toe-to-toe now, close enough that paige could smell the faintest trace of sweat and violets on her skin. azzi’s eyes were impossibly dark, their abyss of brown framed by long lashes that spidered out with an odd grace. they were thick with mascara, but unclumped. paige watched her blink once, slow and decisive.

“i don’t hate you, paige,” she said, voice incredibly even as if every cell in her body was committed to the cause. “i’d have to think about you to do that.”

paige’s cunt began to leak. once again, with an inert nausea, she understood how they would be. 

she didn’t move. didn’t speak. just stood there in that terrible, shimmering stillness, shame blooming hot and sudden behind her knees.

azzi tilted her head again. “did i say something wrong?”

paige’s jaw worked, but no sound came out. guilt began to bleed into her. out of her, too, mixing with her sticky-slippery arousal.

azzi leaned in a fraction, her tone suddenly sick and soft. her lips stretched tight against her white teeth, rose pink, the bottom one threatening to burst.

“oh,” she said, “you liked that.”

𝄞 SECOND POSITION: THE EXCHANGE OF POWER IS NOT ALWAYS SEXUAL, BUT IT IS NEVER NOT INTIMATE.

paige flinched. it was slight, only a blink, only a half-step back, but azzi saw it. of course, she saw it. she saw everything.

“i didn’t,” paige said, too fast, too rough. her voice cracked on the second syllable. “don’t flatter yourself.”

azzi’s lashes swept upward, slowly. “i’m not flattering myself. i’m observing.”

she stepped back fully now, leaving the moment behind like a peeled-off skin. the morning had tilted toward gold through the stained studio windows, and paige could see the flecks of dust catching in azzi’s silhouette.

she looked unreal. unburdened by the light, but no less hardened beneath it.

“you always this cruel?” paige asked, her voice hoarse.

azzi considered that. “only when i’m provoked.”

“i didn’t provoke you.”

azzi smiled finally, fully, and viciously. “you exist, paige.”

that shut her up. for only a second.

suddenly swallowed by strength, paige stepped forward, her fists still clenched, arms held a little too stiff at her sides. “you don’t know anything about me,” she said, low and shaking. “you think you’ve figured it all out, but you haven’t. you didn’t even see me until you walked in here this morning.”

azzi’s face didn’t change. but something behind her gaze shifted. less cruelty now, more scrutiny. like she was slicing paige open just to see what color her insides were, to see if her blood flowed with the same shakiness she danced with.

“i see you,” she murmured. “i see right through you. that’s why you’re so upset.”

paige opened her mouth. closed it again.

azzi took another step forward, so close now that the tips of their toes nearly touched. pointe against pointe. her voice, when she spoke, was quieter than ever.

“you want to be pitied,” she said. “you want to be friends, so that you have someone to lament to. you want to be like you were before. because no one has given you that yet. so you flailed in front of me, in front of all of them, hoping someone would notice how close you are to drowning. you were putting yourself on display, paige, and then you got upset when i didn’t look at you the way you wanted.”

“i am not putting myself on display,” paige said, but the words barely made it out of her mouth.

“i said you were. you stopped once i began to look at you, really look at you.”

“bullshit.”

azzi didn’t respond. she didn’t have to. 

she only looked at paige, and it was enough.

the air between them was ruinous. paige felt like she might cry or collapse, maybe even claw her skin off until she was shredded to pieces along the floor. anything to make azzi look kinder than she did, just once.

but azzi wasn’t being kind. not to paige. and she didn’t plan to be.

she clearly prided herself on strength, both personal and the kind that belonged to other people. and paige wasn’t strong. at least, not anymore.

so she did what she should’ve done. she stepped back. she turned her face, revealing her side. she didn’t run, but it felt like it.

“i have to teach the second-years in ten,” she said, her voice brittle.

azzi said nothing. she bent again, reaching for her toes, unbothered.

just as paige reached the door, she heard a final offering tossed in the barest tone of amusement:

“next time, warm up like you mean it.”

the memory lingered like heat, drawing paige’s mind to its very edges. she stared at her ceiling, naked chest heaving, her nipples pink and pebbled and bordering on red from the way she had twisted them. her legs were spread, the space between them soaked with the rush of paige’s best attempts—and total failures.

she’d gotten just close enough to cry and then fell into crying completely, forgetting the rest. her pleasure became confetti, but her body was not the party it fell on. 

she pressed the heel of her palm to her eyes until she saw color and suffocated the sobs, until her breath felt less likely to stutter out into something ugly. the ceiling above her was cracked with veins of ancient water damage, a bruised map of places she'd never go.

the room was cold now. her body, limp and shivering in the after-storm of its own refusal, looked foreign to her. shiny with sweat. pale like beached wood. spread and gutted open, and still not enough. she curled her fingers, vaguely ashamed of their familiarity with her skin, the way they knew where to press and still couldn't deliver. still couldn't make her feel anything like what azzi made her feel just by looking. just by knowing.

that was what she couldn’t let go: the way azzi so easily established how much she knew, how much she suspected about her that paige herself hadn't even dared to name. never out loud; not even in her head, really.

the problem was that paige had not known how to fill herself after her energy, after she had spun out and off the stage for the foreseeable future. the hole in her had remained empty, unfilled. her blood circulated throughout her veins with no way out. she pushed girls into position, ironed their errors out, then bit back the burn of grief as they perfected it before her, moving forward as she stayed stagnant. 

it was a plague; it was the closest she felt to being possessed by the blackest evil the world could offer.

paige bit down on the inside of her cheek until the taste bloomed bitter and metallic. her thighs slid against one another, and she flinched, chafing not from pain, but from the humiliation of her slick cooling in the air.

her failure still clung to her like dust under her breasts.

she hadn’t known she could ache like this. not from absence, but from confrontation. azzi hadn’t touched her, hadn’t kissed her, hadn’t even raised her voice, and still, paige had unraveled with all the grace of thread pulled from a hem.

she rolled onto her side and curled inward, knuckles to mouth. the breath that escaped her came out small and stunned. not a sob. not quite anything.

tomorrow, she’d have to face azzi again. she’d walk into the studio, posture just a little too straight, and pretend she hadn’t tried to get herself off to the memory of someone scolding her. she’d act like she was fine. she’d pretend she didn’t still feel azzi’s verbal lashing under her skin like rising welts.

the thing about a performance, though, was that one always knew when it was fake. especially when becoming someone else was your livelihood.

paige had never been good at being someone else.

the morning after came with no apology. pavane house was bleached within an inch of its life in the sunlight.

light crawled across the floor like it was hunting her, and paige hated how her body flinched at it, still sore, still sore about—. she dressed quickly, hands shaking as she yanked her leotard over damp skin. it was as gray and worn as she felt. her bun came out too tight, punishing.

in the mirror, her reflection looked haunted. her eyes were glassy, collarbones jutting out from under her skin. her thighs were bruised on the surface, and she hoped her self-afflictions wouldn’t seep through her tights. she pressed her palms to the barre, flexed and pointed until her tendons whined, anything to burn the memory out.

azzi arrived late. she slipped in after paige had ample time to stew, time to build scaffolding around herself just for it to be knocked clean through.

“fuck,” she muttered under her breath, her throat growing tight as she almost fell. 

no one noticed, though the room was steadfastly becoming crowded as more girls filed in. then she pushed off the barre, gathered herself into some semblance of focus, only to find azzi gazing at her with that full mouth pursed over the plastic ridge of her coffee cup.

she was quiet, bundled in a sleepy lilac sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder, curls damp and gathered at the nape of her neck. no swagger, not today. just softness, almost like an apology. her eyes flickered away and swept the room, then returned to catch paige.

she held. for too long.

paige blinked, eyes burning, and looked away. her stomach flipped. 

azzi didn’t say anything at first, only set her bag down and began stretching near the mirror, close, but not too close. respecting paige’s unspoken perimeter. but when the class began, she moved with deliberate lightness, her technique still devastating but her presence muted. there was no heat. no provocation.

paige began to loosen, turning her attention to the younger students who were stumbling through the choreography, including the dancer who, despite his youth, had been selected to play the gamekeeper. the class passed through the hands of time. too slow, too sticky, as if trekking through syrup. 

paige’s cues were uneven; some came too softly or too fast. she counted out loud even when no one needed her to. she convinced herself that someone silently found her useful. her throat dried out, but she kept going, like she could pace herself into dignity. her neck burned.

azzi didn’t misstep once. every plié was a dare. every extension of her limbs was a fucking threat.

then the pas de deux segment began.

“fudd, with me,” paige barked, voice hoarse.

azzi’s brows lifted at the use of her surname, amused, but she stepped forward, as obedient as she never truly was. their hands touched briefly in demonstration, and paige hated how her breath snagged. hated the way her ribs contracted underneath the shear of azzi’s fingertips, shaking when azzi’s arm slid behind her waist for support.

her voice was gentle, barely above the ambient breath of the studio.

“are you okay?”

paige flinched.

it was small. a twitch of her jaw. but azzi saw it. of course, she did.

“i’m fine,” paige snapped, too loud, too fast. she distanced herself from azzi as much as she good, left a perfect slice of space.“why wouldn’t i be?”

azzi paused and pressed closer, tilting her head like she was studying something under a microscope. something skittish that threatened to break from the dish. paige was that something.

“you just look…” she hesitated. “not like yourself.”

paige turned fully toward her, halting the exercise. her mouth was twisted, eyebrows drawn so tightly they could’ve snapped.

“and you know this how? despite your arrogance, you have no idea what i typically look like,” she said, venom-soft. “you talked to me once, and now you think you’ve got me mapped?”

azzi’s face didn’t change, but paige swore she saw it: some small tenderness, pulled back like a tide.

“i was just checking in on you, paige.”

“well, don’t.”

a beat. 

azzi nodded, slowly. her mouth twitched as if she’d just been handed proof of something she already suspected. she stepped away without a word, back into her space by the mirror, but her reflection wouldn’t stop looking at paige.

paige’s hands shook as she adjusted her top, lacing it into tighter form so that it would better hold her. her throat was so dry, it could’ve burst into flame.

as soon as they were allowed a break, azzi slipped out of the studio. 

she walked down the empty hall, smiling falsely at some blushing ingenue, the floorboards sighing under her steps, before she ducked into the stairwell. cool air. brick walls. no mirrors.

finally, she could think without watching herself do it. well, rethink.

paige bueckers was proving to be a collection of missteps so far. azzi may have pushed too soon. she thought of the blonde, how blue her eyes grew when she was degraded by azzi’s mouth.

she’d spent the entire class looking as though she might cry. she hadn’t, which azzi was grateful for. she would’ve been disappointed by that.  no, she’d stood stockstill and trembling, nerves too raw to name. her lips had parted, breath inflated with panic. her hands, usually precise despite her obvious desperation to be one of them, were clumsy. her limbs seemed too long for her body all of a sudden. 

like a deer that hadn’t realized it was bleeding. or a child just come into its skin.

azzi pressed her forehead against the wall and exhaled. she wasn’t upset.

this was, more or less, what she’d anticipated. paige had always struck her as the type who prized control because she had so little of it inside. the lashing out? inevitable. the defensiveness? childish. but familiar.

the truth of the matter was, paige wasn’t ready to be seen, not the way azzi saw people. she certainly hadn’t asked for it, though her actions seemed to, and maybe azzi had been unnecessarily candid in how she had exposed her: the hollowing. the spectacle of competence with no soul behind it. the ache for recognition was hidden under all that snide little bravado.

azzi swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. she truly hadn’t meant to be cruel.

no, that wasn’t right. 

she hadn’t thought she was being cruel. it had felt like truth-telling. a gift. but paige had flinched from it like one would do from a raised hand.

azzi closed her eyes.

she would have to be gentler. not weaker; she didn’t know how to do that. but softer at the edges, more inviting. 

that was the thing about dominance. it wasn’t about control, not at the core. it was about knowing when to loosen the reins so your subject reached for them on her own. so that they would turn and hand them to you, assuming that you knew what was best.

paige was toeing the line, testing the waters. azzi had to let her. 

azzi smiled, a touch too sharply. she felt her face contort, and she redrew it, settling it into something less sinister. she pushed off the wall, smoothed her sweatshirt, and left the stairwell.

she’d herd paige, leaving her with fewer, better options than to run toward her.

next time, she’d choose her words more carefully. 

because there would be a next time.

𝄞 THIRD POSITION: VIOLENCE IS A FORM OF ATTENTION.

paige began to stay late to avoid her. it did nothing. it never was going to. 

azzi pushed at every border she had, whether it be physical, mental, or emotional. even at times, spiritual. she was like an invading country, her army of thought stronger than the traditionalist holdings of paige’s own. she knew nothing of how to become one with her, of how to align themselves so that the mess of whatever was beginning to spiral did not spoil the house’s bridge to another world. 

though azzi would be the only one on stage during the show’s lineup, any distrust and discord between the cast and staff would stain it. it was inevitable. dance, especially ballet, was easily affected by even the smallest tremor of emotional turbulence. 

tell me what you are, paige wanted to scream. she didn’t. 

instead, she loitered behind the other girls until she was left alone and then stumbled gracelessly back up the stairs to her favorite studio. it was the oldest, the flooring a bit cracked, but not in a way that warranted true concern. the mirrors were streaked and abandoned after endless attempts to clean them, but paige didn’t mind. she liked that the obstruction made her unknowable, that she couldn’t see herself clearly.

she dumped her backpack on the ground and boxed herself into a dark corner as she stripped herself of her hoodie, the oversized fabric pooling into a smear of cream and camo print. she shrugged off her tights, causing a run through them. she had to pull her leotard down to get them off, and she tried her hardest to ignore the way the cool air against her chest made the guava-pink peaks of her nipples rise to attention. 

finally, she was unclothed enough. just her bare body against the white, nylon blend of her dancewear and the matching leg warmers stretched haggardly over the heels of her scuffed shoes. it was an unhealthy form of practice, but she didn’t care. she felt unmoored, so deeply outside of herself that maybe only the threat of pain would bring her back.

still facing the wall, she shoved a pocket of her bag open, scrambling for her phone and hurriedly opening it to her warm-up playlist. she urged the volume to go as high as it could go, shoulders relaxing slightly when the low wail of a cello began to flow out of the speaker. she set it on the floor and turned to walk to the center of the room, eager to begin even without stretching. 

the urge died as quickly as it had risen. she stopped.

azzi was on the floor. azzi was here. again.

she glanced idly at paige, legs bent into a butterfly shape with her hands clasped around the front of her toes. paige felt herself go bloodless, remembering her messy disassembling of her clothes in that corner. she’d been turned around; she hadn’t checked for anyone else.

her mistake.

they hadn’t talked in two weeks. the last time they had spoken was when paige had tried to do her job. 

azzi had fallen wrong. her partner didn’t catch her center, and her hip hit the sprung wood with a sound that made even the janitor outside the room pause his sweeping.

“you need to hold yourself.” paige’s voice had sliced the silence like a razor. “you’re relying on him too much.”

azzi had refused to look at her. to anyone else, it would read as embarrassment, but paige could see the way she forced herself not to do it. with her breath sharp and her jaw clenched, azzi sat crumpled still on the floor, chest rising like a sail filled with an angry breeze.

“i did hold myself,” she’d snapped. “he just—he fucking missed it.”

paige had stepped closer. she had been able to see the bruise blooming already, purple like ink spilled from a shattered pen.

“that's not the point. you should’ve compensated.”

azzi had finally looked at her then, lashes stuck together with sweat and cheeks bright from exertion, or maybe rage. there had been a slip for a moment, a look of what paige suspected was satisfaction before it was dispelled. 

“you don’t even dance anymore,” azzi said quietly. flat. deadly. “you just stand there and watch. you don’t get to talk about what it feels like.”

paige had gone cold, and the other girls in the room had hushed almost immediately. her hand was out before she could stop it. 

crack.

azzi’s face had whipped to the side, lolling lazily as she moved it back over. paige felt her jawbone creak, the clench of it so close to becoming an injury. she had fled, ducking out of pavane house and onto the main road, where she sobbed into her hands. 

she hadn’t seen azzi watching her from the window, her mouth performing a contortionist act of regret. 

now, here they were, and paige still found herself unprepared. azzi extended her legs and bent forward, grabbing the soles of her feet and pulling herself until there was an uncomfortable pop of her spine. she settled backward and then said,

“you have a lovely back.”

paige’s eye twitched.

“what?”

azzi gestured at her body, hand lazily sweeping over its line. “when you took your tights off, it peeked out. you’re stronger than you look.”

there was a cold break behind paige's ribs, a splintering like an egg against the rim of a bowl. a bone-fracture silence. then:

“you don’t get to tell me what i look like. not after what you said to me.”

azzi went still, turned her head to better canvas paige’s expression. “paige.”

“you told me that i don’t know what it feels like to dance anymore. as if i don’t know what it costs.” her voice cracked on the last word, and she felt its vibration along the tissue of her knee.

azzi stood, slow and shaking, toe taped, left ankle weak. it’s then that paige finally registered that azzi’s leotard was half undone at the back, gaping like an open wound.

“i shouldn’t have spoken to you like you didn’t.”

the admittance made paige shudder, and she pressed a hand to her face, her thumb and ring finger making deep indents into her skin. they went pale with the force of her grip. 

“why are you being nice to me?” she muttered.

azzi sighed. “because i went about you the wrong way. you’re a lot more delicate than i initially thought.”

something in paige whited out, and then it was heat. it wasn’t a proper fight or even a simple scrap, but a collision. hands at arms, forearms pressed together, azzi shoving, paige grabbing, twisting, rolling. they hit the marble floor hard, breathless, limbs locked.

paige ended up on top, elbows braced, face inches from azzi’s. her hand was rooted far into her curls, nails scratching at the scalp. streaks of dust dirtied her leotard, and the air was thick now. nothing moved. she could hear azzi’s heartbeat, a low, primal tremble between them. 

and then—

paige's mouth was at azzi's thigh. her lips, her teeth, brushed the yellowing bruises, and azzi jolted like someone pulled her out of her own body.

but it wasn’t a pain response. it was something else, a version of the same jerking paige had done fruitlessly just nights before.

paige understood she had hurt her, but her body had not moved in a way that begged for mercy. it was similar to the moment right before you start crying. not the tear, the heat behind the eyes. 

paige breathed out raggedly as she slid her hand down to confirm. she cupped her hand slightly, as if to hold water. she could feel the moist heat. 

azzi was wet.

her spine went taut, her fingers dug into paige's shoulder, and for a second, they were both frozen. paige pulled back as if she’d been burned.

azzi didn’t turn her face away, unashamed. she said nothing.

paige scrambled off of her, chest heaving. 

“s—sorry. ‘m sorry.”

azzi stayed splayed out for a moment longer, the edges of her lips arcing in pale amusement. then she sat up, reached over, and dragged a fresh pair of blood-red pointe shoes from behind her. 

“i wish you weren’t,” she said, voice rasping with its honesty. 

then she began to break the shoes in.

once paige was home, she stumbled through her apartment until she stubbed her toe and fell onto the edge of her bed. the hit speared through her, made her body a prostitute of agony for what felt like years. 

as she lay there, she felt her stomach grow warm.

she thought of the sound azzi’s shoes made when she broke them in earlier that evening.

the whip-like crack. the bone-like snap.

the flesh of them giving in, reshaping around her.

paige bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. it was dark; there was no lamp on. her hand found its way between her thighs, slipping between her swollen folds.

she thought again of the breaking, of how each pop and split echoed like cartilage cracking. how the shoe had surrendered to her foot like skin to a blade. pain never seemed to make azzi falter, only bloom.

her fingers pressed into her faster. paige ground down to better reach herself. 

when she came, it was with a sob, high and sharp and broken. the kind she used to make when she was smaller and still thought crying fixed something.

paige clutched her stomach, face buried in her pillow. the shame was imminent. she couldn’t think, mind blurred by the onset of an orgasm three weeks delayed.

somehow, through it all, she heard when her phone buzzed.

paige startled like she’d been slapped, face rising from the wet cotton skin of her pillow with a low gasp. she got up, uncaring of her cum dripping down her inner thigh and stumbled around trying to find that goddamn backpack. 

when she did, she shouldered her way through the mess of it, hand closing around the sleek, cool metal of her phone.

one new message. no words. just a video. the number was unsaved, but paige knew who it was. had seen it deliver messages in the company group chat.

paige opened it on instinct, her heart vibrating so hard that she fell to one side. the moment it began to play, she went still.

it was grainy, low light. shot from below.

azzi’s hand worked between her thighs, the camera angled to capture the brown arch of her stomach, her mouth slack and eyes lazy with pleasure.

she was moaning wantonly, breath skipping in her chest.

“paige,” azzi said in the video, breathless.

the video cut off.

paige folded over herself, hugged herself so that her fingernails dug into her back. she closed her eyes, bending forward until her forehead was against the tile of her kitchen. the video replayed in her memory.

paige.

she screamed, but kept most of the noise behind the white wall of her gritted teeth.

the world’s plot to dismantle paige bueckers was a relentless one, because not even two days after the video’s delivery, pavane house held a cast dinner to celebrate the first objectively good run-through of giselle. 

the table stretched long and dark, its wooden face draped with at least three layers of lace. there were so many candles that paige felt almost like a house on fire, the heat oppressive against her steadily pinkening face.

across from her sat another instructor and, by design, she was sure, the immovable azzi fudd.

azzi had worn a mini dress, her long legs slightly shielded by its sequined hem. the whole thing was a viscose dream, an olive green that darkened toward the end. the sequins bled into a beautiful charcoal sketch of what paige thought to be historical, domed buildings with fronds of palms drawn in between. 

old columbia, azzi had said when another dancer had asked.

paige felt shabby in her sleeveless navy blue, pleated issey miyake mockneck and the chicly baggy black slacks she’d tugged on beneath it. she hoped her insecurity wasn’t wafting off of her despite the constant stream of compliments from the other girls, many loosened by the quality alcohol.

your arms, one had gasped, and paige had smiled thinly. god, i’d kill.

thank you.

now, she swung the base of her ponytail over her other shoulder, thumbed at one of the small braids plaited in the front before tugging subconsciously the swarovski diamond hanging from her helix. 

“you have good taste.”

paige froze minutely, then slid an olive into her mouth. it was only after she spat out the seed that she made eye contact with azzi.

“i didn’t plan the dinner.”

azzi laughed. paige hated that it was beautiful.

“no, i meant your outfit.” azzi nodded her head, then pointed delicately to paige’s piercings. “and your diamonds. i always wanted a piercing, but i’m terrified of needles. i know it's better to do it that way than with a gun.”

paige nodded in agreement. ate another olive.

“i got a belly piercing, then called it quits.”

paige almost choked, the video reappearing in her mind's eye, before she swallowed down the pit with a healthy swig of white wine.

“that’s…nice,” paige finally settled on, and azzi’s smile grew wider. 

paige resisted the urge to place her head in her hands.

instead, she stared down the table and fixed her eyes upon a girl eating voraciously, practically shoveling forkfuls of smoked salmon into her mouth. paige had heard the other dancers whispering, their cutting remarks about their envy over how she refused to deny herself the pleasure of a good meal and still maintained her weight.

paige had once heard the same girl retching from the hallway of the house, on her way out after a rare early end. 

her fork scraped porcelain. her appetite had vanished. she felt the lining of her throat burn as more salmon was swallowed. 

 by the time the table began to dissolve, first in laughter, then in movement, paige’s face was warm enough to sizzle. she was probably red. her skin prickled beneath the wine, the flames, the way azzi had stopped speaking but kept an eye on her as if threatening to expose her. 

someone else reached for the bottle beside her. paige barely registered the clink of glass until it was refilled again by a set of unringed fingers.

after a while, she noticed the number of bodies thinning. she turned and saw that azzi was saying goodnight to the others: hugging the senior ballerina beside her, kissing someone’s cheek. the sequins on her dress caught every flicker of candlelight, making her look like a small empire walking.

paige went to leave, too. this would be a good opportunity to disappear without azzi attempting to follow. she didn’t need to linger. she stood, ignoring the call of her name and the note that she hadn’t finished her glass.

“you walking?” azzi’s voice caught her at the coat rack, gentle. lighter than it had been all evening.

“yeah,” paige muttered. she reached for her jacket. her hand was trembling.

azzi didn’t wait for permission. she stepped up to paige’s side like she’d been invited. paige didn’t stop her. she didn’t know if she could.

they walked in silence at first. the wind had teeth tonight, nipping at the space between paige’s blazer and her shoulder blades. she kept her hands in her pockets. azzi didn’t.

for a while, paige tried not to notice the shift, the way azzi steered them gently left when they should’ve gone right. the familiar landmarks of her walk home were missing. or rather, replaced. something in her gut clenched, but not hard enough to make her stop. not yet.

they kept walking, paige testing azzi’s countenance by opposing her natural direction. when azzi pulled left, paige chose the next right ahead. she tried to veer them back along the path to her apartment, but azzi kept pace easily. paige’s throat began to tighten, and she raised a hand to tug anxiously at the ends of her ponytail. 

it was only when they turned onto a narrower street, one squeezed with tall brick sides and no street lamps, that paige finally stopped walking. her voice felt like a thing she had to wrench up from her chest, some body she was unearthing from the grave.

“you shouldn’t have sent that.”

azzi didn’t pretend not to know what she meant, though her hands flexed almost imperceptibly. she just tilted her head, eyes vast and endless in the dark. “i wanted you to see it.”

paige almost laughed. her throat was too tight for it. “you wanted me to watch it. to be humiliated.”

“yes,” azzi said. “but you didn’t have to finish it, or rewatch it.”

it was a vague guess, but the shame flooded in like a returning tide. paige wanted to sink her teeth into the vein at azzi’s neck. instead, she looked away.

“you’re not taking me home,” she said after a moment, quietly. less accusation than confession. “this isn’t my street.”

azzi didn’t respond right away. her heels clicked softly against the pavement. she stopped walking when they reached a building paige didn’t recognize by name, but one she must have passed a dozen times before. the light over the entryway was gold and low. a warm bruise against the cold.

“no,” azzi said at last. “it isn’t.”

she stood along the top step, mouth parting. paige thought of a lotus blooming.

“i don’t think you really wanted to go.”

paige didn’t move. azzi didn’t touch her. 

she just turned, keyed in the door, and slipped inside.

a beat passed.

then paige followed.

 𝄞 FOURTH POSITION: THE BODY KNOWS WHAT THE MIND CANNOT SAY.

the door clicked shut behind her, and paige stepped into warmth.

dark wood gleamed beneath her sneakers, and the further she moved inside, the more rugs softened every footfall. the walls were painted something nearly black, maybe green or oxblood or plum, impossible to pin down in the bleeding light from shaded sconces and candles already lit.

azzi’s home was decadent, something paige knew to be intentional. she closed her eyes, toeing off her shoes and pulling her hair loose as violet and a mature vanilla seeped into her. her head felt heavy, her mind dizzy, and she found that she was much more tired than she realized.

she crawled forward, taking azzi’s world in. 

a velvet settee was crouched beneath the window like a sleeping animal. a tray sat on the ottoman with figs and some half-melted chocolate truffles, abandoned like someone had simply forgotten to care that they’d been indulging.

the apartment was unapologetically lush. highly lived in. it made paige feel like a plastic bead in a high-end jewelry box. out of place and not built to last.

azzi moved with easy ownership, pulling her heels off by the door and padding barefoot toward the kitchen. she poured herself a glass of water but didn’t offer one. paige wasn’t sure if that made her feel dismissed or desired.

she still hadn’t spoken. she was watching. waiting.

paige was halfway to saying something brittle, something stupid like “nice place”, when azzi broke the silence.

“you always act like we have more time,” she said, voice low. “we don’t.”

paige furrowed her brow and opened her mouth. closed it.

“you’re wasting this,” azzi continued, stepping forward. she abstained from touching paige, but came close enough that paige could feel the warmth of her body. “all this shame. all this pretending you don’t want me.”

paige’s jaw tightened. she blinked. her chest rose sharply. “you think i—”

“i understand you,” azzi said.

and that—that was worse.

because it wasn’t a guess. it wasn’t a reach. it was soft. it was true.

paige looked at her. another tense twenty seconds fell away, and then paige’s face crumpled and her body shattered like glass.

“i need you to touch me,” she cried, and azzi’s face almost mutilated itself with satisfaction.

“i know.”

azzi kissed her.

her mouth was soft but assured, coaxing rather than claiming. paige let her. then paige gave.

her jaw slackened, and the rest of her followed like a marionette whose strings had been loosened. she stumbled forward into azzi’s heat, catching herself on azzi’s waist with both hands as though some part of her had forgotten how to stand.

azzi made a small sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, low in her throat, and it broke paige open further. because the sound was grateful.

azzi kissed her again, deeper this time, her teeth catching purposefully on paige’s bottom lip. paige whimpered, giving azzi just enough space to slip her tongue in and lap around the cavern of her mouth. her hands slid to azzi’s hips, her grip tightening as if she needed to anchor herself there or drown.

she wasn’t even sure when she’d begun to cry.

azzi noticed. of course, she noticed. she broke the kiss, a string of saliva stretching and splitting between them, and pressed her forehead to paige’s.

“look at you,” azzi whispered, stroking her fingers just beneath paige’s jaw. “all that hardness. gone.”

paige shook her head. her lips were red, parted, wet. “i don’t know how to do this.”

“i do,” azzi said. 

she leaned back in, kissed the corner of paige’s mouth, her cheek, the salt trail on her skin. her hands moved downward, worked at the button on paige’s slacks. she was so methodical, as if she were redrawing paige from the outside in.

her hand found paige’s cunt, stroking it through the cotton of her boyshorts until she could practically feel a heartbeat. paige kept gasping, her voice giving out the closer it came to revealing the truth of how she felt. azzi paid her no mind, grinding the heel of her palm against her until she felt paige’s pussy drool through the fabric and onto her hand.

she pulled back with a hum of pleasure, recanted her touch, and tugged paige forward. her touch was harder now, more difficult. paige moaned wetly as azzi grasped the base of her neck, then slid a hand up and experimentally tugged a handful of white-gold hair. 

azzi watched her, catalogued her every reaction as if she were a scientist collecting data. there was a moment where paige stood painting, pupils blown wide, before azzi moved. she dragged paige, tender but unyielding, until she could arrange her on the couch.

she forced paige down, tugged her blouse over her head to reveal the strapless, navy lace bra that was a touch too small. her tits threatened to spill, pale and smooth like the moon caught by human hands. azzi reached behind her, flooded her lungs with that dark violet spray, and snapped the clasp open.

paige’s chest expanded as she let out a breath, her tits heaving right into azzi’s open hand. azzi thumbed at the nipple, rolling it until paige twitched and tried to spread her legs. her cunt was hot, pink and drizzling and winking and azzi did nothing to quench its thirst.

instead, her mouth parted, and her teeth peeked out as she watched paige writhe. then she dropped her hand, standing overly still before raising it and bringing it down experimentally. the slap caught across her full chest like a lit match, making paige squeal. 

she keened, eager for more. 

azzi smiled crookedly and didn’t slap her again. 

“look at you,” she murmured. “you acted like you were so above this. but your legs are shaking.”

paige didn’t respond. couldn't. her breath caught in her throat.

she wasn’t even fully undressed, her pants shoved halfway down, the fabric twisted tight under the curve of her ass. her spine was pressed against the back of azzi’s couch, knees parted because she made her, and azzi was standing above her with a hand in her hair, and paige’s want by its neck. 

the hand came loose, and then paige was watching as azzi knelt. 

“you rewatched that video. i know you did. did you finish?”

“i, um,” paige swallowed, blinking to try to clear the haze from her mind. “i couldn’t, but i—but i kept trying.” 

“mmm,” azzi said. she took two fingers and slid them underneath the seam of paige’s underwear, tucked them inside the hot pink of paige’s weeping cunt. “i think that you’re so disconnected from how your body is now that you keep hoping it will be something else when you do touch it. probably why you couldn’t get yourself to cum.” 

paige clutched the edge of the sofa, nails dragging harshly across its material as azzi began to fuck her. she tried to spread herself further, but her pants prevented her from doing it successfully. “azzi, please.”

“girls like you always think they know everything. even about their own bodies.” azzi said. her fingers are soaking wet already, paige’s arousal spinning down her wrist like cream-colored rain. the duo moved slowly, dragging out shame. “you can never just enjoy it. there’s always a problem somewhere.”

paige gasped, tried to close her legs now, but azzi wouldn’t let her. the girl didn’t even tense. just braced one hand against paige’s inner thigh, gentle, firm, unmovable. she was terrifyingly strong. still in her dress, hair pinned back. she fucked and fucked and fucked paige, breath quickening the more paige struggled in place.

finally, paige came for the first time and azzi abused her clit as the blonde arched backward with a small scream. the bend of her neck was so pale, so open and unprotected. azzi thought of digging in her teeth.

she leaned back, sliding her fingers out with an obscene 'schleck.' it was then that she looked at paige, her brown eyes almost black with greed. carefully, she moved her fingers upward until they were dangling above her mouth. then, she parted them so that paige’s cum could spin frothy and sticky between them, like spider’s silk.

azzi dipped them into her mouth, practically scraping the back of her throat with her nails as she sucked every inch of cum off of them. she gagged, eyes watering and then overflowing, but didn’t stop until she felt her fingers were clean. she pulled them out with a soft ‘pop’ and then reached forward again to tug at one of paige’s nipples.

then she slid downward and fucked her fingers back in again.

“please,” paige choked out.

“please, what?” azzi didn’t stop moving, kept her eyes on the hungry suck of paige’s gummy pussy. she continued to work her fingers with calculated cruelty, curling just right, pressing that awful, perfect spot.

paige was weeping now. there wasn’t a single shred of sadness in her body, only heat. she had never been one for overstimulation, but she found that she felt different now. maybe she was one for azzi.

 she could’ve cum alone from the unbearable humiliation of how her hips are bucking into it, how her body was clawing toward something she’d swore she didn’t want.

“naked, weeping, and covered in your own cum and you can’t even tell me what you want. your problem,” azzi said, soft and final, “is that you don’t know yourself, paige.”

and then it happened. 

a strike like lightning. a candle wax spill of shame. paige screamed. the sound ripped out of her throat, raw and panicked, and then her body surged, gushed; everything wet, wrecked, and helpless.

her vision blacked out. she clawed at the armrest, at herself. her legs snapped shut around azzi’s hand, but azzi didn't flinch. she barely moved.

when it was over, paige was sobbing. quiet, hiccuping pulses of emotion.

azzi leaned back on her heels; wiped her hand on paige’s stomach. said nothing.

she didn’t need to. she continued to be proven right.

paige was still twitching when azzi finally moved again. not away, but closer. her fingers were still slick and dripping, her breath easy and irritatingly composed. and then, without question or warning, she leaned in.

paige flinched, her realization too late. azzi’s mouth was on her, tongue soft and focused, lapping up what was left of her like a wolf finishing a kill. still so methodical.

it sent paige reeling.

“oh, unh, fuck—” her voice cracked, went high. “no, no, no—fuck—”

she tried to twist away, kicking her way out of both her slacks and underwear, heel catching on the back of the couch, one arm scrambling for leverage like she might climb out of her skin. her hair stuck to her cheeks, sweat streaking down like tears.

but azzi only grabbed her, sighing as if struck with immeasurable disappointment.

her grip wasn't brutal, but it was sure. two hands clutched, one on paige’s hip and the other wrapped firmly around the back of her thigh, and pulled her back down like she weighed nothing.

paige cried out, hand gripping her own throat as she shook.

“fuuuuck. oh, god, please. please,” her voice was dissolving. her legs were trembling. her fingers were grasping now, trying to hold onto something.

and azzi. well, azzi adjusted. mouth still suckling, but slower now, tender in a way that felt just on the border of cruel. then above it all: a name.

whispered. almost sweet.

“i know, baby.”

just that.

it leveled paige.

she whined, hips rocking uncontrollably, a low, ugly moan bubbling out of her chest as her nails dug into the armrest, into her thigh, into anything. she slumped, uninterested in fighting any longer. she only wanted to beg, to plead, and she didn’t even know for what.

azzi continued. this was the lesson.

not the fingering, not the overstimulation, not the squirting. not even the avid sobbing.

it had been this the entire time: paige bueckers could be held down by none other than herself. she needed to be.

so, azzi didn’t stop. she didn’t even pause. she only spread paige apart, drew her wide enough to embarrass her before leaning in and licking a hot strip up the hill of her pussy, slow now, so slow, like she was coaxing something out of the dirt. her hands stroked up and down paige’s thighs, never soothing. claiming.

“can’t believe you’re still so sensitive,” she murmured, almost amused. “you liked that too much, huh?”

paige couldn’t answer. she was soundless. her eyes were wild, wet and wide and unfocused, mouth open in some half-formed word—maybe please, fuck, maybe something new and undiscovered.

her hands flailed, then clutched at azzi’s shoulders, her hair, the edge of the couch, anything to keep her grounded. but she was already falling again, spiraling back into that helpless ache.

“i can’t,” she moaned, but her hips betrayed her, rocking up into azzi’s mouth like she needed it, like she'd die without it. “i can’t, i can’t, i—”

“shh,” azzi breathed against her, flicking the point of her tongue around paige’s swollen clit. “yes, you can, baby. you want to.”

she leaned in more, properly smothering her face into paige’s tight cunt. with one hand she held down her stomach, and with the other she spread the folds of paige’s pussy until that ball of nerves was isolated.

azzi put her teeth around it. she bit down, quick and cautious. the pain was sweet.

that was what did it.

something snapped. paige screamed again, not sharply this time, but hoarse, her whole body tensing so hard it bowed off the couch. her legs kicked, twitched, her hands fisting behind azzi’s neck, and she came.

it was harder than before, wetter, louder, her voice a ragged, desperate sob.

“fuck. fuck, shit—” her throat went raw with it.

she couldn’t stop shaking. she was making only noises now, small, broken ones as if she’d forgotten what language was. her whole body was flushed and red, stretched past its limit, her chest heaving like she’d run miles.

and azzi?

azzi looked beatific.

her face was slick with paige’s pleasure, her hands still holding her open, steady. her eyes were still so dark, but her smile was soft. pleased. she looked high as paige felt, high off control and victory. off the confirmation of who paige really was.

she leaned up, finally, finally, and kissed paige’s thigh. a little reverent, a lot smug. then her cheek, near the bone. then her lips. 

it wasn’t demanding, only an intimate deposit of affection. as if to say: this is what you are now.

paige whimpered and reached out.

azzi came to her. 

“atta girl,” she whispered.

the words hit her like a needle to the blood. paige pressed her thighs together and let herself drift out.

 𝄞 FIFTH POSITION: WE LOVE ONLY THE PERSON WE CAN EAT.

backstage was stained dim and golden, oppressed by light that smudged its edges, softening the world into interchangeable silhouettes. everyone here was about to become someone else.

paige closed her eyes and listened to the rustle of tulle, the distant tuning of strings. the faint chemical sweetness of hairspray and powdered resin floated in the air like incense.

she sat on the chaise near the mirror, blazer unbuttoned, sleeves pushed to her elbows. she looked strange in her body, leaning to the side woozily as if unburdened. it was as if something had been scraped from her ribs in the past few months, and now this was her aftermath to carry as a secret. her hair was pulled back clean, stolen away from the sharp peaks of her face, her lips still bitten pink from where azzi had kissed her in the stairwell minutes before.

her thigh grazed azzi’s when she crossed her legs. she was too close to the vanity, but azzi didn’t move away.

“i think about you constantly,” paige said. her voice was quiet, dry, but not dishonest.

azzi didn’t look at her right away. she was adjusting her bodice in the mirror, slow and sure, the glittering edge of her costume catching the light with each shift. her mouth curved. not surprised.

she raised her gaze, met her eyes through the mirror.

“i know,” she said simply. 

she rose and stepped closer—not to paige, but toward the stage.

silence settled across it.  paige’s knee twitched, and for a moment, she thought she could hear it calling her name.

the hush beyond the wings coaxed every girl onto their feet, a firing squad of white tulle and pink.

the overture was beginning.

© hcneymooners.

[lay-z]

I'm in a ✨️ mood ✨️ This is for you @bloodytalefeathers :)

Synopsis: When life gets rough, you forget about your "soft era", and tend to fall back into your toxic traits and coping mechanisms; feigning toughness and hyper-independence until you can crumble and break comfortably behind closed doors. Only nowadays, your loving boyfriend can read the signs and intervene before things can get out of hand.

Pairing: Keegan P. Russ x fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: MDNI 18+ | established romantic relationship; soft!dom!Keegan; lots of comfort; some angst; tw: eating disorder; FLUFF; dirty talk/cussing; fingering; squirting; overstimulation; two idiots in love

Keegan smirks to himself when the sound of you dropping your keys at the front door reaches his trained ears, followed by the door slamming shut, your exasperated sigh and grumbled curses.

There is no malice behind his quiet snicker; he's simply happy that you're finally home, and he can’t see you yet, but he can already pick up on the mood you’re in by simply listening.

He can easily hear it in the pitch of your voice, which cuss words you're using and the way you stomp your feet as you walk.

And he watches wordlessly from his spot on the couch, PS5 controller in hand and an ice-cold beer on the coffee table, as you drag yourself across the open spaced living room, uttering a half-assed "Hey, baby." to him before disappearing down the other hallway towards your shared bedroom ‒ barely sparing him a glance nor telling him to use a coaster under the bottle for the umpteenth time, like you usually would. 

The former Marine is almost offended by the lack of attention from you; always craving it like the good ol' devil dog he is, though he lets you get away with it ‒ for now, at least. 

His dark brows furrow, eyes flickering down at the table before he grabs one of said coasters anyway, the one with the comic ghost print, just to be safe the next time you come by the living room. Surely, you'll ask him about his day on duty soon, like you always do, and then he'll ask you about yours, working at the office at HQ here on base, and you'll tell him all about it while you curl up next to him on the couch before watching him play for a while.

You don't come back, though.

And when Keegan finally glances at his watch, it's been way over an hour since you came home from work, and he's starting to get suspicious. Hesh, Logan, and Kick keep yapping in the PS party, talking shit over their respective headsets as they play, though their voices merely become background noise to Keegan as his attention begins to shift to more important matters. 

Namely, you. 

Where are his kisses? Why haven't you bitten him randomly yet? Are you mad at him for being away most of the week without proper communication? You're not on your period; he has memorized your cycle by now. Are you pissed off, because he's playing video games right now? But you've never complained about that before, you're a gamer yourself after all, and if there is something that pisses you off, you’d let him now. 

His mind begins to wander and spiral, as it does sometimes when he's getting unsure of something (especially when it comes to you), and before things can escalate, he mentally chides himself and bids a hasty goodbye to his friends and teammates, and before they can even start to protest his early departure, he’s turning off the console. 

Something is obviously up with his sweetheart and he's more than determined to figure out what it is. 

Meanwhile, you’re inside the ensuite bathroom of the master bedroom. You’ve finally stripped off your tight pencil skirt that has been pushing into your stomach uncomfortably, and the confining blouse that has been tucked into the waistband, along with it. The pair of tights which seam has been chafing between your inner thighs all day, finally comes to rest in the small trash bin next to the bathroom sink, and same goes for the bra which wire has been digging into your flesh after breaking through the fabric, leaving your skin all sore and tender below your breasts. 

You’ve barely slept all week, barely eaten anything too, except drinking copious amounts of coffee; work has kicked your ass thoroughly and the death of one of the operators – a young, good man KIA – from a task force you’ve been working closely with for the past months, has left you in a state of shock that you didn’t even have the chance to deal with properly yet. 

Needless to say, your life has been a proper shit show and on top of it all, Keegan has been just as busy, if not busier, which has left you feeling even more needy and vulnerable this week. Seeing him finally being able to unwind on the couch when you came home, only made you realize that you can’t possibly bother him with your pathetic clinginess tonight, so you simply kept on walking, determined to hide your misery for a little while longer. 

Just a little longer. That’s what you keep telling yourself. Just a little longer and things will surely get better. Even though you’re not actively doing anything to make it better, no. In fact, you’ve been slipping back into old habits, toxic coping mechanisms, that either hurt your body or your soul. Sometimes both. It’s not good, but it is what it is. 

It has worked out in the past. That’s good enough to you. It must be. 

Eventually, you manage to step into the shower to try and get rid of some tension in your body and that nagging, piercing headache in the front of your skull that’s been bothering you for days now, though to little avail. It’s still there after the steaming shower you take, but it has somehow simmered down to a dull throb now as you towel off and slip on one of Keegan’s old USMC shirts along with a clean pair of cotton panties. 

Just when Keegan is about to get up from the couch to look for you, his ears pick up the sound of your bare feet coming down the hallway, cutely padding along the hardwood floor. 

His chest constricts tightly, fluttering with sweltering affection, when you finally come into view again, wearing one of his old shirts, the dark fabric a bit too baggy on you, with nothing but some panties underneath. He can see that you’re not wearing a bra and he tries to ignore the way his cock twitches with interest inside his boxer briefs to focus on your well-being instead, but – shit – you always look too good in his clothes to not acknowledge and appreciate it at least briefly. 

However, the look you shoot in his direction, standing a few feet away from him, shuffling on the spot a little as you play with the hem of his your shirt, is downright heartbreaking to him. 

You look like a tiny, lost and drenched kitten that has been left outside in the freezing cold. It reminds him of the beginning of your relationship, when he had worked hard for your trust and honesty. Back when he had to coax you to open up to him; cooing and coddling and pampering you until you felt safe and comfortable enough to let yourself be vulnerable in his presence. 

Now, though, now Keegan can read you better than the palm of his own hand. One good glance at your beautiful face and he knows that you’re not okay, if not physically then mentally, and he suddenly feels his stomach tighten with guilt and self-loathing for not noticing it sooner. 

The corners of your mouth are pulling downward with a quivering bottom lip, chin wobbling as you try to keep your emotions in check in front of him like the little control freak you are, eyes glossy and bright and your eyebrows pinched in a sad frown. 

Keegan knows the answer, but he decides to ask anyway. “You okay there?” 

As soon as your eyes meet his pretty pale blue gaze, you see his usually stoic expression soften, his toned body shifting as he sits up straighter on the couch, and you can feel your throat tighten as you try to swallow around the tight lump forming in it. When his question registers, you shake your head slowly, huffing a small breath through your nose as the dam, still holding back the myriads of negative emotions, finally begins to crack under the ongoing pressure. 

Keegan feels an immediate need to pull you into his arms as soon as he watches you shaking your head. He wants to make you curl up on his lap and let him take care of you the way you obviously need him to, but he stays seated as one of his legs starts bouncing restlessly, waiting on you to make the first move once you’re ready. 

His resolve doesn’t last long, though. 

“C’mere, baby.” He orders then, holding out his arms to beckon you over as soon as he sees a tear brim past your waterline and run down your cheek. At this point, he’s more than ready to simply snatch you up if you don’t comply. 

But then, your bare feet pad over the floor again as you swiftly approach, rounding the coffee table to practically fling yourself into his strong, welcoming arms, making him huff out a muffled oof! as he sinks deeper into the couch cushions with the impact of your added weight. 

Keegan’s hands settle on your hips as you crawl onto his lap, straddling him. Your weak arms come up to wrap around his neck while you bury and hide your face against the curve of his shoulder, and Keegan lets out a soft, pleased rumble when you cling on to him. His respond is immediate, and he wraps his strong arms around your midriff, hugging you even closer to his body.  

“I missed you,” he murmurs against your damp hair, inhaling your comforting scent deeply as he slowly rubs your back with his right hand while the left strokes up and down the side of your bare thigh soothingly. “Why are you shaking, sweetheart? What happened? C’mon, talk to me, please.” 

Keegan can feel your tears soak through his shirt as you bury your face deeper into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and when the sound of your suppressed sobs and snivels reaches his ears, there’s a sharp sting in his chest before his own vision nearly blurs with tears, too. 

Missed you. He missed you. God, you’d missed him, too, but then again, Keegan can sit right next to you, and you’d miss him. 

“I–I can’t–I just... I need you.” You manage to croak out while your fingers twist and stretch the fabric of his shirt on your fists, desperate to keep him close, scared he might disappear if you loosen your grasp. 

“Need me,” Keegan repeats in a rough whisper while his mind races, trying to come up with the right way to handle this. Need me. Fuck, but he needs you, too. “How exactly do you need me?” He asks eventually, left hand coming up to gently massage the nape of your neck until you let him tilt your head back enough to catch another glimpse of your face. 

Your eyes are red-rimmed, glossy, pupils blown and surrounded by broken blood vessels. Your lips look dry, your skin lacking your natural glow, and a sinking feeling settles deep in his gut as he realizes how sickly you look. Neglected. Weak. How did he not notice sooner? 

His fingers tighten their hold, his thumb pressing deeper into your neck to check your fluttering pulse, making sure you’re still with him, still alive. “Sweetheart–” 

He watches your eyes flutter, blinking away tears as you exhale a shuddering breath. “Please,” you rasp softly, swallowing thickly as you gather all your courage to speak your next words, even though your mind, those damn insecurities, are cursing at you not to, “–just kiss me.” 

His breathing picks up, along with his heartrate. You can practically watch his pupils dilate at once, pale blue turning a dark shade of grey while his blood rushes south almost instantly at the desperate sound of your voice. And that you can feel, too. The way his cock begins to stir and harden underneath you between your spread thighs while his fingers continue to massage the nape of your neck, slowly managing to get you to relax, like a kitten being scruffed into submission. 

The only warning is an imperceptible nod, a quick swipe of his tongue over his bottom lip while his arm around your midriff tightens, before Keegan surges forward to capture your mouth in a deep, passionate kiss. 

You're not quite sure how much time has passed at this point, but some random movie is still playing on TV, illuminating the living room this late in the evening, while you've been reduced to a quaking, panting, shivering mess, still seated on Keegan's lap. 

He’s stripped you bare, switched your position to have your back flush against his chest before coaxing four orgasms from you with practiced ease. Then again, pushing you over the edge quickly has never been a challenge for Keegan, quite the opposite.  

Now, your mind has shut off; your body finally pliant and lax after stopping your initial protest to let Keegan do this, give this, to you. You’ve asked for it, after all, and now your headache is practically gone, and you feel blissfully warm, safe, and soft in his embrace.  

With your thighs nicely spread apart and draped over his knees, Keegan keeps alternating between rubbing your puffy little clit and pumping two, sometimes three thick fingers into your sopping cunt, curling them deliciously while he toys and gropes your tender breasts with his free hand, rolling and pinching your hard nipples between calloused fingertips until you can’t do anything but mewl and squirm helplessly in his grip.  

His cock is aching; throbbing and straining inside his boxer briefs as your sweet ass keeps grinding against his bulge involuntarily, but he's locked in on your pleasure above all right now. 

"Are you feeling any better yet, hm? I'm gonna take care of you all night long, my love. Y'know I will." 

"Always such a good fuckin’ girl f’me. Makin’ quite the mess here, hm? Not messy enough, though." He murmurs hotly just below your ear, the proud smirk audible in his voice before he nips at your flushed skin and feels your pussy clench around his fingers; soaking his whole hand, dripping down onto his sweatpants and the dark leather couch.

"Don't you think that I can't tell ya didn't take good care of yourself these past few days," he mutters accusingly before giving your pussy a few gentle slaps with his flat palm, eliciting a high-pitched moan from you; the obscene, wet sounds and your uncharacteristic moan making your face heat up profoundly. "Dehydration is pretty dangerous, baby, and I know you didn't drink nearly enough water."

Of course, the little shit can tell, but you're close again already, so the realization gets pushed into the back of your mind, because Keegan is thrilled to coax more of those sweet sounds from your lips. 

You nod slowly, borderline non-committedly. “Mhmm,” you hum with your eyes half-lidded, nails digging deeper into his clothed, thick thighs for leverage; some way to keep you anchored to reality as he rubs your clit in tight circles, coaxing you towards the edge again.

“Promise that you’ll stop hiding from me when you’re feeling like this,” he demands roughly, lips lightly brushing over the side of your neck as he speaks before he licks his flat tongue over your pulse point. 

“Promise me. Say it.” He growls this time, teeth grazing the curve of your shoulder as his hot breath pants over your skin, pruned fingers still not stopping their ministrations as you buck your hips with a whine, trying to squirm away on his lap.

You try to keep your noises at bay, but the added sensation of his warm tongue on your sensitive skin makes you shudder, and before you know it, you’re climaxing again; squeezing your eyes shut and gritting your teeth, chest heaving with panting breaths while your cunt clenches around nothing and your whole body twitches and writhes while another wave of pleasure wrecks through your body, though only the tiniest bit of wetness squirts and dribbles over his calloused hand this time.

Yes, you might be dehydrated, indeed.

“F-Fuck–I ah pr-omise, sir!” You cry out, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes once more, though this time it’s the overwhelming pleasure and stimulation bringing you to tears, along with the way your man is currently taking care of you. 

And you could swear you can feel his cock swell even harder against your rear when you call him 'sir'.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he coos huskily, peppering kisses between your shoulder blades and up to your nape as he kneads and gropes your trembling thighs, finally giving you a break. “You’re mine, I love you, and I need you to let me look after you, ya hear me?” 

Your head lolls back, resting against his shoulder as you nod meekly, butterflies going rogue in your tummy. “I hear you.” You rasp, too exhausted to be bratty and resist, slumping even more against his chest while his arms come up to wrap around you like corded steel, keeping you steady and safe. 

"Good." He mutters against your temple, nuzzling his nose into your hair and taking dramatic little sniffs like some mutt before pulling back and nipping your earlobe, making you hiss.

"Ow! What's that for?" You whine dramatically, speech slightly slurred by fatigue and bliss while you don't even bother to wiggle free from his embrace.

The pout in his deep voice is more than evident when he replies: "Didn't even say I love you back, sweetheart."

[saturngas]

him getting hard at you yelling at him

[🪐] the kyoto exchange event is soon and your husband has been meeting up a lot with a coworker. you get a bit jealous, not aware that your husband may have a thing with that

pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader

genre: a bit angsty at the beginning, suggestive, not really smut

warnings: established relationship; jealousy; possessiveness; boners; a bit of toxicity; idk if this is super canon but some scenarios are from the jjk game phantom parade;

word count: 2.9k

..

this is stupid right? you know your husband has a natural charm that is often misinterpreted as annoying and obnoxious. not everyone is prepared to receive all that satoru gojo has to offer, only a few people have dared to try to keep up with him, including yourself.

and you knew his coworkers weren't really... fond of him.

so why were you all of the sudden so bothered by him going out so much with his female coworker utahime?

the sister school exchange event was happening soon, in two weeks to be more precise. you were a former sorcerer yourself, though you weren't really involved in the education regarding the sorcery school; so this event was more of satoru's business, you were only required to be present during the group combat.

"sweet cheeks, im going out with nanami! just to discuss things about the exchange event." he had said one day. you wished him good luck with no negative thought in mind.

"baby, Nanami wasn't of much help, so now I have to go talk with utahime." he pouted. and you paid no mind. it was known to almost every breathing being that utahime wasn't confortable around satoru, even as going to telling him to leave her alone. that has being their relationship since satoru was in high school, him often disrespecting her authority and status as a sorcerer, and her just chastising him as his former senior.

so why were you so troubled if you knew this about them? well probably them going out three times this week stirred a nerve.

it's because the exchange event. you kept telling yourself, but you couldn't avoid the venomous feeling of jealousy. which was an actual insult to your relationship with satoru, who had never given you reasons to doubt him, on the contrary, he often showers you with infinite love and words of affirmation that only fulfill your love for him.

but hasn't utahime grow tired of him already? you questioned deeply. she was his number one despiser. being with satoru for only ten minutes aged her ten years. you were incredulous she was lasted so much around your husband. even if it was work-related.

it was a Friday. your husband visited his female coworker twice this week, this day being the third encounter. he hadn't told you where, though you were sure he would have told you if you were to ask him. but you didn't. it was your untouched pride that had stopped you from that. not wanting to make your jealousy public. you were certain of the endless teasing satoru would treat you with.

you were alone in your shared house. it was actually your day off. day you had planned to spend it with your silly spouse, before his phone buzzed and he announced his meeting with utahime. it would be a lie to say you weren't upset.

"take care, toru. and please come back soon." your farewell felt bittersweet, bitter to you, sweet to satoru. his obliviousness about the hurricane going inside your core was only contributing to your indignation.

as you turned on the tv in front of you, you tried brushing off the corrosive sensations that came within the recap of the events occurred this week. the remote seemed to have a mind of its own as you picked some random show absentmindedly, just something to cloud your head.

utahime was actually a nice and proper woman. she has always being respectful to you and only occasionally made discrete comments about your relationship with satoru, questioning amusingly how you put up with him. she was obviously no harm, even less to your husband.

perhaps it was your primal instincts that were responsible of your disapproval of them going out so much. you weren't exactly the jealous type. okay, maybe you were fussing too much over this situation.

the tv show actually completed its purpose and distracted you effectively. your mind now wondering how the main character was going to open up his own jazz club.

the door opening startled you slightly, turning your head immediately to see the person you had been missing the whole evening. satoru kicked off his shoes at the entrance as he stepped closer to you, a hand running through his snowy hair and taking off his rectangular glasses.

"oh baby, you should have seen utahime! she is so bad at playing baseball even though she's a fan of it!"

what a fucking dumbass. your eyes full of love threatened to turn wicked at such comment. so he went to play baseball with her?! it wasn't work-related?!

"what do you mean, satoru?" your tone wasn't the kindest. "I thought you went out to talk over the final details about the exchange event."

"oh, that," satoru was now aware of your little irritation, your evident pitch of voice made sure of that. "yeah it is very important for the event, baby!"

"how so?" exasperation was written all over your face, making story wince a bit. you lifted yourself up from the couch to face him.

"do you really want me to tell you? I mean, I wanted it to be a surprise for the studen—"

"what could possibly be a surprise, satoru?!" you snapped. the first two thirds of his sentence infuriated you so much you didn't even listen to his last words. "you going out three times with utahime this week was definitely a suprise for me."

his baby blue eyes were as wide as plates. he didn't expect you to yell at him over this. and for some reason, he felt himself warmer.

"and, and now—" red was coating your face, endless frustration ready to be busted in forms of hurtful words and angry glances. "and now you're telling me you were playing baseball with her?! and expect me to be all okay with that? what kind of work-related stuff requires two coworkers to go out and play baseball alone?"

satoru was in a state of awe at first, his face displaying the shock your exposed irritation caused him. but his bad habit of fixing situations with comedy and witty remarks had entered the scene. it would have normally calmed you down, if it wasn't for the pent up frustration that was on the picture.

"oh~ so you were jelly~?" he sent you a wink, his lanky body getting closer to yours by instinct. "don't worry baby. I have eyes only for yo—" wrong move.

"how could you joke about this, satoru?!" your loud words stirred something inside him, something that should not be stirred nor awaken during these moments. "im here trying to tell you how I feel and you just— you just joke arou—" your words were fading away in his hearing. your red face and glassy eyes only on his mind. oh how pretty you looked when you were angry, especially when you were yelling at him. a wicked part of satoru was glad your undivided attention was on him, even if it was you snapping at him. your overly licked lips were moving furiously as you cried out your thoughts.

"and now you are spacing out!" you snapped your fingers in front of him. satoru's mind went back to the scenario occurring in the living room.

"baby, you have literally nothing to worry abo—"

"stop talking and let me finish."

oh no. he loved you and hated you for that. satoru fell in love hard for your personality, admiring how you never left anyone cut your words. you always stood for yourself, shouting your thoughts in a confident voice. and in a world still ruled by men such as the sorcery world, that was very hard to achieve. but oh how he hated that exact same admiration for your courage became warm enthusiasm—lust—in a couple of seconds. your sharp tone kindled his core, feeling his pants a bit tighter in the front.

not now please... he cursed in the back of his head. you were already cooking him, a visible boner would be the death for him. a reasonable motive to make him sleep in the couch and put him in a sex—or even touch, if you were feeling sinister—ban.

"i don't like it when you joke when I tell you about my feelings," there it was again, that stern voice he loved so much, though he cursed it at the moment. "I also don't like it when you go out too much with utahime."

if you only knew you were making him hard as hell from yelling at him you wouldn't even have to worry about his female friends.

"is that understood, satoru?" you lifted one single finger to emphasize your point even more. that little habit of yours, along with placing a hand on your hip and slightly wobbling your head, was going to be his final straw.

"yeah, of course baby." he breathed, sending you an apologetic look. "can we go to bed, already? I need cuddles."

you shot him an unamused glare. uh maybe you weren't done. satoru could feel his hot skin sticking to his clothes thanks to his sweat. you held so much power over the strongest.

"why were you playing baseball with her?"

"baby it wasn't anything of the sort!" he said agitated. "you know that after the group combat usually comes the individual combats, and I just know yuji will be in danger," you nodded at his words. that was true. satoru had told you a few days before he suspected of someone plotting against the young sorcerer. "so I wanted to change the routine and make it about something fun, you know? something harmless, like some sport the kids will enjoy."

your heart actually softened at his explanation. satoru's priorities embraced the security of the youth, especially that of the newest first-year student, which was often at jeopardy.

however, that explained nothing.

"what does that have to do with you going out with—"

satoru cut your words, and flinched slightly at the way your eyes narrowed and your brow curled up. "I couldn't come up with something myself, so I asked nanami and utahime to go out to play a sport they liked. of course I couldn't tell them what I was plotting," his hands motioned to himself. "nanami took me to bowling, I liked it, but then I thought it wouldn't be a good idea especially for yuji and maki, you know how they are." you nodded. "and then utahime took me to a baseball simulator, and it was all perfect!" he said enthusiastically, lifting his long arms in victory. he was feeling so hot his forehead was shining with sweat. it was becoming harder and harder to contain his boner. the last thing he wanted was to nut mid-explanation.

you widened your eyes in both wonder and confusion.

"no! i mean—," he panicked "it was all perfect because the game was perfect for the kids. not that it was perfect to go out with her!" your husband tried to save himself.

an unannounced sighed left your lips. you were still glaring at him, and even though satoru was a foot taller than you, you were making him a bit too much nervous.

—that and the fact that his stiff boner was still present, only softening lightly when he panicked at your misunderstanding. his little friend was eager for you to yell at him as well.

"am i forgiven now?" he battled his long white lashes to you, giving you the babiest of looks, deeply hoping you would end this silly discussion and take care of him.

"mmm..." a finger rubbed your chin as you pondered about it. "I don't know, satoru," he deflated in front of you. "why didn't you ask me for help? you know I like sports too."

"of course I thought about you, pookie! you were the first person I considered" a pout adorned his pretty face as his long arms attempted to hug you, only for you to step back. "please don't do that, im gonna start crying."

"answer the question satoru."

"it's just that you were so busy with work I genuinely didn't want to disturb you more."

it was true. even though you were not a teacher at the school, the exchange event also demanded you of your time, your main concerns being completing and getting the arrangements ready, especially with the higher ups—the part satoru disliked the most—, and making the them believe sukuna's vessel was still dead.

"but it could have been just a simple question, satoru." there you were again with that rigid tone of yours. haven't you noticed satoru is all red faced and his cock is starting to ache? of course not, because you hate him, right?

"I know baby~" a whine left his mouth, eyes pleading you two could just cuddle and maybe, just maybe, you could stroke him a bit. "but you were very, very, very stressed, I really didn't want to put another burden on you. you would often come very tense after a meeting with the higher ups."

you huffed. well, you guessed you could give that to satoru. but it still hurt he didn't even ask you the simple question, or even explaining to you his little plan. he was certain you wouldn't object.

"okay, satoru," the tall man's ears spiked at your words. ready to say yes to your proposal to cuddling. "I still need some time to cool down. so I'll go to bed." your feet dragged you to the hallway after you turned off the tv, satoru following you behind. "no," you lifted your palm toward him, stopping him. "you sleep in the couch."

"but whyyy?"

"because you didn't tell me sooner about all this! and because im still mad at you."

satoru let out a dramatic puff, blowing raspberries. he grabbed quickly his things and prepared himself for a lonely night. the disappointment from not sleeping next to you dissipated his boner.

the next day you actually didn't see each other until night. satoru had to attend a clan meeting while you met with the directors of both sorcery schools to go over all the remaining affairs.

exhaustion drew all over your face as you entered your house, a recently cooked meal aroma invading your nostrils. your feet pulled you toward the exquisite scent with little resistance. the view of your tall husband hovering over the stove welcomed you.

"hey pookie boo," satoru said excitedly as he stirred whatever he was making. tapping the utensil away before invading your personal space. "how was your meeting with the directors? they weren't rude to you, were they?" he smiled as he enveloped you in a affective hug. you hadn't forgotten about his little game from last night, but you would be lying to yourself if you admit you hadn't missed his warmth.

"it was fine, very tiring," you looked at him with tired eyes, making his heart do several jumps at your cuteness. "they made me go over all the details about the curses they will release, discussing if they were the appropriate levels for the students."

"oh poor you~" he sang. "let me feed you fully and then we can go to bed and have a well deserved sleep," he was trying to get away.

"hey!" you yelped. satoru felt his dick stir and enlarge. "don't think I haven't forgotten about last night," a stern pitch adorned your voice.

"baby, please," he whined, "if you knew what you do to me, you wouldn't be like this," he hinted silently to the ache between his legs. "what do you want me to do to—"

"satoru," a shiver danced along his spine at the sound of his name rolling from your lips. "I want you to only look at me," you don't know what roamed through your being, but a sudden urge of claiming him took over you. your bottled up feelings from last night revealing themselves. perhaps the heat of the moment didn't let you communicate your darkest desires.

your smaller frame was still held captive by his heavy arms. you lifted your arms to surround his neck, bringing him closer to you, chest to chest. satoru left you handle him as you pleased. he caressed your waist as you stared up at him, darkness painting itself over your irises, your gloomy gaze contributing to the tightening feeling of his pants, his present hard-on sharpening his breathing.

"i want your to only look at me," a twitch inside his pants.

"i want you to give me your full attention," a throb.

"i want you to only think of me," a pulse.

"you are mine, satoru, and as far as I know, im yours. so don't you ever forget that." the white haired sorcerer could bet his underwear was damp from his leaking. why were you like this?

you nuzzled your nose against his, before giving his lips a chaste kiss. "baby you are so hot when you are toxic like that." you chuckled lightly at his words, brushing your fingers along the short hairs of his undercut. you swear you could hear him purr.

"toru don't romanticize this side of me or I'll be more toxic than the elephant's foot." satoru gave your butt a little squeeze before bringing one hand up to play with your cheek, squeezing it as well, before leaving a soft peck on it. his lips then moved to yours, sharing a long and passionate kiss with you. oh how much he missed your touch.

"baby would you get mad at me if I tell you I was hard as a rock when you were yelling at me last night? no one has that power over me."

"what"

[z4rph1m]

Platonic Yan!batfam X dazai!reader X yandere dc

Tw: implication of sex (between reader & Chuuya), past mentions of self harm,

Forgotten child

Pro. Ch.1 Ch.2 (you are here) Ch.3

Nakahara Chuuya

Your former lover of the dark.

Why did the two of you broke up? He forgot, or maybe he just doesn’t want to remember.

He knew that the moment the two of you were in a relationship, it was unhealthy and toxic.

Maybe it’s the way you would ignore him the whole day but the moment you’re within his arms you’re a touch starve, hopelessly in love mess.

Or maybe the way he would be angry at you and try to guilt trip you into doing whatever he wants or the way you would purposely annoy him so that he would try and hurt you (he tried ask you to stop doing that)

But why exactly did the two of you stay together?

It’s simple, you two completed eachother perfectly.

Especially how fitting your abilities names are to describe the two of you.

You made him act like a human, he gave you a reason to live on.

“Are you the most beautiful human to me or to me, you’re the most beautiful human”

You stare at the empty space of your bed in longing, feeling as if there was something missing in your life.

The love marks surrounding your body, the lipstick mark on your bandages and the soft touches lingers around you.

Oh how you miss him.

You knew well that being with him was a terrible idea, especially with how aware you are to how much of a terrible person you are.

You know well you’re only using him to have the willingness to live yet the more you are with him, the more you crave for his touch.

That’s the reason why you broke up with him.

You hated how it felt, how it didn’t felt real to you. You wanted to save him the tears and pain, breaking off was maybe your only choice.

You remember well on how soft his kisses are on your scars, lips and all over your body.

Or how beautiful yours and his voice sounded together.

Maybe, just maybe under different circumstances the two of you could be together.

As much as you two stayed friends, the benefits can’t really be pass on.

“If you can’t feel love, I will give you the love that you lack your whole life”

The more time Bruce walk through the hallway to your room, the more sense of guilt cover him.

Wilting flowers, spiders in cobwebs, empty vases and dust covering the paintings.

The side of the mansion that’s long been abandoned.

God how long did he let you live like this?

How long did he left you to live within the chilly and ghostly halls of the manor?

On the way to your room, the two passed by Dick and Tim, who seemingly curious on where they’re going.

“Hey Alfred, Bruce, where you’re going?” Dick in all his glory, having his usual smile while Tim with his eye bags and energy drink in his hand.

“We’re on our way to Master [N] room, which is just at the corner of this hallway”

There was a deafening silence, but at the same time it was accompanied by a presence of a lonely child.

The presence of a child that was useless to the family.

The silence kept on going until Tim voice spoke out.

“Are you sure you’re in the right way Alfred? The corner of the hallway looks as if it’s haunted”

“Yes Master Tim, they’ve been assign to that room after all”

Damian stare at the picture that’s laying at your table.

A picture of you and your mother.

Maybe it’s the only picture of you and her but it explains everything about your relationship with her.

You malnourished, eyes hold emptiness yet smiled so awkwardly at the camera, having just an oversized t-shirt and a shorts on, bandages free, happily in your mother arms.

Thats probably the only picture of you smiling.

Out of all the pictures that he sees in the album, the one where you’re under the care of Alfred, not his father.

You’re smiling with your mother, where you live a miserable and pitiful life.

What was it that was different or missing from this family that made you never smiled at least once?

In the past, he use to sneak into your room whenever it’s one of those days where you don’t come home.

Interested on why you look so….. depressing and On deathbed-like.

Yet as time goes by, he was interested in you by you’re nature.

Seeing your photos, art and diary (or at least what’s left of it).

He wanted to know more about you yet his pride and jealousy got in the way.

He wanted your attention yet he rejected the idea of even having a conversation with you.

Everything was fine until one day he sees the room clean and smell of fresheners.

That’s when he realized what he did.

He was too late- no, he can fix it.

He will get his older sibling back, he must.

God whoever this “Q” is will be the top of his list for taking what’s his.

He hold onto your childhood doll before tensing his body when the sound of creaking fills the room.

“Father, Alfred, Tim, Dick, what are you doing here?”

Inspired by @-acid-ixx Again & again series and @-marcyvamp1re-blog silly little bat

[cyberclouddream]

Where You Feel Protective & Nostalgic

Cancer/Moon in the First House

your nurturing persona is often a shield to protect your sensitive self from getting hurt

tend to cling to a specific image of yourself, idealizing your past to avoid confronting who you are now

quick to build walls around your heart because you fear vulnerability

take criticism personally, reacting to any perceived threat defensively

Cancer/Moon in the Second House

place unrealistic value on family or sentimental items, which can lead to hoarding

hold onto old values and traditions that provide comfort

panic at the thought of losing what you have, whether it's possessions or relationships

you resist reassessing your values or beliefs about worth

you can fear taking risks with your money

Cancer/Moon in the Third House

often bring up memories that make you or others emotional

guard your ideas fiercely, reacting defensively when others challenge your opinions or beliefs

romanticize past conversations, often wishing to relive them

get too wrapped up in other people's drama, using it as shield against dealing with your own issues

Cancer/Moon in the Fourth House

prioritize family above all, which can make you blind to toxic dynamics that need to change

smother loved ones because of your desire to shield them, which can lead to resentment instead of gratitude

carry the weight of family issues, letting them define your present relationships and home life

protective instincts can turn your home (house, town, country) into a prison where you're afraid to leave

Cancer/Moon in the Fifth House

fiercely guard your hobbies and passions, fearing others may not appreciate them as much as you do

clingy in relationships when you get attached quickly, which can come from idealizing love or relationships

fear rejection which can hold you back from genuine connections

hold onto hobbies or interests that evoke fond memories, even if they no longer bring you joy

overprotective over children, suffocating their independence in your quest to keep them safe

Cancer/Moon in the Sixth House

take on the emotional baggage of your coworkers

cling to outdated health habits because they feel familiar and safe

romanticize or long for past work experiences

fear any change in your work life, no matter how stale it gets

Cancer/Moon in the Seventh House

smother partners with loyalty in a way that comes off as needy and desperate

lose yourself in the issues of your partner

obsess over the fear of abandonment

get stuck thinking about exes

outdated idea of what commitment means

Cancer/Moon in the Eighth House

get paranoid about betrayal that you won't share anything real with anyone, isolating yourself

cling to old wounds, letting them dictate your emotional landscape instead of healing

scared of new intimate connections

obsess over past loves

Cancer/Moon in the Ninth House

defensive over beliefs, shutting out criticism or new ideas that challenge you

daydream or romanticize about past adventures, in a way that can make current experiences feel disappointing in comparison

resist exploring different cultures

idealize schooling or past lessons, letting them cloud your judgment about current learning opportunities

Cancer/Moon in the Tenth House

overly concerned with others see you (reputation), letting it dictate your actions and decisions

dwell on former career successes

let family legacies dictate career choices

idolize past mentors or authority figures

Cancer/Moon in the Eleventh House

treat your friendships like possessions, suffocating them with your need for closeness

hard to let go of past friendships, yearning for times that are long gone

romanticize past group experiences

defensive when anyone challenges your views on causes you're passionate about

Cancer/Moon in the Twelfth House

hide your feelings or true self from the world

wallow in your emotional scars, protecting them like trophies

idealize solitude, thinking it's safer than connecting with others

retreat into daydreams and fantasies to avoid dealing with real issues

[call-sign-shark]

Echo of Shadows || Masterlist

Pairing: The Darkling x Heartrender!OCreader || Alina Starkov x Heartrender!OCreader || Malyen Oretsevx HeartRender!OCreader

Summary: "They called her the White Plague, a saint or a monster—but she was neither, only destruction wrapped in a pretty bow."

In Ravka's frosty heart, the legend of the White Plague spreads—a woman with snow-white hair, frozen-fire eyes, and powers that rival those of Jurda Parem. Once a slave in the Menagerie, the one who calls herself Heaven is now a myth, either leaving towns in ruins or former disease-ridden people crying with gratitude. A Sankta.

General Kirigan's interest soon turns dark and his desire obsessive. Never had he been so captivated and haunted by someone. Someone he could finally share his eternal life with. Caught in a cruel game of power and love, she's torn between Kirigan’s corrupting passion and Alina Starkov’s promise of freedom.

Amidst the chaos, one question arises: will she become a savior, a monster, or something far more dangerous?

TW: Explicit sexual content, slow burn, borderline consent, heavy pinning, toxic relationship [manipulation, obsession, extreme jealousy, controlling behavior], graphic sexual description, graphic depiction of murder and torture, blood!kink, size!kink, radioactive couple, codependency, reference to past SA and child SA, dark romance & mad romance trope, ambiguous relationship with Alina. This story is brutal, bloody and rated +18.

ACT I: A BURNING LIMERENCE

1. Keep Moving, Little Girl

2. Their Frozen Shackles

3. The Court of Shadows

4. The Fear Within

5. Beneath his Watchful Eyes 🔞

6. Until Nothing is Left

7. Dangerous

8. Blood and Honey

9. Gazed Into the Abyss, It Gazed Back Into Me 🔞

10. Raw

11 Burn Your Village 🔞

13. Light of my Life.

14. My Night and Stars. 🔞

ACT II. RAPTURE OF THE DEEP

Queen of Spades

Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Light

Like a Feeling of Déjà Vue

Blinding Light

I was Made for Loving You, Baby 🔞

It's in Our Veins

Your Darkness Flayed 🔞

After the Storm, the Sun

Safe in the Dark 🔞

Paint Me Black 🔞

Golden Cage for a Pretty Bird

Your Heart, My Chains

Good Ending? You Haven't Been Paying Attention

ACT III. THE CALL OF THE VOID

The Assasymphony

Never You

Barbwire Kiss🔞

It Has Always Been You 🔞

I'm Not Ruined. I'm Ruination.

Here Comes the Wolves

Your Love is an Open Wound 🔞

The Starless Saint of Broken Hearts

The Mask of the Red Death

Candy-Coated Suicide

Symphony of Our Ruins

Epilogue: Eternal Eclipse

ONE SHOTS

Much Ado About Jam Toasts- fun & fluff

A Dangerous White Tigress - action, Hurt/Comfort

Away From the Deep Shadow

Damaged

MODERN AU*

Mental Health Is Sexy Masterlist

*Amos is Aleksander's modern identity.

GAME OF THRONES AU

Damaged Masterlist

*Amos is Aleksander.

VISUALS

Light in the Dark

"Call me Aleksander" - trailer by the beloved @elizabethblood9

My Night and Stars

ASK

Modern!Aleksander x Heaven for Christmas

Notes:

☾ I haven't read the books so this work is based on the TV show even though I know it's fairly different from the original Grisha verse. If you're an adorable lore psycho, you might not want to read that! :(

☾ Taglist: @lunawants , @emtaz-art, @lightinbug, @kmc1989, @thepassionatereader @mystic-mara @m-riaa @kallista-diune @meadows5 @kasagia @watersquirtpewpewboomm @the-sweet-psycho @sarahsobsession @elizabethblood9 @ritzzzzz @sophialeiros @noortsshift @sassyvilliantrope @sherwoodforesttales @a-smidges-stuff

[sierrale8ne]

mom oc with paige? she can be the one who stepped up but once they get alone it gets smutty

paige bueckers x mom!oc

nsfw // really long, porn with plot, takes place when paige is in the w (year 3 in LA), stepmommy paige, soft!dom!paige, sub!oc, fingering, dirty talk, nipple play, some soft smut and very sweet fluff!

saveareaves_

liked by cameronbrink22, nikamuhl, and 24,061 others

saveareaves_ fits gotta stay hard even in 100° weather 🙂‍↕️

view all comments

stormreid flyest mom ever 😮‍💨 liked by author

user1 hey so how about you stop gatekeeping that camera roll and give us a photo of you and paige and zion 😅😅 just a suggestion!

paigebueckers Featured 🙂‍↕️

╰ saveareaves_ always 💋

cameronbrink22 zion’s little hand 🥹

╰ saveareaves_ can’t keep her hands to herself lol

jujubballin 🤩🤩

user ur tan lines… savea you want me dead????

azzi35 i can’t wait to see you guys 😣

╰ saveareaves_ soon my girl ❤️‍🔥

Savea huffed lowly as she set her wax stick on her vanity, gently tugging her jet black hair into a ponytail at the top of her head, slicking it to perfection before dropping her hands and rolling her shoulders. Her two and a half year old daughter, Zion, sat on the carpeted floor near her feet playing with a unicorn plushie gifted to her by Savea’s girlfriend.

When Savea first met Paige, she was 23 years old and Zion was around a year old. She had just gotten out of an extremely toxic relationship with her child’s father who was ultimately out of the picture immediately after they broke up, and not looking for any type of relationship.

But Paige was simply different. She was very patient with her, understanding that Savea still wasn’t used to being treated as amazingly as Paige treated her nor was she used to communicating her feelings and emotions. But it was very easy to fall for her because Paige was an amazing woman who genuinely wouldn’t hurt a fly.

When Savea took that next step in introducing the athlete to her daughter, Paige practically fell in love all over again. Zion, though very young, was still a complete carbon copy of Savea. From her eyes to the shape of her nose and even her smile.

There was nothing the woman loved more than watching Paige become a parental figure to Zion. Caring for her when she woke up at night, to bringing her back gifts from every single road trip. She even went as far as having designated time with Zion every Sunday (yes, even when she was on the road), no excuses.

They were currently getting ready for one of Paige’s games where the Sparks would be playing the Valkyries in a California classic. It was the first home game back from all-star break and the game was heavily marketed, mostly because of the Sparks biggest stars in Paige, Cameron Brink, and Rickea Jackson going up against Paige’s former UConn teammates Azzi Fudd and Nika Mühl.

Savea was excited, not only because of the atmosphere, but being able to meet some of her girlfriend’s favorite people in person (finally) was something she was looking forward to.

“Mommy!” Zion’s voice ran through her ear as she picked her up off the floor, holding her to her hip as she grabbed her bag and other necessities all at once.

“Yes, Z?”

Zion brought her little hand up towards her face before gesturing towards the unicorn on the floor. Savea chucked before bending over and picking it up, handing it to her daughter.

“Thank you, mommy.”

“You’re welcome, my baby.”

***

Shuffling the excited toddler into the car and keeping her entertained throughout the ride to Crypto.com Arena was definitely a bit of a struggle, but once they got closer to the arena Zion settled a little bit.

Her cream colored kitten heels clicked against the yellow hardwood floor, while Zion ran by her feet.

Paige wanted them to show up a little before shoot around so she could meet everyone before the fans started to pack the stands. She had even made sure the two were able to get into the family and eat something before the game, it was very considerate of her and Savea made sure to thank her for it later.

“Paigey!” The little girl screamed, spotting the blonde in a courtside seat finishing up a conversation with one of her assistant coaches. An iPad between them as they looked at film.

She looked up, pushing back the flyaways of her slick back bun. She opened up her arms, leaning forward towards the end of the seat. “Hey, babygirl!” A grin so big it reached her eyes she she picked Zion up in her arms.

The little girl’s short arms wrapped around her neck while Paige peppered her cheeks with kisses. Savea smiled from her spot a few feet away, adjusting the Marc Jacobs bag on her shoulder.

“P, look!” She yelled, fingers pointing to the white shirt Savea styled her in with Paige’s face on it. “D’you like it?”

“I love it, Z! Thank you so much.”

Paige had brought her attention away from Zion’s shirt, listening to her talk about her day with her mom as she walked up towards Savea. She was fairly shameless in the way she sized her up. The black backless shirt with gold jewelry complemented her carmel skin wonderfully. Her cheetah print pants sat beautifully low waisted on her hips, and face done up to accentuate her already goddess like appearance.

Savea noticed, calling her closer with her forefinger before planting a short kiss on her lips.

“Hey, ma. You good?” Paige asked, disappointed that the kiss she’d been thinking about all day only lasted for a few seconds.

“Mmhm.”

“You look good.” Her girlfriend complemented. Her hand briefly went to cover Zion’s eyes with her hand before she jokingly, and dramatically, bit her lip. She mouthed something a little too nasty because Savea’s jaw dropped and she hit the blonde’s arm with a force she didn’t even know she had.

“Ow! Z, mommy just hit me!” Paige pouted.

“Mommy, don’t hit her!” Zion frowned, crossing her arms on her chest and Paige stuck her tongue out in victory.

This is what she regretted about introducing the two. Paige was literally a six year old trapped in an adults body. The two together was like working at a daycare. Savea reluctantly apologized, rolling her eyes at Paige when her daughter stopped glaring at her with her adorable brown doe eyes.

“Okay, so,” Paige started. “I have some people who really really want to meet you, is that okay with you, Z?” She asked, running her fingers through Zion’s curly hair. Azzi and Nika were just walking into the gym from their side of the arena, their lavender colored warmups slowly approaching the group of three. The child curled into Paige’s chest, looking to her mom for some sort of support.

Savea nodded. “It’s okay! We’ll go with you, princess. Don’t be scared.” She smiled, instating some confidence into the little girl’s heart.

“Okay.” Zion mumbled, reaching for her mom and Paige allowed the other woman to take her from her grasp.

***

“But I thought you wear yellow and purple?” Zion yawned as she looked up at Paige slightly confused.

It had been a little over two hours after the game had ended. The match up living up to its expectations. The Sparks had thankfully came out with a two point victory 88-86 thanks to a game saving block by Cameron on Nalyssa Smith in the last few seconds.

Paige had played great, and both Savea and Zion nearly lost their voices cheering for her. A 29 point game coupled with 10 rebounds and 6 assists, a few steals and a memorable block added to the stat sheet as well.

The blonde sat on the carpeted floor of Savea’s LA Apartment. Zion sat soundly in her lap, taking sips from the warm milk Paige had provided her to get her to sleep, it was definitely a little past the toddler’s usual bedtime. After getting back from the game Zion could not stop talking about how cool she thought Paige’s job was, so her bedtime story hearing about and looking at memories from Paige’s career up until now. Pictures from when she played at Hopkins, to when she held that National Title trophy over her head during her last year at UConn. (a/n: manifesting)

“Well I do now, but I used to wear white and blue for a very long time.” Paige explained.

“I like blue.” Zion Yawned again, and Paige took the sippy cup away from her little hands.

“I know you do.” Paige laughed, wiping the dribble of milk that fell from her lips. “I think it might be bedtime for you, princess.”

She didn’t miss the frown that spread across Zion’s face, “I don’t wanna!” She whined, shaking her head viciously and burying herself deeper into Paige’s hold. “Please, Paigey?”

Paige very clearly hated telling Zion ‘no.’ She felt like the words should never even form on her tongue when talking to the little girl, but it was past 11:30 at night and keeping her up longer would only be a recipe for disaster come morning time. “It’s late, baby girl. You gotta go to bed.”

Savea could sense her daughter getting frustrated, so she walked over. She sat on the sofa that Paige rested her back against. Her hand subconsciously slipping to cup Paige’s cheek. “Z, let her put you to bed, okay? You got all day tomorrow to do whatever you want.” She reasoned.

Zion looked over to Paige, her frown turning into a smile when she stood up on her thighs and wrapped her arms around her neck. “One more story? Please!” Dragging out the ending sound, Zion eagerly jumped up and down.

“Okay! Okay, one more, that’s it.” Paige gave in. “But we’re going upstairs.”

“Thank you, mama.”

Paige’s brows furrowed for a few milliseconds before her head shot up to look at Savea. The expression on her face was incredulous. Savea simply shrugged, a matching smile on her face.

“Did you just call me, mama?” Paige asked, returning her attention to Zion.

“Sorry, I won’t—”

“No. No! Don’t apologize, princess. Of course you can call me that. I’d love it if you called me that.” Paige reassured. She held Zion close, probably closer than she’d even realized.

Savea didn’t fight the smile that formed on her face. She was very stingy with who she allowed around her daughter, and rightfully so. When she had first introduced Zion to Paige she had only hoped that Paige would be around for a long time, not only to protect her heart but Zion’s as well. This was even more than she had expected. It was heartwarming and she was so grateful to be able to watch the two’s relationship form into what it was now.

***

Savea finally made her way to her bathroom after watching Paige hold Zion to her chest and take her into her bedroom. This was another thing she loved about having the athlete around, she didn’t have to do it all alone. She was able to take time for herself in ways she wasn’t able to do before.

She had gotten out of the shower, body clean and smelling of her Vanilla body wash. Her favorite rose colored night robe on her body as she finished the rest of skin care routine. A few knocks on her door got her attention.

She tugged the door open to reveal her girlfriend. The blonde stepped into the brightly lit bathroom, her arms immediately wrapping around Savea’s waist and pulling her close. Paige tucked her head into the woman’s neck, “You smell nice.”

“Thank you! It’s that new body butter you got me.” Savea answered. Her hands dropped to hold onto the arms around her waist. Paige still had on her outfit from the game. A simple white graphic t-shirt that had the sleeves cut off; she was obviously in the mood to show off her muscles tonight. Her baggy light wash jeans clung low to her hips, the band of her Calvin Klein’s peaking out. “You played good tonight, it was kinda hot.” She changed the subject.

Paige’s lips puckered, pushing a kiss to Savea’s neck. She was soft with it, teasing as she looked into her eyes through the mirror. “I had a baddie sitting in the box, I had to show out.” She joked. Savea rolled her eyes at the cockiness that ran through her body.

“Okay, Jordan Poole.”

“I’m serious! You shoulda seen her, baby. She got a pretty smile, body on a whole different level, she was cheering me on the whole game too.” Paige continued, she slightly rocked the two side to side as she spoke.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhmm, definitely a MILF. Shoulda seen her.” She teased. Paige kissed Savea’s neck again. Her hand moved to the silk string of her robe, playing with it but not tugging the robe open. “She ain’t got shit on you though.

“At all?”

“Nope. You just do something different to me. Can’t ever be replicated.” Paige said. She gently turned Savea around so she could look at her pretty face up close. Her eyes raked her girlfriend’s body, her tits just barely peaked out of the top of the silk cover up. The curve of Savea’s hips, though, was probably Paige’s favorite. Her skin was decorated in pretty stretch marks that she always made sure to show extra love to.

Savea puckered her lips, teasingly sticking them out for Paige to finally kiss them. Connecting them in a gentle kiss, Paige cupped Savea’s cheeks in her hand as she kissed them repeatedly. Savea let her, shoulders relaxing into Paige’s comfort as she melted into the kiss.

Paige’s tongue pushed slowly between her lips. It was a feeling and a taste she would never get over, even after these last couple years together. Savea tasted like candy, like hot chocolate on a snow day, like ice cream. So familiar and sweet.

Paige moaned softly and it spurred Savea on as she sucked dangerously on the pink muscle. Paige kisses back harder, the only signs of breathing being the short sounds of air leaving her nose.

The blonde pulled back delicately, pressing her pink lips to Savea’s cheek, then her jaw, and finally on her earlobe. “Sav?”

“Hmm?” She responded.

“Can I take this off?” Paige gestured towards her robe, tugging on the lace hem with the tips of her fingers.

Savea nodded, eyes going wide and eager. “Please.”

Her slender fingers untied the knot that kept the frail fabric together, watching it fall open around Savea’s body. Her breasts round and decorated with her hardened nipples and ridiculously sexy tan lines. A low whistle left Paige’s mouth as she continued sizing her up.

“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, baby. My God.” Paige exclaimed. Her hands traveled up to Savea’s tits, cupping them before they moved to her hips. “Take these off.” She instructed. Her fingers snapped the simple navy colored cotton underwear against her hips. Savea reached to pull them off until the pooled by her feet and Paige took it as an opportunity to take off her white shirt, leaving her in a black Nike sports bra and her jeans.

To say Savea’s gawked at her body would be an understatement.

She stood practically drooling. Her abs were so defined and the muscles on her arms unintentionally flexed with each movement she made. The sight alone was more than enough to have her soaking wet between her legs. She squeezed her thighs together, hoping to alleviate the pressure there.

“Babe, I don’t think you understand how bad I need you right now.”

“Show me then.”

Savea’s legs slightly parted, giving Paige room to step closer and stand between them more. A hand gripped her waist while the other trailed from the center of her chest and down her stomach. Savea rested against the counter, her palms flush against the cool marble sink when Paige ran her middle finger through her folds.

The slick pooled on her finger, catching her by surprise. She brought her finger to her lips, licking her girlfriend’s precum off of it before licking her lips.

“Hiding that from me all day, Sav?”

“Paige c’mon.” Savea breathed out, her head lolling to the side where she looked at Paige teasingly. A pout gracing her face.

She wanted more and Paige could tell, so her finger slipped inside slowly, gently parting her folds and brushing her walls with the long finger. Savea took a deep breath following that with a bite of her plump bottom lip. Her fingers were good company while Paige was busy, but they never did the job as well as her girlfriend did.

“Shit, you’re already dripping?” Paige groaned at the sight.

“You don’t know how sexy you look when you play.” Savea defended, but her mind was elsewhere, namely the slight rake of Paige’s long finger moving inside of her. “Been like this for hours, P.”

“You think you can take another?”

“Two more. Fuck, I’ll take three more. Just fuck me, P.”

Paige was never one for making her woman wait, so she nudged her clit gently with her ring finger. Her hand stilled before pushing in the second finger followed by the third. Savea’s insane wetness made it easy.

“You’re so tight, Sav.” Paige mumbled, dragging her fingers in and out at a dangerously slow pace. Her lip tucked between her teeth while she watched Savea’s body writhe. “You like that, baby?”

She nodded in response, a moan mixed with a whine leaving her pouted lips.

Paige’s head traveled to her girlfriend’s chest. Her lips kissing gently on it before traveling to her tits. She grasped one in her hand, tongue slowly peeking out of her mouth to lick Savea’s sensitive nipple. Paige did it again, but this time softly biting on the flesh. Her fingers started speeding up, the thickness of the three combined with the sucking on her tits made Savea’s eyes roll.

“Ha— Paige. Oh fuck, just like that.” She whimpered. Her hand cradled Paige’s head, fingers tangling into the long blonde hair. Her head fell back as she gripped onto the edge of the sink with her free hand. “Feels ‘s good.” Savea praised.

Her girlfriend’s lips continued with opened mouth kisses across her skin, tongue teasing her nipples and soothing the hickeys that formed there. The pace Paige had set for herself was dreadfully slow, teasing that one spot over and then slowing down before speeding up again. She pulled back from Savea’s chest, biting her bottom lip while she moved.

“You’re so pretty, Sav.” Paige complemented. Her arm began to sting, her muscles tensing from the increased rigor. Her middle finger curved just slightly and Savea’s head shot up with a shade of pink accented on her cheeks. “Oh my God, listen to that.” Paige fired. The wetness of Savea’s cunt was doing unimaginable things to her, soaking her boxers without a doubt.

“Baby,” Savea started. Her hand darted down to her clit, but Paige pushed the hand away.

Her need for control was so apparent. Her tall and muscular body towered over her menacingly and Savea craved it. She lived off of that feeling.

“Let me get you right.” Paige groaned as she pressed her thumb to the woman’s clit. She applied a steady pressure to the nerves, rubbing tight circles over it. “Fuck you just like you need it. You’re takin’ it so good, mama.”

“It’s so fucking—sensitive.” Savea gasped.

She raised in volume, and although the feeling was otherworldly, she still had her child sleeping in the room next door. Her hand pressed to her mouth to silence her growing cries.

Paige’s fingers pressed against her spot over and over and over again. The curling of her fingers hit that gummy spot and made Savea’s legs nearly give out on her. Her stomach was doing summersaults and the knot tightened.

“Let it go, Sav.” Paige instructed. “All down my hand, let that shit go.” Her veiny hand peeled Savea’s palm from her mouth. Paige’s lips hovered over hers, nearly touching but not yet as she breathed in all of her girlfriend’s breathless pleas. “Let me hear you.”

“‘M so close.”

“I know, Ma.”

“You’re so deep.”

Paige smirked at that, pushing her hand further until a squeal escaped Savea. “I’ll go deeper. Just need you to cum. Make a mess on this floor, go ‘head.”

“Paige!” Savea hiccuped, a groan leaving her lips as she steadied a hand on her broad shoulder. Eyes glued shut and mouth agape as she approached her climax.

“Look at me, love.” Paige spoke softly. Her hand slipped to the back of Savea’s neck, refocusing her attention.

Savea’s eyes blinked open, a glassy look on her brown eyes. Her body was on fire thanks to Paige, she knew her like the back of her hand. The blonde hit her spot with ease, repeatedly pushing at her button and rubbing her clit simultaneously until Savea’s legs shook and she gripped her shoulder with an electric force as she came.

Her jaw fell slack, her moans coming out as more dragged out breaths. Her chest heaved, and Paige’s eyes remained glued to her, even after she broke their eye contact. Her cum pooled in Paige’s palm, the sticky substance coating her hand and Savea’s thighs.

The athlete took another step forward to connect their lips, her fingers gently slipping out of her cunt. “I love you.” She spoke in between short pecks.

“I love you too, P.” Savea whispered back.

Her arms finally draped around her shoulders to hold her close, and Paige’s wildly exhausted ones fell together at Savea’s hips. They stood like that for a while softly shifting side to side while Savea caught her breath. Her head fit perfectly in Paige’s neck, inhaling the scent of her cologne that still managed to stay on throughout the night. Paige’s clean hand drew circles on her lower back, muttering soft, sweet nothings into her ear.

“Paige?”

“Yeah?”

“I know I say this all the time, but I really am so thankful for everything you do to help me out with Z.” Savea’s voice was low, she nearly drifted off to sleep right where she stood. “None of it goes unnoticed.”

“Baby don’t worry about it. You’re my family, I’m just doing my part.” Paige spoke into Savea’s hair. This was her life. Sure she got to play the sport she loved and the fame and attention that came with it was an added bonus, but she had Savea and Zion. Her motivation to keep going, even when she hated going to the gym in the morning. She had a family. “Oh my God, she called me mama today.” Paige finally realized.

She couldn’t fight the smile that formed on her face even if she tried. Savea nodded from her spot in Paige’s neck, giggling like a child when she looked up into her girlfriend’s bright blues.

“I know! You should’ve seen your face.” Savea pointed out, and just like that Paige was joining her in laughter, holding her lover close by while she talked.

And when their night came to an end, after they took a shower (yes another shower for Savea) and the girl returned the favor to Paige in said shower. After all was said and Savea fell asleep in the strong arms of her lover, Paige closed her eyes with a smile on her face. Thinking of her girl, and their little family.

paigebueckers posted a story !

tagged saveareaves_

authors note so so so cute, thank you anon! domestic paige is my favvvvvvorite but i thought it would be weird to write about her like this while she’s still at uconn idk.. so LA PAIGE (💔)